Devil You Know(48)

“Jane?”

Thud. Thud.

“Jane? Can you open the door?”

“In a minute,” I slur out.

“Fuck. Bronx, hold this for me.”

Bronx. That name seems familiar . . .

“What the hell?” a woman cries out. “You’re keen, buddy.”

“Jane? Shit!”

I swear that came from above me.

I urge my lazy eyelids to open for a second, but the effort seems so monumental. Is it worth it? Should I?

Something hits the ground beside my legs, and my eyes fly open out of pure instinct.

Hello, gorgeous.

“Who are you? I think I’m meant to know you.” I ogle the broody man standing over me.

I smile, but the guy is busy talking to someone else. Huh, when did he get the door open?

Take a picture, people; it’ll last longer!





“WHERE’S TIGGER, Bronx?”

“He’s making sure we’ve got a taxi available.”

“Good work.”

I carry Jane from the ladies room, through the bar, and out the front. People stare; others act like the sight is nothing unusual. She’s out cold, and to be honest, I’m worried sick.

I’m so fucking stupid.

Why did I let her drink so much, so fast? Sure, us boys do it often, but I managed to overlook the fact she hasn’t been out for a solid night drinking in a fucking long time. My gaze flicks down to her chest every so often, hoping to see it still rise and fall.

“Here, bro.” Bronx holds the cab door open. “We’ll find our own. Get her home, huh?”

“Thanks, man.” I want to tell him what an idiot I am, make sure he doesn’t think less of me after this, but now isn’t the time to fuck around.

The cabbie looks over the seat at us while I adjust Jane against me to ensure her head is up, and her airway stays open.

“If she pukes, that’s four hundred,” he warns.

“Does she look like she’s coherent enough to puke, man?”

He shakes his head, and turns to drive. “Where to?”

I recite our temporary address, and curse at how far it is for us. This taxi ride is going to cost me a small fortune not sharing with the guys, but there’s no fucking way I’m taking her to my house in town—not when it’s right next to him.

My gaze never leaves Jane the whole way there. I watch her twitch in her sleep, check she’s breathing, and keep an eye out for any signs she might wake to vomit again.

She stays out cold the entire trip. It concerns the fuck outta me. The cabbie hangs about while I get her inside—no doubt with the meter running—and I make sure she’s sitting upright before I go back out to sign away a fucking kidney to cover the cost. Thank Christ my credit card carries a healthy limit.

Tires crunch into the dark, and I make my way back in to get to the task of taking care of my mess. I walk inside to find Rocco licking Jane’s hand. He whimpers when she doesn’t respond.

“I know, mate. I’m sorry. I did that to Mom.”

He trots a circle around the chair she’s in, only to sit right back where he was. He’s as agitated as I am. Jane gargles, and I close the distance to her in two brisk strides. My heart races. What if she vomits in her sleep? Fuck, I couldn’t live with myself if the worst happened.

With Rocco keeping guard, I manage to get her undressed, and into one of my T-shirts. She never stirs, even while I clean around her mouth, and remove the small chunks of something I didn’t know she ate from her hair. Using the pillows from her room, I pad the side of my bed so she’s propped up on her side. At least then if she does throw up in her sleep, her airway will stay clear.

Rocco settles in at the foot of the bed when I turn the light out, and climb in next to her. She drools a little, sleeping with her mouth wide. I try several times to coax it closed, but her jaw falls slack within seconds after each attempt I make. An hour passes with her in the same position, and me unable to close my eyes.

I’ve never worried this much about someone since the day Dad tried to top himself. What does that tell you? I know I sure as fuck feel nauseated thinking about it.

This is getting too much, too fast.

I sit up beside her, watching her for any signs she’s out of her alcohol-induced coma. Nothing. Jane sleeps soundly beside me, blissfully unaware of what her head is going to feel like come morning. The woman is going to wish for death once the sun rises.

I look over at Rocco, sleeping soundly in the corner of the room. That dog makes a bed anywhere. He could be perched on top of a flagpole and still sleep—I’d place money on it.

Now that it’s apparent I’m the only one who’s going to be awake all night, I settle into the pillows, and stare at the join of the ceiling and wall. My mind runs wild, coming up with a million different ways tonight could have ended if I had I paid closer attention.