I fully expected him to push me off, dump me on the ground and walk away. It was all my fault. It was all my fault.
“No, it’s not.” His low voice reverberated through his chest. My whole body shook with emotion, and my knees buckled.
But Hendrix was there, his arms tightening around me, keeping me from falling.
I was heavy in his arms, a dead weight, a burden. But he’d never let me down, never wavered, even as I’d pushed him away at every step. And he didn’t waver now, didn’t let me fall.
His strong arms banded around my back as I clung to him, one hand going to the back of my head.
“It’s OK, baby,” he whispered against my hair. “It’s going to be OK.”
A small glimmer of peace flickered in my chest at his words, a tiny bit of sanity returning, reminding me he was here, that I was not alone, that my friends had come too.
Harlow. Mena. Amaya.
They were all here, all watching me unravel, watching Hendrix hold me together.
My addled thoughts were interrupted by my heaving stomach.
“Shit.” I lifted my head from Hendrix’s chest, gave him one wide-eyed look, then leaned to the side and vomited.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Donna
It didn’t take me long to realize the bed wasn’t my own. The light on my face was coming from a different direction from where my window should be, and the pillow was softer than mine. It also smelled like Amaya—that feminine, light perfume my friend wore.
My head ached. It felt as if someone were squeezing it between big, strong hands, every thought coming through a fog.
I remembered most of the previous night—I was never the type to lose memory when drunk, even when I polished off half a bottle of scotch. Thinking about the amber liquid made my stomach spasm, and my mouth filled with saliva.
I forced a deep breath down my nose and blew it out, then another and another, until the urge to puke subsided. There was nothing left in my stomach to vomit out anyway—I’d just be retching and feeling even more miserable.
Squeezing my eyes shut against the light, I rolled into an even tighter ball and snuggled farther into the bedding. For the first time since I’d learned to tell time, I didn’t give a crap how late it was. Nothing mattered other than how utterly broken my body felt. My mind and my heart weren’t much better.
After I’d started puking all over the gravel, Hendrix had stepped behind me, out of the firing line, so he could hold me. With one arm wrapped around the front of my shoulders and the other low on my hips, he held up my full weight as I vomited the entire contents of my stomach. The sudden sickness must’ve roused my friends from their shocked stupor. Soft feminine hands appeared at my forehead to pull my short hair back, and someone else produced a bottle of water and a wad of tissues.
After that, Hendrix carried me to my car, and my friends buckled me in and drove me away. I hardly heard what they said to each other, hardly registered Mena giving Amaya directions out of the seedy neighborhood as Harlow ran her fingers through my hair, my head in her lap.
I managed to walk myself up to Amaya’s room—thankful I didn’t have to suffer the indignity of having my girls carry me up—and passed out as soon as I collapsed on her bed, totally spent in every way imaginable. Judging by the T-shirt and underwear I’d woken up in, they’d taken the time to change me and tuck me under the covers.
I sighed in frustration and threw the covers back, keeping my eyes closed. More than anything, I just wanted to go back to sleep, embrace unconsciousness, and pretend for a little longer that none of this was happening. But now that I was awake, I couldn’t stop thinking, remembering, worrying. Plus, the awful pressure in my head and clammy, gross feeling in my entire body made it impossible to relax.
I cracked my eyes open and hissed at the light, then forced myself to lift up onto my elbows.
“Morning, sunshine.” Amaya’s bright voice was like talons against my brain. I glared at her, but it turned into a wince as another sharp pain shot through my head. My friend was sitting on the bed next to me, propped up against the headboard, her phone clutched in her elegant fingers.
“Were you watching me sleep? Fucking creep.” My voice was hoarse, scratchy. Probably from all the crying and screaming at Hendrix. Also the vomiting. God, was I a mess.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was scrolling the gram while you snored. I was actually trying to decide whether to post this lovely pic of you.” She showed me her screen, a sweet smile on her face. It was a picture of me sleeping, my mouth open, my face smooshed into the pillow. The one visible eye was dark with smudged mascara.
I lunged for her. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
She laughed maniacally and leaned back, slapping me away.
“You started the ‘beat her ass’ portion of the intervention without us?” My sister’s voice alerted me to her arrival, but I was too busy trying to pin Amaya under me to look. She was skinny, but she was fast.
“It stinks in here.” Mena went to the window and threw it wide open; a gust of fresh, chilly air sent a shiver down my spine. My tousle with Amaya came to a natural end, both of us panting.
Amaya made a face. “Your breath is hideous.”
“Come on.” Harlow yanked the sheet off the bed, detangling it from my legs. “Go have a shower and brush your teeth.”
“Then breakfast.” Mena smiled from the window.
“Then interrogation.” Amaya nodded.
“Intervention,” Harlow and Mena said at the same time, making me think they’d already argued about how to approach this . . . situation. I didn’t want to be a situation.
I crawled off the bed and shuffled into Amaya’s adjoining bathroom without looking at any of them. Her bedroom was luxurious, with soft furnishings, velvet cushions, and everything in rich jewel tones. The bathroom was just as dark and moody, black marble and muted gold fixtures everywhere.
Avoiding my reflection in the mirror, I hopped into the shower and scrubbed my face before using Amaya’s toothbrush. I also did my best to avoid thinking about how much Hendrix had told them, what they thought of me now, what they’d said to each other while I slept.
Someone had left fresh underwear and sweats for me on the bathroom counter. I changed quickly and stepped out to find my friends all scattered about the bedroom, sipping from steaming mugs. A tray with a fourth mug and a plate had been laid out on the bed—for me.
Shame burned the back of my neck as I sat down in front of it, the feeling as tangible as the droplets of water coming off my wet hair.
They’d made me plain toast and a cup of chamomile tea.
I nibbled on the toast, focusing on the food, on pushing through the queasy feeling in my stomach. No one said anything. The only noises were the occasional sips of coffee and the wind and birds through the open window. So weird for my usually loud, animated, opinionated friends.
I finished the first piece of toast and pushed the plate away, unable to stomach the second. Bringing the mug to my lips, I blew gently on the hot liquid.
I needed to get this conversation going, air out this odd tension between us just as the room was getting aired out by the fresh wind.
My first sip was pleasantly warm as it made its way down my throat. I sighed and opened my mouth to speak, but . . . I wasn’t sure where to start, so I closed it again and frowned into my tea. I was kind of sick of always being the one to start the conversations, to take the lead. I felt like shit. If they wanted to talk, they could talk. I was just going to nurse my hangover.