Chapter 7 #3
“She can’t think anything because she doesn’t know.”
She huffs. “That’s called stalk—”
“She’s in a coma.”
We both still.
Holy shit. Did I just say that? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Lucy’s going to fucking kill me if she realizes—
“A coma? Oh my God. What happened?” she asks, eyes full of so much pain for me.
She really doesn’t know.
I blow out a breath. I’m a bastard, but in for a penny in for a goddamn pound, I guess.
“Car accident. She’s been out for months. The doctors can’t explain it. Her brain still functions just like normal. She’s in there, but she… she won’t wake up.”
“Oh my God, I’m so, so sorry.”
She rests her hand on my thigh, and I pray to all the Appalachian gods that she doesn’t move higher and find out my cock jumped back to life at her touch. It’s like I’ve reverted back to being a shy teenager, and it refuses to fully chill out in her presence.
“I can’t imagine. Your brother must be so heartbroken.”
Well, that’ll do it.
I deflate in an instant at the visual of my brother pouring over forensics records, medical reports, anything to find answers as to what happened. My eyes burn, the club’s hookah smoke getting to me.
I clear my throat.
“Yeah. Heartbroken. That’s the word for it. They’ve… Her parents, they’ve got a lot of decisions to make coming up. He’s afraid they’ll make them without his input.”
The Lucianos hate us Furys and everything we stand for, so I have no doubt he’s right.
Lucy squeezes my thigh before rubbing it lightly. There’s nothing sexual behind it, only comfort, and I wish I could hold her hand, give into what she’s offering. Her eyes try to read mine, full of compassion and something else I don’t dare name because I can’t ever act on it.
“God. No wonder you’re trying to blow off steam. What’s her name?”
My heart is in my throat, and I swallow, taking the necessary moment to figure out what on earth to say, racking my brain—
“What’s that?” She asks sharply, looking down at my lap. My cock twitches despite the conversation.
Jesus, don’t look at it, it’ll come if you call it.
But she reaches higher up my outer thigh on my pants—no my pants pocket—and pats my medicine.
“This. What is this? Is this a syringe?” She looks at me in horror and moves quicker than I can, pulling the syringe out of my pant’s side pocket and holding it up. “Do you do drugs?”
“Fuck no.” I answer. It’s not a total lie. I have done drugs, but I don’t currently, and that’s the kinda fucked up trauma not even all the strip clubs in the world could fix. “It’s—”
She stands quickly, pure terror in her expression. “If you don’t do drugs, then what is this? Is this… were you going to drug me?”
All the blood leeches from my face. “What? No. It’s medicine. Allergy medicine.”
But something has happened. Triggered her. Her eyes have widened, her head shakes and her whole body trembles. Thank fuck the syringe is capped and needs a specific twist to pop off, because she’s holding onto it like a damn butcher knife, like she’s ready to stab me with it.
She won’t, though. She’s lost to me, her eyes wild and far off—trapped in some nightmare. I can’t get a read on her, these damn masks making it impossible for either of us to fully see the other.
Then she takes a step back, pulling every individual heartstring taut as she puts space between us.
“You shouldn’t have this. Dorman should’ve taken it from you. You can’t have stuff like this in a club. People get drugged all the time. Kidnapped, and then they’re gone, all alone until they have to do something awful to get free—”
“Seriously, L—Alice.” Instead of reaching for the syringe this time I lunge to take her by the shoulders and squeeze, bending to see her face.
“It’s just allergy meds. Like Benedryl on monster steroids, but just allergy meds, I fucking swear.
Okay?” Her frightened eyes bounce between mine, and her shoulders relax but only a fraction as I continue, cupping her cheek with one hand, “I don’t do drugs, and I’m not going to drug you.
You’re safe. Fuck, you’re safe with me, alright? ”
Her breaths are still uneven when her eyes finally fully focus back on me. Something shifts in her expression, and she looks down at the syringe in her hand like she’s not sure how it got there. But her white knuckled grip around it doesn’t let up.
“I—” She stops, then swallows and shakes her head. “I don’t know what that was. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She’s already moving before I can pull her into me and tell her everything’s fine, reaching for the curtain with a hand that still trembles.
“Alice—”
“Find X or Mariposa. They’ll take care of your refund.” She yanks back the curtain, muttering in a way that sounds like she’s on autopilot. Gone before she’s gone.
“Alice—” The wrong name sounds rough coming out of me. “Wait, let’s talk about this.”
But she doesn’t stop. I had her right in my fucking hands, and now I’m watching her walk away. Letting her go.
She hops out of the raised booth and runs away from me like the scared little rabbit she is.
Fuck. That.
This time I chase.