"And if he wants to see you?" she asked.
"If he comes here walking, no, thank you. On a stretcher? Yes, please."
"Glad you still have your sense of humor." Her nostrils flared. "Now quit joking around and get some rest."
She didn't need to ask me twice. Ten minutes later, I was fast asleep again, tucked securely in the arms of unconsciousness and painkillers. And even though the voices around me were muffled and the light in the room didn't keep me up, the sound of my life slipping away played in the background as my lungs fought for air.
Phhhhhhhsssttttt. Phhhhssssssttttt. Phhhhhssssssttttt.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT smell?
It took me about a minute from the moment I recognized that I was lying somewhere on my stomach, in a room I didn't know, till I managed to open my eyes. Shit, they were heavier than carrying Trent on my back, which I actually did once when he got injured in high school. That wasn't the time to dwell on that story, though.
Where was I? I looked around. There was a white nightstand to my right, the sheets were pink, and the room looked clean and smelled of flowers …
Holy shit, no.
I got up too fast, stumbling over a pile of dresses and righting myself on a white and pink nightstand. I knocked off a row of beauty products, then heard dishes clanking outside the room. I didn't have my shoes on, but my pants and shirt were intact-thank God-and it took me exactly three seconds to stand in this woman's hallway-her apartment was the size of my pantry-and try not to throw up my last meal on her floor.
The room spun, my head was pounding, and I was pretty sure there was an infinite hole in my stomach waiting to be filled with soft bread so it could soak up some of the alcohol I consumed yesterday.
"Did we sleep together last night?" I asked the woman in the kitchen. She spun around and looked at me like I was a green creature who fell from the sky wearing a silver onesie. I blinked a few times, trying to figure out if I was hallucinating or if this was real.
"I would stab myself in the face before sleeping with you." Elle pursed her lips and got back to washing the dishes. "No. I saw you zigzagging on the street and mumbling something about your dad and Rosie. I tried to call your girlfriend, but she didn't answer, so I figured I'd offer you a place to stay. I took the couch. You owe me a massage gift card. Just putting it out there." She hitched one shoulder.
Rosie.
I thanked Elle and ran out, not even bothering to grab my coat. My phone died sometime yesterday, and I had to plug it in the charger to read her messages. I tried calling her a thousand times, but she didn't answer. There were a pile of missed phone calls from the rest of the guys, but I ignored them. My next phone call was to Millie. It went straight to voicemail. I called Rosie's parents. Nothing. Finally, my screen lit just as I was about to call her again and it was Vicious. I pressed the phone to my ear.
"I don't know where she is," I answered, terror gripping me by the throat. "Fuck, Vic, she's not in her apartment, and she didn't have the keys to the Hamptons house, so I have no clue where she went."
"She's in the hospital, dickbag. Her lungs are collapsing. Her liver is not functioning, and she can barely breathe. Congratulations, you fucked up royally," he said in his dry voice.
I collapsed onto a stool in my kitchen, clasping the back of my neck so tight I drew blood.
"What hospital?"
"I'm not telling you shit, man. No one wants to see you here."
"I need to see her."
"Not happening. I will beat your sorry ass if you try, and even if you somehow manage to get past me, her dad will shoot you straight in the fucking face. Stay away."
"Vicious," I growled.
"What the fuck were you doing? What was more important than opening the door for your sick girlfriend?"
Getting drunk, I thought bitterly. Then it dawned on me that that was exactly what she did. Clawed at the door desperately when I was sitting in a bar by a fireplace, drinking hard liquor.
Asshole, asshole, asshole.
"Is she awake?" I asked, already grabbing my keys. He heard and tsked, telling me it was a bad idea.
"She comes and goes."
"I need to see her." I was a broken fucking record that would not stop spinning until it got what it wanted.
"You already said." Vicious didn't seem impressed by my persistence. "It doesn't look good. The LeBlancs are distraught. Millie looks like hell. Not a good time to come here."
"I don't care."
"Well, you should." Vicious's voice was grave. "Timing is everything."