“Call an ambulance!” I yell, knowing what it is without having to ask.
“Please get here,” he moans.
“Where?” I can tell he isn’t going to make any sense over the phone. He’ll just keep blubbering.
“Sole Nero.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Fate really is fucking with me, even now.
Of course he’s at Angelo’s club, the one where we fucked, the place I’ve lived in my dreams these past few days.
But I’m in no mood for laughing. “I’ll be right there!” I yell. “Take care of my brother, Ricky!”
I get some really strange looks as I run across the street into my car still wearing my pajamas, but I ignore them. I’m thinking pointless, waste-of-time things so I don’t have to think about Wyatt lying in some alleyway outside the club, spit sliding from the side of his mouth as Ricky stands there uselessly. I hear that horrible death rattle again in everything: the car engine, my own breathing, the music blaring from an apartment.
Finally, after what feels like years swerving through honking traffic, I get to the club. I don’t even bother with parking, just pull up and sprint right by the bouncers. I think they’re so stunned to see me sprinting like an Olympian in my pajamas into the club that they don’t even react at first. That hesitation gives me all the time I need.
I know something’s wrong as soon as I get to the main dance floor. No music is playing and a huddle has formed around the middle. I push my way through, elbowing, kneeing. One man turns to me with a wry grin and a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was a theme party,” he says, and then—I am not kidding—he makes as if to loop his hand around my waist.
“My brother might be dying,” I snarl. “Do you want to be next? Move.”
I go around him and get to the center of the huddle. Wyatt is there, lying on his back, wide-eyed. He looks dead. That sentence keeps ricocheting around my head like a fucking pinball.
He.
Looks.
Dead.
My little brother, the person I’m supposed to be taking care of now that Mom and Dad are gone, is ghost-pale and shivering. Oh, thank fuck, he’s shivering. But could they be death quivers?
I turn off my mind and push past Ricky, who, as anticipated, is standing there about as useful as a chocolate tampon. “What did he take?” I growl. “Has an ambulance been called?”
Ricky’s eyes flit to her. He barely nods. He’s really out of it.
“Yes,” somebody says from the crowd, a sea of faces. “It’s been called.”
I put Wyatt in the recovery position to clear his airways, and then lean down and place my ear against his mouth. He’s breathing softly. I place my hand to the back of his head. He’s burning up, but he’s not sweating. His skin is all sticky.
“Water,” I say. When nobody responds, I yell, “Get me some fucking water! And a wet towel! And back up! Before I back you up!”
They just keep staring. I’m about to jump to my feet and give them a piece of my mind—maybe more than a piece—when this giant presence appears above me. I feel him before I see him. He does not raise his voice, but somehow it carries.
“Everybody take exactly fifteen steps back,” Angelo says. “Anyone who doesn’t listen will be barred from all of my clubs for the rest of fucking eternity. Got it? Good.” He pauses, and then points at a bystander. “Go get me a bottle of water and a wet towel.” His voice makes it clear that he will accept nothing but obedience. In spite of everything that’s happening, it makes me shiver.
Angelo kneels down next to me, his dark eyes taking in the scene. We exchange a glance. His face is tight. I can’t read him. He doesn’t seem like the same carefree Angelo I’ve known, or thought I’ve known, these past few days. It’s like he’s sort of encased himself in armor.
“Who is he?” he asks gravely.
“Wyatt. My little brother.”
“Oh.”
I snap, “Do you always let underage kids drink at your clubs?”
Angelo sighs. “No, we do not. He must’ve used a fake ID.”
“Then you need to do a better job checking!” I yell, and then turn to Wyatt, stroking his face. He’s frowning, whispering softly. I lean down but I can’t make out what he’s saying; he’s so dehydrated. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops.”
“You should be careful,” Angelo warns, bringing his face close to mine. He speaks right into my ear. His breath is hot and, fuck, even now I like it. Even now. How is that possible? What is wrong with me?
“Careful?”
“I am not a man you want to threaten.”
“Just … just leave me alone,” I breathe, wondering why he’s being like this. But then, what is he being like? Maybe this is just the normal Angelo. I don’t even know him. He’s just a stranger. There’s this darkness in his eyes, almost a hint of violence, like a wild animal who was stopped just before he made the kill. Like he’s still hungry for a hunt. “I need to help my brother.” I lean down. “Hey, Einstein, I’m getting you some water, okay? Can you drink?”
He nods. “So f-fucking thirsty, sis,” he wheezes.
Someone hands me the bottle of water. I tip some into Wyatt’s mouth. He sputters more than he swallows, but he manages to drink some.
“This will just wet his lips and tongue and throat,” I say, mostly to myself. “He needs intravenous rehydration. Where the fuck is the ambulance? Betty wouldn’t take this long.”
Angelo says nothing. He kneels at my side, staring at me. I don’t look back.
“Almost here, Einstein,” I whisper, stroking Wyatt’s hair. I see Angelo looking, a question in his eyes. Distantly, I’m aware of myself explaining, “My mom used to call him that. He’s really good at math. He used to win competitions all the time growing up.”
Angelo nods. Still, he says nothing.
The EMTs make their way through the crowd. It’s Rose and Jack; they nod to me as they approach. Jack gives Ricky a withering look and whispers something in his ear. Moments later, Ricky is gone.
“Told him to get outta here before I let the bosses know,” Jack whispers to me. He’s a solid fifty-something man, a veteran of the game. “All right, bud, how’s it going, huh? Rough night? I know it’s hard, Dani, but you’ve gotta give us some room to work here.”
I realize I’m leaning over him, the EMT version of a back-seat driver.
“Oh sure,” I say softly, standing and backing up …
Right into the solid brick wall that is Angelo’s chest. I feel his heartbeat, going bang-bang-bang like knocking on a door.
I spin in place. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”
He pauses and stares at me for one long, uncomfortable moment before he answers. “Because you’re perfect, Dani.”
There’s a subtext to the comment. It’s not his normal over-the-top playboy routine. It’s like I’m being assessed at auction.
“Perfect for what?” I whisper, suddenly fearful of him and what he might do to me, despite the people milling around us on all sides.
He glances over my shoulder at Wyatt being tended to. “We can agree that if Wyatt’s employer—”