Page 21 of Unrequited
One second, I’m laughing at a joke I didn’t hear, pretending to care about the score, or some professor’s weird haircut, while someone presses me for manicure and G-string opinions for an upcoming trip.
My drink sloshes in my hand. I’m thirsty and gulp the whole damn thing.
My vision’s blurry, then somehow… I’m alone, separated from the others in the crowd.
My head throbs. My gaze is unfocused. I stare down at my phone, trying to remember what happened.
What the hell is going on? Why does my body feel wrong? Why do I feel like I’m floating away from myself?
Oh my god. Did somebody?—?
What did I drink?
How did I get here?
I stumble forward, trying to turn back toward the stadium seating, when a hand snatches my wrist.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
It’s someone I barely know, a guy from earlier. I don’t even remember his name. He wasn’t even the dumb one who kept whining about his statistics grade. I barely register him, one of the guys sitting behind us. I think?
He smiles at me like he’s owed something.
“What did you do to me?” I ask, my voice shaking. “My head—did you give me something? You fucking gave me something, didn’t you?”
Anger surges through me. I’m Zoya fucking Kopolova. My brothers would slit his fucking throat and tear his limbs from his body. Hell, my sister would.
I slap at him, but my limbs feel heavy. I’m floating. My voice wobbles. “Leave me alone.”
My skin is burning, too hot. My heartbeat is a frantic, uneven mess. I don’t have enough strength to get away from him.
What kind of a fucking loser drugs someone’s soda?
He steps closer. I go to scream, and his hand clamps over my mouth.
“No,” he growls. “Uh-uh. You’re not gonna make a scene.”
“Leave me alone,” I try again, louder this time. “Don’t touch me.”
I fumble for the phone in my pocket, my fingers trembling. I could call Rafail, Rodion, Semyon. Any of my brothers would come.
But if I do…
That’s the end of pretending. School? Gone. Freedom? A memory.
Instead, I smile through the panic. “Alright, alright. Let’s take a selfie,” I say sweetly. “You want proof, don’t you? Sex under the bleachers? Sounds hot.”
He scowls. “Put that away.”
I hear voices. Distant, echoing.
“Hello? Zoya? Where’d you guys go?”
He stiffens and takes a step back. “Don’t move,” he hisses. His breath reeks of stale beer. “You stay right fucking here.”
The moment he turns away, I don’t even think about what I do. I text Seamus, my fingers trembling. I don’t have a lot of time.
Help. Under the bleachers. Bobola Stadium. Drugged. Can’t fight.
