To Ruin a Rogue: Read online

  Then, if I didn’t get raped or assaulted, why can’t I remember last night?

  And where I am?

  I know I’m not in my apartment or any of my friends’ apartments because while we have different (and some of us may even have eccentric) tastes, none of us would tolerate covers like these.

  Okay, focus Isla. Before you work yourself up over covers you don’t recognize and want to burn from your memory at the sheer hideousness of them, try to remember the events.

  I close my eyes for good measure, hoping it’ll help.

  I remember that Becky was quote unquote celebrating her upcoming nuptials with a bachelorette party. June was there, and Lulu, Reese, and obviously Becky. I was there. Elle was there but she really didn’t talk, did she? Not that she normally does—she is the smart one, after all.

  Okay, c’mon Isla. Focus.

  You were at Becky’s bachelorette party and you were in a limo and ke$ha was playing and then—then—then Becky had the limo pull to the corner because we didn’t want to have to deal with all that traffic. Then June saw—oh, what did she see? I know it was weird, like it didn’t belong…

  The psychic! That bitch put a fucking spell on me! I knew she did!

  Maybe it was a memory spell. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember anything after her foreboding words. What did she say? That I was born for the wrong time or some crap like that?

  What does that even mean anyway?

  Although…although if this really is her doing—if this really is a memory curse or whatever—then not only is she a legit spell-caster, but she’s also a legit psychic. And it still doesn’t explain where I am.

  Maybe I can call Becky. Yes, Becky didn’t drink last night—and even though I don’t remember last night—Becky’s pretty stubborn about drinking. I lean over the side of the bed towards the nightstand where, interestingly enough, there’s no lamp. In fact, the only light coming in the—what I now realize is a—small, cramped room is coming from a circle-shaped window, carved out of the wooden wall. Seriously, the room I’m in has no wallpaper or paint or anything. It’s wood. And the window looks like it came from two hundred years ago at least.

  Just where the hell am I?

  Okay, maybe it’s time to go down a dark place. Just because I’m comfortable with sex and my sexuality and am not a virgin and don’t believe that people should wait until they’re married to have sex, I’m also not the type of girl to go home with guys I barely know. Yes, sex is fun and pleasurable and definitely a necessity, and I don’t have to be in a serious relationship to sleep with someone (though it’s definitely good to be monogamous). And even if I did get drunk last night, I know without a doubt that my friends wouldn’t let me leave with a stranger.

  And judging by this room, I’m definitely somewhere strange.

  What was I doing before—?

  Oh, the cell phone.

  Not on the nightstand, not under the covers or the bed or in the nightstand drawer. Not on the wooden floor. Not on the circular windowsill. Not on my person.

  Okay, this is starting to scare me. I never go anywhere without my cell phone. Especially not some strange room.

  Where am I?

  Why can’t I remember last night?

  And where is my cell phone?

  Is Becky playing some trick on me?

  But no, Becky’s too nice to pull something like that, and plus she has a wedding she needs to worry about—

  Shit! Becky’s wedding! I’m supposed to be there right now as her maid of honor, making up some signal with her just in case she gets cold feet and needs some sort of distraction so she can make a run for it.

  Not tangled up in ugly sheets.

  She’s going to kill me!

  At that moment, the door opens, and instantly, I thank God. Maybe whoever is about to enter will be able to help me out, tell me where I am and how I got here. Tell me where my cell phone is and maybe even offer to call me a cab.

  God, I hope I’m not late for Becky’s wedding. She may be the sweetest person I know, but I have no doubt if I’m late, she’ll skin me alive.

  I watch as the man enters, and I’m stricken at many things. First and foremost, he’s probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes upon—and I don’t say that word loosely. He’s six foot five at least, with smooth, tan skin—natural too, I can tell—and he has incredibly broad shoulders with arms that remind me of rolling hills. Because his shirt—is it a shirt?

  Oh, what’s that word that’s associated with Shakespeare and Ever After?

  Tunic.

  I think tunic is more appropriate.

  Anyway, his tunic falls loosely on him, but the cut is low, revealing a tan, firm, flat chest and Lord only knows what’s hidden underneath the dirty white cloth. Blue—I think they’re blue, but they, too, are really dirty—pants (again, I think it’s the wrong word but I can’t seem to find the correct one)—cover his strong, long legs, up until they are forced to hide underneath his bright brown and very worn-looking boots with drastic flaps. His face is sharp and angled, the epitome of masculine, his warm, chocolate-colored eyes housing what appears to be a familiar saucy sparkle. His cheekbones are high and defined, as is his jawline, and his lips look decidedly chapped but just as kissable, and his dark hair is short, falling in his face messily, with streaks of gold probably brought out by the sun.

  From his clothes, he kind of reminds me of Johnny Depp in that pirate movie, except this guy is way more buff and tall and good-looking and, oh my God, I think I’d forgive myself if he’s the guy I went home with and I don’t think any of my friends would blame me.

  But seriously, another reason why I’m so stricken is due to how dirty he is. Why is he so dirty? I can respect a blue-collared guy, no problem, but could he, at least, shower before coming back up here?

  I glance down at myself to ensure that his dirtiness hasn’t rubbed off on me—in case we did end up doing the horizontal tango—but no, I’m just as clean as I had been last night. Except I can feel my skin crawl at just the thought of those vile sheets touching my bare skin…

  And speaking of his clothes, why do they look like they’ve come out of the historical section of Jerry Bruckheimer’s mind? Surely this man has a three-piece suit or a t-shirt and some boxers somewhere? Why does he look—

  Not that he looks bad, mind you, but—

  “I’ve never had one as forward as you.”

  And then he spoke, and it’s like the world stopped.

  Okay, maybe I’m being a tad dramatic, but he has this rich baritone and it’s slightly mumbly and is that an English accent I detect? And I know I look pretty good, but why are those eyes of his looking at me like I look at chocolate whenever Mother Nature decides it’s time to play?

  “Excuse me?” I reply, because I really can’t think of anything else to say.

  “Sure, they’ve tried to follow me and seduce me and sit in my lap and the like,” he continues on, slowly taking a step towards me and then another. I feel my body respond by taking a step back.

  And then another.

  He smiles when he realizes this, and for a pirate, he has some pretty straight, white teeth. Thank God his parents invested in braces. But—is that a silver tooth where his canine should be? Ew. I didn’t like it on Johnny Depp and I don’t like it on this guy—although, if I’m being honest, he does have a rather disarming smile.

  “But never has one surprised me in my room. And never has one actually backed away from me. I like it, though. I, myself, have been particularly drawn to the chase.”

  He suddenly stops and then raises his brows so they disappear under his unruly dark locks, looking at me expectantly. “How much, then?” he asks, placing his hands on his hips and Jesus, those hands are double my own in size.

  I wonder if what they say about hands and feet is true…?

  “Excuse me?” I say again. “How much for what?” Suddenly, a thought crosses my mind. “Oh, is this some kind of hotel or something?” Maybe i
t’s one of those period motels that are so popular on the east coast and that’s why everything looks out of place. Or maybe I’m the one out of place. That would explain a lot.

  “Ho—what?” he asks me, his face scrunching up—quite adorably, I may add—and if I’m being honest, he seems genuinely perplexed at the word hotel.

  Maybe this guy is one of those paid actors who inhabit period places and can’t break character?

  Ohhhhhhh…

  But still, why would I come here? And where’s my g-d cell phone?

  “For the night, of course,” he says, shaking his confusion off. “How much for the night? I have had better-looking ones, although you are a sight for sore eyes, if I do say so myself. I’ve been at sea for an awfully long time. Gettin’ pretty desperate. You’ll do, I suppose. The sun is sliding down as we speak, and I believe I want you before it comes back up.”

  “What?” I snap, suddenly realizing his implications. “Are you—?” I cut myself off, still in disbelief before forcing myself to continue. I don’t think I’ve ever been as furious as to be thrown speechless. “Are you insinuating that I am some kind of prostitute?”

  “What else would you be?” he asks in that slurred, mumbly voice of his, wiggling his thick, dark eyebrows at me suggestively. “Granted, your accent and proper use of grammar have thrown me just a bit, but I will also admit that such surprises leave me wanting you even more. I’ve never had a proper prostitute before.”

  And before I can stop myself, I slap him.

  Okay, normally, I’m against violence of any type, even when a guy says something totally and incredibly insulting, which would thus mean that he deserves the slap (as illustrated here), I still don’t think the girl should slap him. I think she should look at him with wide, sad eyes for a long moment, then turn around and walk away, because I find that that works way better. But I didn’t even stop and process my thoughts; my rage just took over and I couldn’t help but slapping him.

  Not that I’m justifying my actions or anything, but come on, he totally deserved it.

  He looks surprised and maybe even a bit hurt—not morally of course, but that my slap actually injured him—and he rubs it gently with his long, callused fingers. Then his eyes flash at me and all playfulness is gone. Instead, he looks nothing short of pissed.

  Um, excuse me? What right does he have to be pissed at me?

  “That was uncalled for,” he says in a dark tone, and okay, I won’t actually confess this out loud, but his sudden change in demeanor is kind of scary. Kind of.

  “You called me a prostitute,” I say. “I am not a prostitute. I have no idea how things work around here, but what you just did was totally unprofessional, even if it does go with whatever century we’re in, okay, buddy? I’m sorry I slapped you. Actually, well, I’m a little sorry I did. But you have no right barging into my room without knocking and saying that you want to do me without any sort of introductions first—not that I would. You realize how dirty you are, right? And I’m not that kind of girl anyway—and then you have the audacity to get mad at me for standing up for myself?”

  “What do you expect me to take you for when you’re wearing something so…” He lets his voice trail off and his eyes trail down at, what I’m just remembering, is my scantily clad body.

  I actually huff as I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Oh my God, are you kidding me?” I ask, looking out that small window and praying to whatever God is up there that he doesn’t notice my blush. “Listen, buddy—”

  “What is ‘buddy’?” he interrupts, throwing his hands out. “I don’t understand your choice of diction, young lady, and I should warn you right now, that that word had better not be an insult or you will regret it. Once I find out what it means.”

  But I continue on as if I don’t even hear him. “Obviously, you don’t directly understand the fact that women have been fighting for years to be equal to men, but let me fill you in on something—women have come a long way since the Victorian age where showing ankle could cause a scandal, okay? I can wear whatever the hell I want, whether that’s revealing or unrevealing, and it is one of the greatest insults for a woman who is confident with her looks and her body to be labeled as a slut or a whore or, in your case, a prostitute. This is the twenty-first century, or have you forgotten that?”

  The man looks at me for a long, long time. Or for what feels like a long, long time. I swallow, wondering if maybe, just maybe, I’ve gone too far. He blinks once, twice, and then his lips slowly curl up and his eyes get mischievous and sparkly.

  “What have you been drinking, darling?” he asks me, taking a step towards me.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, pushing my brows up and giving him an expectant look.

  “Surely you are jesting with me,” he says and then laughs, a sound that is rich and clear and the least bit slurred. “Surely you must be drinking. This is the twenty-first century, is it?” He throws his head back and starts to laugh. Maybe if I didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that he’s laughing at me, I may have found the sound contagious. Intoxicating, even. But I don’t, because I do think he’s laughing at me.

  “Obviously,” I say. I wait, but he keeps laughing. “I don’t understand what you think is so funny.”

  The man continues to laugh and laugh and laugh and I’m seriously on the brink of telling him to shut the fuck up when his laughter dies down and he’s looking at me again with those brown eyes of his. It feels like forever, and in that time, I try and read his eyes, but for whatever reason, I can’t. It’s like the meaning behind them is blocked and all I have to look at is the superficial front—the playfulness—he wants to portray.

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” he asks me. He pushes his lips together and ever so slightly tilts his head to the side. “I’ve heard of people like you. Believing they’re somebody they’re not. Paranoid. Think everyone’s out to get them. But I’ve never heard of people like you believing your actual environment is different from the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” I’m getting frustrated at this point. “People like me?”

  “You know…” He raises his brow again. “Believe you’re somebody else. Sometimes it’s someone famous or royal or important, sometimes it’s just an entirely different personality—”

  “Do you mean schizophrenics?” I ask. “You really think I’m schizophrenic? Do you even know what it means to be schizophrenic, or are you just being politically incorrect because you’re kind of a jerk?”

  “All right, I know jerk and I know that that is an insult, missy—”

  “Don’t call me missy,” I snap. “And what do you expect? You called me schizophrenic just because I said it’s the twenty-first century. Hello. I know you’re supposed to remain in character and, you know what, I’m impressed by your tenacity, but let’s cut the bullshit for a few seconds so we can get a few things clear. Number one—I don’t care what little resort we’re in and what century we’re supposed to be in here, but reality says it’s the twenty-first, okay? Number two—I am not a prostitute, and even if I was, you probably couldn’t afford me to begin with.” I bristle and place my hands on my hips, locking eyes with him in hopes that he understands just how serious I am. “Now that that’s all covered, I’d like to check out, I’d like my cell phone, and I won’t report this if you pay for a cab to take me home.”

  Again, that stare. That stare that I want to know the meaning behind but it’s likely that I won’t.

  “Darling, there’s something you should know,” he says. “I’m not sure what you’ve been drinking or where you think you are, but if you’re truly not schitzo-what it was you just said, you need to be aware that it is in fact, not, the twenty-first century. Rather, it is the eighteenth century. More specifically, the year is 1713.”

  Chapter 3

  I laugh in a crazy, unhinged sort of way, and I watch as his brown eyes widen slightly. For the first time, the pirate looks as though he's afraid of me, of what I
may do depending on my mental facilities.

  "Are you shitting me?" I ask, once I've settled down and my stomach feels as though I've done a thousand sit-ups at one time.

  "Shitti"—The pirate stops mid-sentence and gives me a flat look. "What does that mean, exactly? Does not sound pleasant, to be honest. I don't think I'd like to shit anyone, quite frankly." He stops and places his fingerprint on the tip of his chin. He studies me for a long moment, and I can't seem to muster up the energy to care right now because if there's even a chance that he's right about the century we're in, I have no idea how to get back home. And to be honest, I'm starting to feel…scared. "For a young woman, your language is coarse and unbecoming. Who taught you how to swear that way? You say you're not a prostitute, but you swear like you grew up at sea or in a whorehouse." Now, his eyes narrow and he looks at me in such a way, I feel as though he can look straight through me to my very core. And that's the last place I want him or anyone to see because I'm not even comfortable looking there myself. "Who are you? And where are you from?"

  "I've already told you where I'm from," I say, and though the fact that I'm annoyed is reflected in my tone, I lose my sarcasm. "It's not my fault you don't believe me."

  "You don't believe me when I tell you where I'm from, either," he points out, pushing up his eyebrows, which, for some reason, only enhances the sharpness of his cheekbones. God, the man is beautiful, and it's impossible not to stare. It doesn't even matter he's covered in dirt. "So it appears we're at a stalemate."

  I pause and let his words sink in, because, despite the fact that they're slurred, they also make sense. We both don't believe each other, which means we're closed off to the possibility that one of us is telling the truth. This will get us nowhere.