The Temptation of Lila and Ethan (The Secret 3)

I can still hear her voice when I spot the pink bird in front of the apartment complex that’s tucked between a house and a gas station. But when I’m pulling in, there’s a thud on the line and then it goes silent. For a split second all I can think about is how I’m never going to see her again, that she’s gone, and I almost become paralyzed. I’ve never felt so much adrenaline rush through my body and my heart starts to slam against the inside of my chest.

“Shit.” I swing a hard left and slam on my brakes, stopping on the curb, the tire ramping up onto it. She said she was in the bushes, but there are bushes everywhere. I hop out of the truck and shout. “Lila!” No one answers. I run around the two-story brick buildings situated inside the fenced parking lot, shouting out her name as I unlock my cell phone screen to call 911. I spot a flashy high-heeled shoe near the bottom of one of the stairways and I pick it up, wondering if it could be Lila’s. It looks like something she probably wouldn’t wear and more like something a stripper would own and there are a lot of those around here.

When I turn around I see feet sticking out of the shrubbery and one of them is missing a shoe. I run over and drop to my knees beside Lila, sprawled out on the ground, taking in the paleness of her skin and the glossiness in her eyes. Suddenly a feeling rushes over me, rams me square in the chest, gut, legs—everywhere. Looking at her, like this, makes the possibility of losing her much more real.

“I feel sick, Ethan,” she murmurs and then rolls onto her side, tucking her hands under her head and closing her eyes.

I carefully slide my arm underneath her neck and slant her head up, patting her cheek so she’ll open her eyes. “Lila, what did you take? Can you remember the name?”

“What I always take,” she slurs, blinking her eyes open. “That stuff in my drawer.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “And what’s that?”

“That stuff… you know… those pills that make you all awake… God, Ethan, I can’t… I can’t remember the name of them. It’s a really… really… big word.”

I glance at the dirt and the bushes around us. “Did you throw up?”

“No…” She slowly sighs, her chest rising and falling. “I feel like I need to, though. My stomach hurts really, really bad.”

I help her sit up, holding on to her arms, which have red welts on them that look like marks left from someone’s fingers digging into her skin. “Okay, I’m going to turn you around and I want you to throw up, even if you have to stick your finger down your throat.”

Her head bobs up and down as she nods. “Okay.”

I guide her to the side and help her turn so she’s hunched over on her hands and knees. I keep my arm underneath her stomach, supporting her weight. She stays still for a minute with her mouth open, and then she finally shoves her finger down her throat. I angle my head to the side, staring at the parking lot as she pukes in the bushes. By the time she’s finished, she’s shaking and her skin is sweaty and paler than it already was.

“All right, let’s get you to the hospital,” I say as she sits down and rests her head against my chest.

“No, no hospitals.” She shakes her head and peers up at me. In the glow of the streetlights, her eyes look black, or maybe it’s because her pupils are dilated.

“Yes, to the hospital.” I get to my feet and scoop her up in my arms, bearing her dead weight as she nuzzles her face against my chest.

She gripes about going to the hospital, but only until we make it to the truck. Once I get her in the passenger seat, she relaxes and I buckle her seat belt over her chest. I drive straight to the hospital, knowing that there is no room for mistakes in the state she’s in. It’s why I stopped doing drugs. Why I went back to overthinking everything, even though I didn’t want to. I learned firsthand what can happen. How one slipup can take you away forever, and thinking about the fact that Lila might be reaching that point terrified me more than I would have thought. It scares me to death, the thought that I might lose her. At that moment, I realize that Lila has become more than a friend. Much, much more.

Chapter Six

Lila

I wake up unable to remember what happened the night before. I should be okay with the confusion, since I’m used to it, but for some reason I feel more dirty and ashamed than I normally do.

The scent of cologne flowing from the blanket that’s over me is familiar. I’ve smelled it before and it comforts me. I force my eyes open and instantly recognize the band posters and drum set in the corner of the room. I sigh with relief. I’m in Ethan’s room, lying in his bed.

“Thank God,” I mutter, gradually sitting up and my stomach muscles constrict in protest. I wrap my arm around my stomach and realize that I’m wearing one of Ethan’s shirts.

Holy crap, did I sleep with him? I run my hands through my tangled hair, sifting through my hazy memories. But the only things I can remember are stars, bushes, beeping machines, and the smell of cleaner.

“Feeling better?” The sound of Ethan’s voice makes me jump and my stomach churns from the motion.

“Ah…” I moan, hunching over and clutching my tender stomach with my gaze fixed on the comforter in front of me. “What the heck happened last night?”

I hear him walk toward the bed and then the mattress bows as he sits down on the foot of it, making sure to keep some space between us. “You can’t remember anything at all?”

I shake my head, still looking down, feeling mortified for reasons I can’t explain. Then I notice the hospital band on my wrist. “No… I can remember wandering around the apartment complex… Then this guy took me somewhere…” I pause, daring to peer up. “And then all I can remember are stars and the smell of cleaner.”

He’s wearing a black-and-red T-shirt, his hair is damp, like he just got out of the shower, and there are holes in his jeans. “You pretty much overdosed,” he says, cautiously watching me.

He thrums his fingers on his knees, considering something. “You know, I’ve never been one for pressing people about their problems.” He slides his knee on the bed, turning sideways so he’s facing me. “I’ve never been a big fan of talking about my own shit and so I usually avoid trying to make people talk about theirs unless they’re being stupid and right now every single part of me is screaming at me to make you tell me what happened.” He pauses and I start to speak, but he talks over me. “And don’t try to tell me that you’re taking that prescription because of a doctor’s orders. You told me last night on the way to the hospital that you’ve pretty much been abusing them since you were fourteen, something I probably should have just told the doctors, but I didn’t want to get you into trouble.” He stops and waits for something. A thanks? An explanation? The truth? I honestly don’t know and I don’t want to tell him anything either.

“I don’t know what to say.” I shut my eyes and summon a deep breath, chanting in my head not to cry. But I feel disembodied from my emotions and my stomach feels like I’ve done an infinite amount of sit-ups. All I want to do is lie down, sleep, and forget that all of this happened.

“How about the truth?” Ethan states cautiously, sounding less angry, and I feel him shift closer to me on the bed. “You know I get the whole substance-abuse thing.”

My eyelids snap open at his awful accusation. “I don’t have a substance-abuse problem,” I say, seething and tossing the blankets off me. “It’s a prescription. Doctor’s orders.” I swing my legs over the bed and push to my feet. A rush of blood flees from my head and my knees instantly buckle. I reach for the metal bedpost as I collapse, but Ethan jumps up and catches me in his arms right before I hit the floor.

I blow out a breath, looking at the wall beside me as he holds my weight up. I feel like an idiot. “Let me go. I can walk.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.” He helps me back to the bed and I begrudgingly sit down. “Doctor’s orders.”

I press my lips together, shaking my head. “Ethan, please just don’t. I don’t need this from you right now.”

“Please don’t what? Talk about what I saw last night? Because I’m not going to do that. It f**king scared the shit out of me, Lila… seeing you trashed out of your mind like that.” His eyes are wide and filled with panic as he sits down on the bed again, leaving a little less space between us as he roughly rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks stressed out and exhausted. “And as much as I hate to push you to talk about it, I feel like I have to. I can’t… I don’t want anything…” He’s fumbling over his words and it seems to be frustrating him. He’s acting very out of character and I wonder if something else is wrong.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I mutter, frowning down at my lap. “I’m not your girlfriend or anything—you don’t owe me anything. You should have just told the hospital I tried to kill myself. Then they could be dealing with me and you wouldn’t have to.”

He pauses, contemplating what I said. “You’re my friend and that’s equally as important, if not more important… You’re important…” His forehead creases as he says it, like he’s confused himself as much as he’s confused me. He starts to reach for me, as if he’s going to put his hand on my cheek, but then pulls his hand back.

I cover my mouth and shake my head as tears start to form in the corners of my eyes. “I can’t.”

He raises his eyebrows inquiringly. “Can’t what?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about stuff like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” I wave my hand down in front of my terrible state. “All messed up and not put together.”

His head cocks to the side as he crooks his eyebrow. “Lila, I’ve told you some of my f**ked-up stories about drugs and sex and you’ve seen where I live—you know what kind of a home I was raised in and what my parents did to each other. Messed up is nothing new to me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” I say exasperatedly as I gather my hair around the nape of my neck. “I’m not supposed to be this way, or at least no one’s supposed to know that I’m like this.”

“You keep saying like this but I’m still trying to figure out like what?” His eyes scroll over my body carefully, as if he’s searching for visible wounds. And there are a few, on my ankles and waist and even a very faint one on my wrist, but most people never notice them. “As far as I can tell, the only thing you’re acting like is someone who needs to talk about their problems.” He’s being nice and it’s only making me feel worse.

“It’d be easier if you just yelled at me,” I say, releasing my hair and spanning my arms out to the side. “Or left me alone. That’s what you usually do.”

“Easy is overrated,” he replies. “And I can’t leave you alone this time. Not about this. I’ll hate myself if I do.”