Page 33 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

I don’t respond and merely break into a jog to follow the paramedics to the ambulance. I climb in behind them, and one young man directs me to a seat next to Scarlett’s hip. They drape a blanket over her because she’s shivering, and why did I make her wear that stupid fucking outfit?

I can’t help wondering ifthat outfitcaused her to be that piece of shit’s target.

Guilt the likes of which I have never felt infuses my veins to the point that my hands are shaking. One of her hands is halfway hanging off the edge of the stretcher, and it’s shaking worse than mine. I reach for it, and I don’t let go until the paramedics force me to so they can roll the stretcher out of the ambulance.

Eventually, we’re in the emergency room of the nearest hospital, and Scarlett has undergone a battery of tests and treatments. A blood screening reveals that the drug this piece of shit used on her was something called ketamine. A tranquilizer that’s generally used to sedate horses and cattle, and when used on a human as small as Scarlett, it causes hallucinations, temporary paralysis, amnesia, and potentiallydeath.

And that piece of shit managed to dump some of it into her drink when she wasn’t looking, and I wasn’t there to notice him doing it either, because I was avoiding her.

It’s approaching one in the morning when she’s finally stabilized. Liza, Brennan, and Jimmy have all come and gone. Luke has called. I’ve learned that Scarlett doesn’t have an emergency contact, which is likely because, in her own words, “My grandmother is dying. She’s all I’ve got.”

But right now, she’s got me. Because I’m not leaving. I’m going to sit here and stay with her, not only because this is my job as her manager, but also because…after something like this…I just can’t let go.

Her frigid hand is between both of mine, and she’s so still that it’s eerily reminiscent of death, and I can’t let go.

Just like the recurring nightmares where I can’t move to save her from the faceless man who commits atrocities against her, this was my fault. Because I’ve been avoiding her. Because I’m grasping at straws to hide from the feeling that has only intensified over the last few hours since I saw her curled up on the cold, hard concrete of a back alley. Where that cretin was planning to fuck her and leave her to let the drug run its course in her system, without a single care that it might have killed her. Just like the faceless man from the nightmare.

And even though the real-life scumbag was the one who sprinkled tasteless poison dust into her drink, this was my fault.

“I’m so sorry, Scarlett,” I say on repeat to a silent room. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hand is so cold and so still, and the demented dreams I was having about her weeks ago surface in my mind’s eye. The dreams in which I couldn’t—didn’t—save her from being violently attacked and murdered. And how is this all that different aside from the fact that she is miraculously alive right now?

It doesn’t feel all that different.

I fold my fingers between hers, my opposite hand stroking the back of hers. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I should’ve been there.”

Pale, pink morning light begins creeping up the horizon over the flat-topped buildings along Canal Street, and my eyelids feel like they weigh about a ton, but I don’t sleep.

I wait.

Nurses come in and out of the room, assuring me that she’s fine. She’s perfectly stable. She’s just drowsy, and she’s sleeping it off. Everything looks good, and when she wakes up, she’ll be good to go.

But somehow, all of it feels like the opposite offine.

My phone rings a few times. It’s Liza checking on us both. Her vague remarks that indicate Brennan ispissed. As he should be. Everyone should be. Atme, because I let this happen. But he seems to be the only one who actually is. Him, but alsome.

I have never been so angry at myself, and that anger is now the only thing keeping me awake as I approach twenty-four hours since I last slept.

I’m still awake at around eleven a.m. when Scarlett starts to stir.

Her hand pulls out of mine as she reaches for her face to rub her eyes and cover a yawn. Another of those pained, little mewls drains from her lips, and she blinks her eyes open.

“Hey, Scarlett,” I say quietly.

She cuts a glance at me, and then her gaze flicks around the room in alarm. “What happened?”

My shoulders sink under the weight of dread at having to explain why she’s here. But I tell her anyway.

Her eyes are wide for the entire sixty second explanation; unblinking and fixed on mine, and she just stares at me. She doesn’t cry. She barely reacts at all. As though the information has rendered her to a state of shock. I find myself reaching for her face and stroking one of her disheveled red curls out of her eyes.

Those pale silver eyes are still fixed on mine as a shadow of confusion carves a small crinkle between her dark brows. “That was last night?”

I can only nod.

She squints slightly. “So you’ve been here all night?”

“Yeah.”

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