Page 45 of Down Beat
“Guess I won’t tell you a fucking thing then.” He tosses ice-cold water in my face from a hotel mug, and then rises to his feet. “He’s yours, Em. I stick around, I might kill him myself.”
“Enough with the fucking water,” I holler after him. “You know I hate goddamn water.”
Shit. A shiver rips through me thanks to the icy liquid soaking my clothes, and now hair. I roll my head away as Emery squats down beside the bathtub, unable to face any more disappointment.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Rey,” he says quietly. “You know I’m not one to judge.”
Thank fuck for that, because right now I feel like the accidental baby that nobody really wanted to begin with. Oh, that’s right. I was. “What did I do?”
He sighs, moving in my periphery to settle on his ass. “Got blind drunk in the space of an hour and a quarter at the VIP meet and greet.”
Fuck. I kind of remember that.
“And then slipped out while everyone was distracted with one of the VIPs vomiting her guts all over the dressing room floor.”
Epic. I had the whole room following me down the rabbit hole.
“Made it to a bar, where you decked the bouncer best you could when he refused you entry. I do believe you hollered, ‘Do you know who I am?’ at the guy.”
I groan, closing my eyes again. So much better in here.
“And then you managed to get into the driver seat of the rented SUV and crashed it into a parked car while yelling something about being ‘late for a very important date.’” He chuckles. “The cops started referring to you as ‘Whitey,’ after the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.”
Fuck my life. “Jesus.”
“Pretty sure he can’t help you with this one.” Emery shifts. “Think you can get out of here without puking on me?”
“As long as we go slow, good buddy.” I throw my right arm toward the side of the tub, and miss.
Way to get a start there, Rey.
Em manages to lean me forward, yet all that achieves is crunching my stomach. Not a flash idea when it’s currently carrying enough liquid to see me through the Mojave Desert. I bend my legs and slide to my back again. What water remains in the base of the tub soaks the parts of my shirt that were still dry.
“No good?”
“Not unless you’re real keen on seeing what I drank last night.”
“Fucking novice,” he mutters before rolling me to my side. “Get on your hands and knees, you fuckwit. You can crawl out of here.”
It takes what feels like an hour before I’m starfished on the bedroom floor while Emery gets clean, dry clothes for me. Pete, the bodyguard, magically appears to help hoist me up so Emery can change me.
Not really the time to bitch about dignity now, is it?
“Where the fuck were you?” I ask Pete as he lifts me to my feet with arms locked under mine. “Why didn’t you stop me making a goddamn ass of myself?”
“He had his hands full keeping a couple of touchy-feely girls off Kris,” Emery explains. “We need more guys on deck with those nutcases.”
I swing my gaze back to Em as he chuckles, threading my arm through the shirtsleeve. The two of them manage to assist me into what I guess is what I’ll wear today, and then place me in the recovery position on top of the bed.
“Anything you projectile vomit around here comes out of your money, asshole,” Em warns.
“Stop talking about vomit and I’ll be fine,” I groan.
He leaves with Pete, turning the light off as they go. I stay immobile, staring at the door until I’m sure I can move without sending my head into a spin. Sleep doesn’t come; neither does any acceptable level of sobriety as I lie on the bed and count down the minutes. The guys talk out in the main living area of our suite for a while, before all the lights are switched off and the hotel room becomes eerily silent.
I roll to the side of the bed and navigate my way down to the floor with absolute minimal movement. My head pounds anyway.
It’s warranted. Every fucking ounce of pain is less than I deserve.