Page 80 of Fake Dark Vows

“Fuck!”

I try Rose’s number again and get the same result. Unobtainable. What is it with all these fucking off-grid numbers?

Head down, I make my way back to the hotel to wait for Rose and process what Julia told me about Carlos Russo.

CHAPTER 26

Rose

My head is pounding. Eyes closed, I concentrate on the incessant knocking inside my skull and wait for it to subside enough for me to move. How did I get so drunk? Again.

The lyrics to ‘You’re In My Heart’ play on repeat inside my head in Rod Stewart’s gravelly voice, along with an image of Brandon singing along. Where did we go after the show? The Cocktail Garden.

Damon.

I inhale deeply through my nose and hold the air in my lungs, but it erupts into a dry cough that sticks in the back of my throat. I need water. I’ve got to stop doing this—did I not learn the first time?

It occurs to me then that I’ve been hungover more times since I met Brandon than I have in the past twelve months.

I open my eyes, and everything is black. I can’t see.

Fight or flight response kicks in, and my breathing grows shallow. I try to sit up, but I can’t move, I can’t even tell where I am because my eyes are sending no signals to my brain to show me which way is up.

Concentrate, Rose. Stay calm. Psychologists suggest that this is what you should do in instances that take you out of your comfort zone, but how the fuck are you supposed to stay calm when you’ve woken up blind?

Hot tears sting my eyes and I take some small comfort from them. At least I can still feel. I blink, and my eyelashes brush against some kind of blindfold. I sniff loudly. Relief that I’m not blind makes the pulsating ache inside my skull even more intense.

I start again with my toes. They feel numb, but I’m still wearing my shoes, which means I must’ve passed out somewhere.

My heart rate increases at the thought that I could be in a dark alley in a rough part of Vegas where no one will ever find me. Maybe I’m crashed out behind a dumpster, or in a pile of trash.

I force myself to breathe—I can’t smell trash. It’s a small consolation.

I try to move my legs. Something cuts into my ankles, and my face floods with heat when I realize that they’re bound. Did I go back to the hotel room with Brandon? Is this a kinky sex act taken a step too far?

“Brandon?” I croak.

Nothing. I can’t hear him breathing beside me; there’s no radio station playing in the background, no voices from outside.

I listen for the shower, my ears straining to pick up anything other than my blood pumping through my veins. I can hear water. It isn’t coming from the shower though—it sounds too far away to be that, too powerful to be coming from the pool area outside the hotel room.

A shiver runs down my spine and goosebumps pop on my arms. I’m cold, but I instinctively know it isn’t from the air conditioning in the room. Brandon turned it off because I told him it was unnatural, that I’d rather feel the warm breeze from the sliding doors.

This cold is sickly, ominous, and bile rises in my throat.

“Brandon?” I try again.

No response. Not even a whisper of movement letting me know that he’s there. I squeeze my inner thighs together and feel my jeans rubbing against me.

It hits me then like a blow to the stomach. I’m still dressed. I never went back to the room with Brandon, and I have no idea where I am.

I wriggle my fingers. The engagement ring is still there, which means I’ve not been robbed, and I let out a strangled cry that’s halfway between a sob and rising hysteria. I still have the ring, but my wrists are bound too.

“Help?” I cry out. “Will somebody help me?”

It’s silent. Too silent, apart from the sound of crashing water.

Panic thrashes around my brain, dragging my thoughts along with it, until all I can see is flashing red and white lights behind my eyelids. I need to get them under control. Need to stay calm. Think…