Panic choked me; the shriveled thing in my chest passing for a heart constricted, then started hammering.
I scooped her up and pushed the door open with my shoulder. All I knew was that I had to get her out of there. Maybe to a hospital.
Shady caught up with me halfway to my car.
“How’s she doin?’” He brushed some hair off her forehead. Lucky for him, both my hands were busy holding the unconscious waif of a girl.
“I don’t know,” I growled. “What the fuck did they give her?”
“Just a roofie.”
This time I growled but no words came out. Just a roofie?
Shady gave me a sharp look as we stopped at my Tesla. “Chill, bro. She won’t remember shit in the morning, but she’ll be fine. They were trying to knock her out, not kill her. Rohypnol is a benzo—it’s like she’s taken a couple of xannies. It’s not gonna kill her or anything.”
In place of an answer, I gave him an instruction. “Get the door.”
“You want me to take her, man? I’ll take care of it. I’ve known this chick for a while.” He opened the car door wide and stepped out of the way.
“No,” I barked. I didn’t trust anyone with an unconscious Donna, let alone a guy who went by Shady. But I forced my tone to lighten up as I lowered her gently into the passenger seat. “I got it. She goes to my school. We . . . I know her. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
Shady remained silent as I fastened the seat belt over Donna’s limp body.
“You sure?” His eyes flicked between us as I straightened.
“I’m sure. Are you sure that’s what they gave her? Maybe I should take her to a hospital.”
He cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t, bro. It would look hella sus, you bringing in a chick you hardly know, roofied. Aren’t you supposed to be staying out of trouble?”
I didn’t give a shit what kind of trouble it landed me in. I wasn’t about to risk someone’s life—not again.
“Anyway”—he shrugged—“it’s definitely Rohypnol. We beat it out of ’em pretty quick.”
I sighed, said goodbye to Shady, and got into the driver’s side. Even though I didn’t care what kind of questions a hospital visit would raise, I knew Donna would. No one knew about her secret little walks on the wild side, but maybe it was time they did.
Chapter Sixteen
Donna
I wasn’t sure if the pounding in my head had woken me or if waking up had caused the pounding. All I knew was that I felt like shit.
I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut and mushing my face farther into the pillow. My stomach felt as if it were doing somersaults while twirling my intestines into a knot. I was so fucking hungover that—
My eyes flew open, immediately making me wince against the light, but I had bigger problems. There was no way I could be hungover, because I hadn’t been drinking last night. I never drank or did drugs when I went to Davey’s.
Panic clawed at my throat as I forced myself to look around. The sheets were gray, the desk under the window cluttered, a TV sat in the corner. This wasn’t my room.
Where the hell was I?
How did I get here?
What happened to me?
Fighting the bile rising up my throat, I lifted myself into a sitting position and couldn’t help groaning again. I’d never felt this crap before—not even when I had the flu last year. And that was so bad the doctors nearly put me on IV fluids.
The fact that I had no idea where I was or any memory of how I got there was beyond disturbing. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew what happened to girls in shady bars sometimes. It was why I went there—the danger of the maybe. I just never thought I’d actually end up . . . oh god. I sucked in several deep breaths, fighting for air through the panic and the nausea and the hot tears pricking my eyes.
Was I raped?
I swallowed a sob and, with shaky hands, pushed the comforter and tangled sheets off myself completely. I was still in my leopard-print dress, my thong still in place. The only things missing were my shoes, but I spied them on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I shifted my legs. I didn’t feel sore between them, but would I? If I was out and didn’t fight it . . .
The room spun, bringing on another wave of nausea, and I lowered myself back to the pillow with a pathetic half sob, half whimper.
I had to get the fuck out of there, but I couldn’t even get my body to stand.
Closing my eyes, I forced myself to take deep breaths through the churning in my stomach and the pounding in my head. I needed to get my shit together and get up.
My eyes flew open again at the sound of the door opening, but the only movement I could force my body into was rolling onto my back and turning my head to look.
“Hendrix?”
He was barefoot, in sweats and a T-shirt that was baggy even on his broad, muscular frame. One of his hands clutched a bright pink mug.
“Oh. Hey. You’re up.” I’d never seen the asshole look so uncertain. His eyes flicked about the room, not staying on me too long. “How . . . uh . . . you OK?”
“Am I . . .” My bruised brain was struggling to keep up, not processing information at its usual rate, but I got there in the end. “No, I’m not fucking OK. What did you do to me?”
I didn’t shout—I seethed, spitting my accusation at him, as hot as the liquid in his steaming mug.
He threw his free hand up and stepped away until his back was to the door.
Was he trying to block my exit?
“I didn’t do anything to you. All I did was bring you here, take your shoes off, and tuck you into bed.” His voice was calm, low, deep.
More confusion. Why couldn’t I remember anything? “Whose bed is this?”
“Mine.”
My eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe . . . that . . . I . . . you . . .”
I growled and punched the bed next to me, then threaded my fingers through my hair. I’d never been this incoherent, ever.
“I didn’t hurt you.” Hendrix’s voice was still calm, but now it had a hard edge to it. “I’m not a rapist. I’ve done a lot of bad shit—and one awful, unforgiveable thing—but I didn’t hurt you. No one hurt you. You’re safe.”
I lifted my head to look at him, breathing hard. An infuriating tear fell down my cheek, but there was no pity in Hendrix’s gaze. He looked tired more than anything—bags under his eyes, hair a mess, eyelids drooping. As if to prove my point, he yawned and took a gulp of what I assumed must be coffee.
“You look worse than I feel,” I said as I slowly sat up again. The nausea was easing somewhat.
“Thanks,” he deadpanned.
“What happened to you?”
“Someone had to make sure you kept breathing all night.” He looked away, took another sip.
All night? “What the fuck happened to me, Hendrix?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” He dragged his feet across the room and plonked down into the chair at his desk, backward, his arms resting on the back.
I looked down and forced myself to really think about it.
I remembered dancing at Davey’s, feeling all my worries melt away into the sticky floor and the heavy bass of the music.