Owned by the Thompson Men

Mercedes I've never considered myself a slut. The word tastes sour. Cheap. Lazy. Like something people use to strip a woman's power before she even realizes she has any. But waking up naked in a stranger's bed with no recollection of what the f**k happened last night? Yeah. I'm officially running out of prettier names for myself. The sheets feel wrong. Too soft. Too expensive. They slide against my skin like silk, cool and unfamiliar, smelling faintly of cologne and something masculine and dangerous. Not mine. Definitely not mine. My pulse skyrockets. The room is too quiet. Too still. Too watchful. Like it knows something I don't. Dawn bleeds through heavy navy curtains, golden light slicing across polished hardwood and expensive furniture, everything pristine and staged. Like a museum display. Which somehow makes the mess near the door look even worse. Clothes litter the floor like casualties—jeans twisted inside out, my bra dangling from the handle like a flag of surrender. Crumpled plastic cups. Empty liquor bottles. And— My stomach drops. Oh God. Are those... used condoms? Not one. Not two. I count. Then immediately wish I hadn't. At least eight. Jesus Christ. Were those all from last night? With one guy? A cold shiver slithers down my spine. Slowly—like I'm bracing for a jump scare—I turn my head. There's a body beside me. Male. Broad shoulders. Bare back. Black hair tangled against the pillow. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. For one terrible second, I'm convinced he's dead. Then he snores. Loud. Obnoxious. Definitely alive. Relief crashes through me. Followed immediately by dread. Because a low groan sounds from the other side. Close. Too close. My blood turns to ice. There's another one. His arm—covered in dark, sprawling tattoos—is thrown over his face, shielding it from the light. And from me. My brain short-circuits. Holy s**t. Did I have a... threesome last night? Because that feels like information I should probably remember. My gaze flicks between Coma Guy and Tattooed Mystery Man, waiting for my brain to cough something up. Anything. After a moment of pure static, I let out a frustrated sigh. "Seriously, what did you do last night, Mercy?" I hiss under my breath. Still, no memories surface. Just flashes. Music. Lights. Shots. Obviously, I didn't get cute drunk this time. Not even tipsy. I got absolutely f*****g wasted. The kind where music stops sounding like music and turns into a dull pulse inside your skull. Where consequences feel theoretical. Optional. Like tomorrow is someone else's goddamn problem. Turns out? Tomorrow showed up bright and early. And she's bitter as hell. My head throbs in sync with my heartbeat. My mouth tastes like sandpaper...and is that— Cheetos? Eww. Gross. My stomach rolls in slow, nauseous waves, threatening to expel every bad decision I swallowed last night. Carefully, I shift the blanket. Every inch of me aches. My thighs. My hips. My lower back. Like I ran a marathon I definitely don't remember signing up for. My fingers skim over my skin, slow and cautious. And then I see them. Dark, finger-shaped bruises stamped into my hips like someone held on too damn tight. I press one. Instant regret. Pain blooms under my touch—deep, tender, undeniably real. Alrighty then. Maybe I don't actually want my memory back. Because if I let them leave bruises like this... What the hell else did I let happen? And how much of it will they remember while I'm stuck in the dark? The mattress suddenly dips behind me. Warm skin brushes my back. A slow, sleepy inhale ghosts over my shoulder. I go completely rigid. Oh no. Please don't wake up. Please don't talk. Please don't know my name. Because that would be so f*****g awkward if I gave them mine... And I definitely don't know either of theirs. Seconds stretch, thin and endless. Then he grunts, rolls over, and the snoring comes back. Loud. Steady. Not a single care in the world. Good. He's still out cold. My lungs finally remember how to work. I let out a slow, shaky exhale. Crisis averted. For now. And then, as if my brain f*****g hates me, a memory finally comes back. Tabitha sneaking me into last night's frat party. It was supposed to be fun. She said I needed an escape. From my dead-end job. From my narcissistic b***h of a mother. From the constant, suffocating pressure to be perfect all the time. She wasn't wrong. But this? This isn't escape. It's self-destruction. And if my mother ever saw me like this—naked, bruised, reeking of liquor and God-knows-what— She wouldn't just judge me. She'd skin me alive with words. Slow. Surgical. Smiling the whole time. The thought alone clamps around my throat. I try to drag in a steady breath. Air in. Air out. Fuck. Nope. Not working. Ice-cold panic slices straight through the hangover haze. I have to get the hell out of here. Now. Before one of these guys wakes up. Slowly, carefully, I inch out from between them. Every tiny shift sounds deafening. Sheets dragging. Springs whining. My own breathing too damn loud. Like the bed wants to keep me hostage. When my feet finally hit the sticky floor, I swallow a shudder. The air bites at my bare skin—cold and real—more proof this isn't just some f****d-up nightmare I can't seem to wake up from. Reality check received, I guess. I scan the room again and finally spot a flash of red silk near the edge of the bed. My dress. I snatch it up and shimmy into it with shaking hands. The zipper fights me. Of course it does. "Come on," I hiss. It finally slides up with a soft zzzt. The fabric's still damp. It smells like alcohol and... chlorine? Fuck. Did I... jump into a pool or something? Cool. Love that for me. God, I need to find my phone. My eyes sweep the shadows, my pulse doing a frantic little tap dance in my throat, until I finally spot my black clutch. It's half-hidden under a filthy football jersey—Number 22. A number I'll probably resent for the rest of my natural life. I yank it free and fumble with the clasp like my fingers forgot how to function. Come on, come on— My phone slides out. Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please— The screen stays black just long enough to make my stomach plummet straight into my ass. Then it lights up. 10%. The tiny red bar stares at me like it's personally offended by my life choices. And honestly? I can't blame it. Today's got me questioning some s**t too. My hands shake harder as I open the Uber app. The loading circle spins. Behind me, the mattress creaks. I flinch so violently I almost drop the phone. Fuck. f**k. f**k. "Come on, come on, come on—" Driver found. Five minutes. Five minutes until I can disappear. Five minutes until this becomes something I pretend never happened. The bed groans again. Not just a restless shift this time. The mattress dips. Springs scream. One of them is very much awake. A soundless gasp tears out of me. I don't think. I just move—dropping and rolling under the bed like the room's on fire. Dust explodes in my face. Cold boards scrape my cheek. Something crunchy digs into my knee. I flatten myself, my heart slamming so hard it feels like it might give me away. Don't breathe. Don't move. Don't exist. Above me, feet hit the floor. And with sudden, brutal clarity, I realize— I've just crossed the line into being catastrophically, irreversibly f****d.