The cabbie leans toward the curbside window. “You taking her home or to hospital?”
“Hospital. Can you get this door for me, mate?”
He jumps out, comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me, gazing at Dree with resignation.
“Take us to St. Thomas’, across the river. That’s the closest with an ER, right?”
The cabbie shakes his head as he gets into the driver’s seat. “St. Mary’s, up at Paddington.”
I hold Dree in my lap as the cab navigates the narrow West London streets. She’s completely unconscious now, her face paper white and her mouth slack, and my heart races, sick and fast. Please, God, don’t let her be overdosing.
“Can’t you hurry up?” I call to the driver, though I know he’s going as fast as he can in the Saturday night traffic. Dree’s clutch goes tumbling to the floor, and I shove it inside my jacket.
When we reach the entrance to the ER, I pass the cabbie a twenty and carry Dree inside. There’s a red-and-white sign reading TRIAGE and I hurry over and speak to the nurse behind the glass partition.
“My friend’s been drugged.”
The nurse passes a cursory look over Dree’s unconscious face. “Do you know what she’s taken?”
I read the tweets. Dree even said it to me herself: she was fired from her last job because of drugs and violence. What complete bullshit. “She didn’t take anything. Someone slipped her something at a club.”
I’m told to sit and wait. Sit and wait, fucking hell. Teeth grinding together, I sit down in a plastic chair and settle her in my arms. She’s so small against my chest. Anyone could have picked her up and carried her off.
Someone did.
I did.
No one even tried to stop me. I don’t even want to think about what that asshole who drugged her intended to do to her. In my arms, Dree’s lifeless and deathly pale.
When I find out who it was, I’m going to wring his fucking neck.
9
Dree
Cotton wool fills my mouth. Someone is hammering on my skull. It hurts so much to have my eyes closed, that I open them, hoping I’ll feel better.
My room spins and the pounding gets harder.
Wait.
This isn’t my room.
My hand moves on the mattress. This is a strange, hard bed with stiff sheets and there’s a white curtain drawn all around, enclosing me in a small space. Beyond, I can hear people talking and things beeping and being wheeled around. To my right, a large man in a charcoal suit and T-shirt is slumped fast asleep in a chair, his knuckles jammed against his cheekbone. His jaw is slightly stubbled and there’s a line between his blond brows. Silver hair is tumbling over his fist.
Rush?
I stare at him, my mind blank with confusion, waiting for understanding to surge through me.
It doesn’t.
What the hell is going on?
I remember dancing. Then I was talking. With Rush? No, not with Rush. I was afraid. A rank antiseptic smell hangs in the air and my heart starts to race with panic. I try to sit up, but yank on something fastened to the back of my hand. I’m tied up like a dog on a leash. What the hell is happening? I take hold of a plastic tube and pull.
And scream in pain.
Rush sits bolt upright. “Dree. Hey, don’t do that.”
He takes my hand before I can yank the tube again. “You’re safe. You’re in the ER. You’ve been passed out for about…” He checks his phone. “Six hours. But you’re all right.”
I open my mouth to ask him what happened to me and why he’s here, but what I actually say, my throat convulsing, is, “I’m going to be sick.”
Rush grabs a sick bucket from above the bed and sticks it in front of my face just in time. There’s not much in my stomach for me to throw up, but I heave and heave, spitting out viscous, acidic vomit. Tears trickle down my face. Rush is standing over me and it’s humiliating, someone watching me do this. Everything about this is humiliating.
I reach out and push against Rush’s chest. “Please go.”
Rush doesn’t move. I retch again, my hand still splayed over his chest. He covers my hand with his large one and rubs it gently. With his other hand he smooths back the tangles of my hair.
When I finally sit back and wipe my mouth, Rush passes me a plastic cup of water. I can feel him standing over me as I take a mouthful.
“Please just go, won’t you?”
He still doesn’t move. “What happened last night? Who did this to you?”
I search my memory for anything, but my thoughts are jelly. “What happened to me? I can’t remember. Why don’t I remember anything?”
Rush sits down again beside my bed, pulling his chair closer. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”