Los Angeles Breeds Forbidden Love

Chapter Eight: Headaches and Heartaches

Since when did she get so much light in her bedroom in the morning? Spencer groaned as she rolled onto her stomach, shielding her sensitive eyes from the glaring light. Her room was positioned in the western half of her house, and the sunlight rarely ever penetrated her room so strongly. God her head ached. Inhaling deeply, she noticed her sheets smelled different than usual. Slowly she allowed her eyes to blink open once more, and she stared with some intensity at the blue sheets. Hers were red.

Spencer felt her stomach lurch as she came to a sudden realization. This wasn’t her room. She jerked her head up, although she regretted it instantly as the world around her began to spin. Forcing herself to not completely freak out, she sat up further, eyes scanning for any hint of where the hell she might be. Nothing looked even remotely familiar, and the constant hammering in her skull wasn’t making things any easier. She looked down at her clothes, relieved to see everything seemed to be there. She certainly didn’t feel sexually assaulted or anything of that nature, which was a definite reprieve.

When she attempted to stand, the room swum dangerously and she felt that sickening feeling rising in her throat. Bathroom. She needed a bathroom, and she needed it quick. Her eyes searched her surroundings, locating a door before she stumbled her way over as fast as her lead legs could carry her. She fell to her knees by the porcelain toilet, her eyes squeezing shut as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

For a moment she just hovered there, trying to gather her thoughts. Eventually she stood, fumbling her way to the sink and rinsing her mouth out with water. After cleaning herself up a bit she left the bathroom, her steps a bit more collected now that she’d emptied some of the more toxic ingredients from her body.

Noticing her purse was seated on the bed stand, she lifted it up, rifling through it’s contents till she found her cell phone. Jesus, she had 28 missed calls and 11 voicemails. Glen was going to kill her. A dreadful sigh escaped her as she tucked it back into the bag before she slipped it over her shoulder. It was then that she noticed the drawer of the bed stand was slightly ajar. After a guilty glance over her shoulder she slowly opened the drawer further, immediately noticing a photograph frame laying face down inside. She removed it and turned it over in her hand, her eyes widening as she stared at the image with disbelief. This couldn’t possibly be happening.