Page 30 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

Blackness.

A floating sensation in my head that feels dream-like and detached, and did I fall asleep?

What happened to the sparkly gold party?

I must be at home in bed because everything is dark as fuck, so I must have gone to bed.

“Don’t fucking move.”

It’s a male voice, but I don’t think it’s talking to me.

This can’t be my bed. Too hard. Too cold.

“You can’t prove shit.” Another male voice.

Both are familiar.

“I fucking saw you touching her glass,”the first voice says. “So whatever shows up in her system is on you, mother fucker.”

The voices go back and forth incoherently.

“Shut the fuck up. If you so much as move, I will flatten your fucking airway. You can talk to the fucking police when they get here.”

Hold the fucking phone.

That’s Brennan.

Wasn’t he right there just a minute ago, carrying away the glasses?

My stomach curdles and twists, and bile creeps up my throat. Nothing makes any sense, and a noise expels from my mouth.

A hazy firestorm of more incoherent activity spins like a hurricane, and I am dead center in its eye. Lights and sounds. More voices. Hands on me. On my hands. On my arms. On my face.

“You’re okay, hon. You’re okay, Scarlett. You’re okay. Help is coming.”

The only person who calls mehonis Liza.

“Why the fuck weren’t you with her?”

Brennan again.

“I was only away for fifteen minutes while I was meeting with Sylvia and her parents.”

August.

“Why didn’t you take her with you? You can’t just leave her alone at a party like this.”

Brennan.

“Both of you stop. It doesn’t matter right now. It was a close call, but she’s safe.”

Liza.

Hands on my face. On my forehead. Nausea that seems to have me paralyzed against the cold, hard surface. Another noise from my throat.

“Help.”

That was from me.

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