Chapter Twenty #2
“We’re getting out of here,” I tell Phoebe in a hot Southern drawl, then I see her empty plastic cup. “You drank the double?” Tell me you didn’t drink it, Phebs. Each tight breath scorches my lungs.
“Yeah…?” Her face falls as mine hardens. “Is something…? Did he…?”
I can barely nod. My neck is scalding, burning steel.
Shane tries to wedge himself beside me, and I shove his chest with a furious hand, keeping him away from her.
He stretches his arms out at me. “What the fuck, man?” Then to Phoebe, he shouts, “You’re really going to let your friend control you like this, Penelope?!”
Her horrified eyes are giant saucers. She spins on him. “Did you spike my drink?”
“What?” He acts offended.
“Did you?!” She raises her voice with real fury. I know just how real because involuntary tears glass her eyes. The bachelorette party starts to stare.
“No, I didn’t spike your drink.” Tiny creases form along his forehead.
He’s lying.
Phoebe nearly crumples against the wall at the realization. Blistering rage erupts inside me, and I unleash on him, throwing a right hook into his jaw. My violent pulse hammers in my ears. I hear nothing but my heartbeat for a split second.
Then the commotion slams back at me as he stumbles into a wooden barrel and the crowd ooohs.
I spit my toothpick at Shane. “You like to roofie girls? You like ’em unresponsive? You wanna see how it feels, motherfucker?” I kick him in the crotch with my steel-toed boot. He yelps into a wail and rolls into a fetal position.
The bar lets out a collective wince.
I bend down very, very close to him, and against his ear, I sneer in a whisper—one void of my fake drawl, one entirely, completely real—“Guys like you shouldn’t have a fucking cock. You’re lucky I can’t cut it off.”
Shane chokes on air in mounting terror, as though believing I’m a sociopath. He pisses himself, his jeans darkening at the crotch. Well, at least I got that tonight.
His friends panic, and even though they didn’t hear my last threat, they shy away from me. They’d rather leave him to the monster than risk being torn apart. Let the white-collar elite fight with checkbooks and backhanded, petty insults—I’m not doing it tonight.
They’re already waving the bouncer over to come escort me out.
Some locals applaud me as I rise, and they even try to shoo the bouncer away. The fiddler entertains everyone with another high-octane song.
I’d say I grab Phoebe’s hand first, but that might be a lie. She’s pulling me out of the bar as much as I’m pulling her.
Broadway is packed, and we’re pushing through the drunken commotion. “Hey, hey.” I try to stop Phoebe, but she’s tearing through the masses like she can outpace the drugs in her system.
“Text Oakley,” she tells me while I have my phone out. “Tell him we’re around the corner.”
“Jesus, slow down, babe.”
She halts suddenly and crushes into my chest. She shoves my arm. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your babe, I’m your…”
Phoebe.
My chest collapses. “Penelope. I say this as nicely as I can—you’re going the wrong fucking way.”
She blinks, then notices we’re heading into the most congested part of Nashville’s night scene. “Where…that way?” She points back to where we came.
“Yeah.”
Phoebe lets me lead, and in a matter of minutes, I bring her a few blocks from the bar we left. Then around the corner. To a narrow alley.
She squats beside the brick siding and gathers her hair with one hand. Again, she tells me, “Text him.” Her brother.
I shoot both of her brothers a text.
Phoebe sticks her finger down her throat. She gags. Nothing comes out.
This is killing me. I crouch behind her.
Tears have pooled in her eyes. Sweat built on her forehead.
“Phoebe,” I say gently and hold her hair for her. I wrap the brown strands around my fist.
She wipes at her watery eyes with a groan and a growl. “I should’ve known. I knew.” Her pain is mine. Her hurt, mine. “I knew they were the type to slip me something.” A strained, wounded sound escapes her. “What was that about me being perceptive?”
“Us,” I correct.
“This was on me. It’s my body. I should’ve…I could’ve—”
“No, this isn’t your fucking fault,” I cut in harshly, even as guilt ransacks me. I didn’t reach her fast enough. I should’ve been there sooner.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” Her voice cracks, and she keeps wiping at her eyes, uncontrollable tears falling. “I shouldn’t have drunk it, but they kept pressuring me. I couldn’t figure out how to convincingly get rid of it. I took that risk.”
“They spiked your drink,” I breathe angrily against her ear. “Don’t let them make you feel like shit.”
She’s nodding a ton, squeezing her eyes shut.
I press my lips to her temple, almost kissing her.
I’m holding her from behind. She’s gripping on to my forearm like we’re about to tandem-skydive and free-fall to the ground together.
She’s never been drugged before. Being roofied has been one of her biggest fears since she learned what it meant. I know that.
I saw how eager they were to get Phoebe wasted. They wanted her incapacitated. To take advantage of her, likely to rape her, and they wanted me out of the way to accomplish it. I should’ve sent her a signal. She was too far away.
I should’ve texted.
I should’ve run to her.
All night, I’ll be replaying what happened and torturing myself with what I could’ve done to prevent it. Too close—they were too fucking close.
Phoebe rubs at her cheeks.
“Try again,” I urge, not sure how long she has before the drugs take effect.
She tries to make herself puke with her middle finger. Nothing. She’s shaking, too upset. “Rocky.” She’s scared.
With one hand, I hold her hair, and with the other, I stick my finger down her throat. Not letting up until she vomits, and she covers the pavement with what she drank tonight.
“Fuck,” she cries, spitting out saliva. “Do…do you think that was everything?”
“I don’t know.” I help her again, and she throws up more. When her stomach is emptied, I grip my black shirt, pull it over my head, and let her use it as a towel. She wipes at her mouth. Then I help her to her feet.
She’s woozy, more emotionally spent than physically.
No one pays us much attention. She’s just another drunken mascara-smeared girl on the street, and I’m just another person taking care of a wasted friend.
Soon, a black Land Rover with tinted windows slows to the curb. Sliding into the back, I brush aside newer-looking X-Men: First Class comics off the seat and an older issue from the ’70s titled Nova.
“Careful with those,” Nova says from behind the wheel.
I pry another comic book out from under my ass. “Guess I don’t need to ask what you were doing this whole time.”
Nova twists around, probably to tell me off, but he sees his sister’s clammy face. “Phoebe?”
“Where’s Oliver?” she rasps.
“I’m picking him up next.” He puts the car in gear but checks on her through the rearview. “Polar bear?”
She blinks a few times, battling tears. “Platypus.”
It’s a triplet thing. All I know is platypus means she feels like shit.
“What happened?” Nova asks when we’re on the road.
“She was roofied,” I say with bite, still furious. Partially with myself for letting it get this far. I failed her tonight, and she is the last person I ever want to fail on a fucking job. Her role puts her in some of the riskiest positions with outcomes that I can’t…I can’t let happen. Ever.
I smear a hand over my mouth, feeling sick to my stomach. Acid rises in my throat, and I swallow the burn.
Nova’s fists tighten on the wheel. He says nothing. Doesn’t ask if she’s fine. I’m positive that’s what platypus / polar bear is for.
Once Oliver is in the front seat, he puts his cowboy hat on the dash and shows me a check. “Daily limit at the ATM is five grand. I got him to write me a check for three hundred. But…”
It might bounce. “Cash it in the morning.”
Oliver salutes me, but the gesture dies out when he catches sight of Phoebe. She’s slumped down and still has my shirt balled in her hand. His face falls on me. “Don’t tell me…”
“He roofied her,” I say again. “Probably GHB.” The date rape drug.
Oliver is not Nova. He reaches back and squeezes his sister’s knee in comfort. “Phoebe? Are you hanging in there?”
She buries her face in her palms and groans, “I’m so stupid. Mom will be so upset. She’s told me…so many times. To not…to look out for…to watch…”
“Breathe, Phebs.” I tuck my arm around her shoulders.
“You’re not stupid,” Oliver reaffirms. “You’re savvy and sly, and those pricks had it coming.”
“We didn’t do anything!” She sounds wounded. “Five grand? That’s it? And I did nothing. I should’ve dick-kicked him.”
“I dick-kicked him,” I remind her.
“It should’ve been me…I was just stuck…in shock.” Her eyes redden. She presses the heels of her palms to her watery gaze. “Stop crying,” she tells herself. “Stop it.”
I wrap both of my arms around her. It takes her a second, but she nestles her face in my bare chest and grips on to my bicep. She breathes deeper, her body gradually loosening. I clutch the back of her head, feeling her heartbeat start to slow.
It’s helping me, truthfully. Feeling her ease. Feeling that she’s here in my arms. In no one else’s.
To be honest, I never want to let her go.
“Mom won’t be upset,” Oliver consoles. “She’ll be happy you’re not passed out in some guy’s hotel room.”
I clench my jaw. “Thanks for that mental image,” I say dryly.
Phoebe doesn’t respond. Her breath is shallow, and her eyelids go heavy.
“Phebs?” I whisper.
“I feel…weird. This isn’t right.” She’s panicking. “It must still be in my system. It’s still in there.”
Shit. Fuck. I try to untense—for her sake. She’s on me. She can feel my muscles flexing beneath her. “Take deeper breaths. I have you. Your brothers are right here, too.”
Nova tries to peer over his shoulder, but he slams on the brakes as a group of sash-wearing girls jaywalk across the road. “How much did he dose her with?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him slip it in her drink.”
Phoebe tries battling the effects. “Rocky.” Her voice pitches in fear. “Everything is getting hazy. I can’t…see…”
I pull her more across my lap, holding her in a cradle against my chest. She blinks slowly, like she’s already consumed five vodka martinis past her limit.
I cup her face, and her hooded eyes fight to stay on mine. “You’re going to pass out,” I tell her. “Nova is going to drive to the nearest motel. He’s going to rent a room, and you’re going to wake up on a bed beside me.”
I can’t carry a limp girl into the Ritz.
Sure, I can talk my way out of it if anyone asks.
I can say she drank too much, but the elevators have cameras.
So do the hallways, and I can’t be sure if more management will ask questions in the morning, if I’ll have to convince them I’m not the one who drugged her.
Our aliases aren’t helping. The three of us aren’t related to Phoebe in Nashville. We’re all just college friends. It’s safer to spend the night somewhere else.
“A motel?” she repeats.
“A motel.” I nod. “I’m going to carry you out of the car and to bed.”
Tears squeeze out of her eyes. “I hate this. I hate this.” She tries to lift her arms, but they’re deadweight at her sides. “Don’t leave me.”
I dip my head toward hers. “You think I’d let you out of my sight?”
She eases.
“The whole time you’re out of it, I’ll be with you, Phoebe.”
“We’ll all be there,” Nova inserts.
And I try not to be rigid. Try not to wish it were only me that Phoebe needs. It’s good she has her brothers. I’m not trying to replace them. I’m definitely not a sibling to her—I’ve never wanted to be her brother. I think it’s very clear we’ve been something else to each other.
I thumb away her escaped tears and whisper against her ear, “I have you in my arms. I’m not letting you go. You’re safe tonight.” I repeat the sentiments a few times. “Then tomorrow, we pack our bags and we’re leaving this shithole.”
She shuts her eyes, her breathing slowing. “You wanted to stay in this shithole, too.” That was before Nashville became the place where I failed her.
The truth is…I’d only stay in this city for her. I’d stay anywhere Phoebe is.