Rush(87)

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Caroline said as she leaned down into the backseat.

“Be careful and have fun,” Mia said.

Caroline grinned and shut the door.

Mia gave her address to the driver and then leaned back in the seat. She still had a major buzz going even though she’d stopped drinking almost an hour before. Her phone went off and she frowned. It was past two o’clock. Who the hell would be texting her at this hour?

She pulled her phone from her pocket where it had lain forgotten all night, and winced when she saw she had over a dozen missed calls. All from Gabe. And then there were the texts. The last one had just been sent a few seconds ago.

Where the fuck are you?

While there was no way to discern tone from a text, she could positively see Gabe bristling with anger. There were several other texts, all demanding to know where she was and how she was getting home.

Shit. Should she call him? It was awfully damn late—or early—but he was obviously up and he was obviously pissed or worried or both—at her.

She’d wait until she got home and then text him back. At least then she could say she was at her apartment.

It took far less time to get home, as traffic wasn’t a factor at this hour of the morning. It wasn’t long until the cab pulled up to her building. She paid him and then got out, bobbling a bit as she got her legs underneath her.

The cab pulled away and she started toward the door to her building when she saw him.

Her breath caught in her chest and her pulse accelerated until the alcohol in her stomach swirled, making her queasy.

Gabe was standing outside the door of her building, and he looked pissed. He strode rapidly toward her, his expression dark and those eyes glittering dangerously.

“It’s about goddamn time,” he bit out. “Where the hell have you been? And why the hell didn’t you answer my calls or my texts? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

She weaved unsteadily and he cursed, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.

“You’re shitfaced,” he said grimly.

She shook her head, still not having found her voice. “N-no,” she finally managed to stammer out.

“Yes,” he said.

He propelled her inside as the doorman opened the door and hustled her toward the elevator. He took the key she was holding in her hand, and pried it from her fingers as they entered and he punched the button for her floor.

“Can you even walk?” he asked, his gaze flicking over her like a whip.

She nodded, although she wasn’t so sure now. Her knees were shaking and more and more she felt the urge to vomit. Her face paled and sweat broke out on her forehead.

Gabe cursed again as the elevator doors opened. He grabbed her hand and then pulled her into his side, supporting her as they walked to her door. He jammed the key into the lock, opened the door and then swept her inside. He slammed the door and then rushed her into the bathroom.

Not a moment too soon.

Her stomach rebelled and she leaned over the toilet just in time.

Gabe gathered her hair in his hands and pulled it back, holding it away from her face. Then he slid one hand up and down her back in a soothing, calming manner.

He didn’t say a word—a fact she was grateful for—while she released the contents of her stomach. When the retching finally eased, he left her only long enough to dampen a washcloth in the sink and then he returned, wiping gently at her face and forehead.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “You know you can’t tolerate alcohol that well.”

She sagged and leaned her forehead onto his chest, closing her eyes as she sucked in deep breaths. All she wanted was to lie down. Even after puking so much, she was still way impaired. And she wasn’t certain why. She hadn’t drunk that much. Had she?

The entire evening was somewhat of a blur to her. Dancing. Drinking. Dancing some more. Or maybe it had been drinking some more.

“Want to brush my teeth,” she mumbled.

“Are you sure you can stand up for that long?”

She nodded.

“I’ll go get your bed ready so you can lie down,” he said.

Gabe left the bathroom, anger still a tight knot in his gut. More than anger, however, had been fear. A sensation that still gripped him right by the balls.

If she weren’t so damn drunk, he’d tan her ass right here and now. Of all the irresponsible, idiotic things to pull.

He pulled back her covers, fixed the pillows and then arranged the sheets so he could slide her into bed. If she wasn’t so sick, he’d haul her over to his apartment right now and she’d stay there until they left for Paris.

He walked back toward the bathroom, frowning when he heard nothing but quiet.