Page 173 of Beautiful Liar

The retching continues for the better part of an hour, by which time, I’m shaking with fear. The part of me that suspected Fionnella’s concern was exaggerated to get me to come here shrivels and dies. Quinn is in serious trouble, and as much as I’m hurting over what he’s done, I can’t help but feel for him.

The second he quiets down, I race back to the living room for my phone.

Fionnella answers immediately.

“What’s wrong?”

“He won’t stop throwing up,” I blurt.

“Shit, I was afraid of that.”

“Afraid of what?” I demand.

“Possible alcohol poisoning.”

“Jesus. Does he need to go the hospital?”

“No. Keep an eye on him. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

“What?”I shriek, but she’s hung up.

She calls back when he’s in the middle of another vomiting bout. “His doctor is on his way. ETA twenty minutes.”

“Are you sure he shouldn’t be in the hospital?”

“Dr. Hanley will decide that. We don’t want to give the press another scoop unless it’s unavoidable. Elyse…are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” I snap, worry and fear making me cranky. “It’s bad, Fionnella.”

“I know. That’s why you’re there. You’re my last hope,” she says softly, before she hangs up.

Heart in my throat, I return to Quinn. He looks like he’s passed out, but I realize he’s fallen asleep. There’s no way I’m going to get him into bed so I tug the covers and a couple of pillows off the bed and make him as comfortable as possible.

When the doctor arrives, I let him in, my breath held as he examines Quinn.

“He’s severely dehydrated, but he hasn’t quite slipped into poisoning territory.”

Relief shudders through me, and stupid tears prickle my eyes.

“When he wakes, give him a couple of these, then repeat every four hours. They’re rehydration pills.” He hands me the vial. “And obviously, no more booze,” the small, wiry man says with a wry smile. He extracts a card from his pocket and sets it on the vanity. “If anything untoward occurs, call me.”

I nod and see him out.

Quinn is still sleeping when I return. I can’t leave him, so I go in search of more blankets, and I make my own makeshift bed on the bathroom floor.

***

“Elyse.”

I open my eyes. He’s staring at me. His color is healthier, but faint grey lines fan his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

I blink as the pain rushes back. I’m not ready to deal with my emotions, or even his, so I ask abruptly, “How do you feel?”

He closes his eyes for a second. “Like hell. But…I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry,” he repeats.

My throat clogs all over again. I try to get up to fetch his pills. His hand jerks across the space between us and holds me still.

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