Page 40 of The Illicit Play

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I huff out a shaky breath as I gather up her hair. Brushing it over her shoulder, I then twist it around my fingers, holding it away from her face while she hurls chunks on the grass.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I whisper.

Watching her go through this is a weird kind of torture.

She’s in obvious distress, and I can’t do anything but let her ride it out. Her body continues to convulse, but she’s out of puke, her stomach still jerking as she dry heaves, then tries to flop down onto her side.

I grab her arm before she falls, keeping her upright. She’s trembling like she’s got a fever, but when I rest my hand across her forehead, she’s not burning up. Her body is just protesting the toxic shit that’s been pumped into it.

“I feel sick,” she blubbers, saliva dripping off her bottom lip.

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” I slash my finger over her mouth and chin, then wipe her spittle off on the grass beside me. Rubbing her back for a minute, I give her a chance to reset before coaxing her to my Jeep.

After a few minutes, I think she’s okay to move and am about to lift her back into my arms when she starts convulsing again and pukes once more.

Fuck, that smell is eye-watering.

“Did you mix your drugs?” I pinch my nose, gathering her hair back up again. I don’t expect her to answer me. The last thing she needs right now is a lecture, but I’m trying to figure out if I need to take her to a hospital.

Her body jerks beneath mine. And just like before, her stomach is still spasming, but she’s run out of puke.

Her head lolls back and she flops to the side, resting against me. Placing my hand on her forehead again, I cringe. She’s clammy and cold, but at least her body isn’t shaking as badly.

Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I hold her close, taking this slow. She might need to puke again, and I don’t want to be jostling her around.

Between the streetlights and the moon, I can see how pale her skin is. Brushing my lips across her forehead, I gently ask, “Have you ever partied before?”

“All the time.” She whimpers. “But this is different. This feels different.”

Her face buckles in distress, and the rage I felt when I saw that guy pulling her down the hallway has me ripping the phone from my pocket.

Roofies. Fucking roofies!

Someone slipped something into her drink. And because she was there alone, she had no backup. No one to keep an eye on her.

I dial 9-1-1, reporting a wild party as worry for any other girl in that house courses through me. I can’t go back and check on them all. I need to take care of Blake.

“It’s getting out of control,” I tell the operator. “And I’m pretty sure there’s underage drinking going on, plus I’m concerned there might be roofies floating around. The party needs breaking up. Now.”

I stay on the line long enough to give the location, but I’m not sticking around to get interviewed by the cops. Blake’s underage and doesn’t need the trouble.

As soon as I hang up, I sweep her back into my arms and make a beeline for my Jeep. By the time I’ve got Blake buckled up in the passenger seat, I can hear the distant ring of sirens. Good. They’re on their way.

“Here. Drink this.” I hand her a bottle of water.

She takes a few reluctant sips, but I force her to take at least five more.

“You need to hydrate.”

Her upper lip curls in protest, but I nudge the bottle back toward her.

“Drink.”

She does as she’s told before swiping the back of her hand across her mouth and resting her head back. Closing her eyes, she lets out an exhausted sigh. “Don’t tell Wily,” she slurs.

I grit my jaw, pulling away from the curb and heading in the opposite direction of the red and blue flashing lights. Two units pull up outside the party, and I glance inmy rearview mirror, relieved things will get broken up quickly.

Wily should probably know about this shit, but… I don’t want to get Blake in trouble.