Page 45 of Tiny Precious Secrets (The Brothers of Calloway Creek The Montanas #4)

Asher and I were hoping after she made the team she’d begin to bond with the other players. But it seems she’s sabotaging those efforts without even realizing it.

I get it though. I grew up here, in a town where everyone knows everyone.

We’d all picked our friends by the third grade.

Sure, there were friend shifts from time to time.

I remember when new kids moved to town because it was such a big event.

The questions would start the moment the SOLD sign went up out front.

Would he be hot? Would she be a bitch? Would he be a star football player who could help us get to the state championship?

Would her parents go out of town and leave the liquor cabinet unlocked?

And while we all sat back and sized up each new student, eventually they found their place within one group or another. I’m praying that will happen to Bug.

Without anyone here to keep me awake, I go back to bed right after dinner, propping myself up on a mountain of pillows so my few bites of chicken don’t try and make their way back up due to the limited space.

How am I going to have room for anything a month from now?

Two? I rub my belly, marveling at the capacity of the human body to grow to accommodate multiples.

~ ~ ~

My alarm goes off. But it’s still dark outside. Really dark. I grumble as I turn to look at the clock. It’s only one in the morning. Why is my alarm going off?

Then I realize it’s not my alarm. It’s my phone. And it’s ringing. While I usually put it on silent at night, I never do when Asher is away. Which is why my spine stiffens and my stomach lurches. Why am I being called in the middle of the night? Has something happened to him?

I pick up my phone, but it’s not some random number that could potentially be a hospital or police station. It’s not Asher’s face that appears either. It’s Bug’s.

“Bug? Uh, I mean Darla?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. Maybe she rolled over on her phone while she was sleeping. I almost hang up, but then I hear muffled music in the background. The bass is pounding. I go on high alert because I’m pretty sure Marti and Dallas do not play loud music in the middle of the night.

“Darla, what’s wrong?”

“I… I need you to come get me.”

At least I think that’s what she says. Her words are slurred, and she sounds really tired. Maybe she’s dream-calling me.

Still confused, I ask, “Come get you? If you’re sick, can’t Dallas or Marti drive you home?”

She mumbles something unintelligibly through the phone.

“Darla, you need to speak up.”

“I can’t. I’m in a closet.”

I sit up, heart pounding. “In what closet? Where?”

“Some guy’s house.”

Oh, holy shit . “What guy? Where?”

Her voice trembles as she slurs, “I d-don’t know.”

I’m off the bed and pulling on clothes. “Drop me a pin. Right now, Darla. Do it. I’ll call the police.”

“No!”

It’s the most coherent word she’s said.

“Darla, it sounds like you’re scared and maybe in trouble.”

“I just need to get out of here. I won’t drop a pin unless you promise no cops.”

Her words are slurred and it’s obvious now that it’s not from being sleepy. She’s been drinking.

Seriously? This is the position she’s putting me in? I have absolutely no idea what to do. If I do call the police, I’m breaking trust. If I don’t, she could be in serious danger.

“Is there a lock on the door? Are you feeling threatened in any way?”

“I locked the door. Just text me when you get here. And please, please don’t call my dad.”

Double shit . It’s the first thing I was going to do after hanging up. But then I have another thought—I shouldn’t hang up at all. I need to keep her on the line. That way I’ll know if anything else happens.

“I won’t call anyone because I’m going to stay on the phone with you the whole time. Drop the pin, Darla.”

“Okay.”

When nothing comes through, I ask, “Are you doing it?” There’s no reply. I think she dropped the phone. I pray she doesn’t hang up on me.

Finally, a text comes with her location. I’m already in my car when it does. She’s only a few miles away.

“Talk to me, Darla.”

“I don’t feel like talk—”

Her words are cut short and then I hear an awful noise like she’s vomiting before the call ends. Oh dear Lord .

I may be driving faster than the law allows, but the streets are deserted this time of night and it doesn’t take long to arrive.

When I do, it’s clear which house. There are several bikes and skateboards in the driveway, and a few cars clearly belonging to teenage boys line the street.

I hear music even before I open my car door.

I’m surprised the police aren’t already here.

I do spy a neighbor peeking from a window shaking his head.

His phone is in his hand. I really want to get her out of here before any police arrive.

I don’t bother knocking. I walk right in the front door. Then I text her.

Me: I’m in the house at the front door.

As I await her reply, I contemplate ripping every door open to find her. Instead, I’m looking around at all the baby-faced teens. A few girls I recognize from soccer tryouts.

A boy walks over and hands me a can of beer, then he eyes my stomach. “Um… you drinkin’? Hey, how old are you?”

All of his words are slurred. It’s a good thing I have a lot of experience in ‘drunk teenage boy speak,’ having grown up with three brothers.

I shove the beer forcefully back at his chest. “No, I’m not drinking, you little shit. And neither should you. What are you, twelve?”

He stands taller. “Fifteen.”

I see a streak of blue flash past me and realize Bug is darting by me and heading outside. I follow her, not bothering to close the front door.

Bug doesn’t go straight for my car, she heads for a nearby bush instead and pukes on it. Well, I suppose that’s better than in my car. I just hope she can make it five minutes before it happens again.

I don’t bother saying anything to her in the car. It might make her sick. I remember the first time I got drunk. All I could do was sit and focus on something so my head would stop spinning. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me or touch me. I just wanted to stare at one immobile point.

I want to laugh, because I know she’ll be in for a world of hurt tonight and tomorrow. But I can’t laugh. Because she was in a fucking closet. And the implications of that scare the life out of me.

My own stomach turns when I inhale her putrid scent. She must have vomited on herself. I lower the windows and turn on the air.

As I wait for the garage to fully open, she flings open the car door, hurries out, then graces the front bushes with more rejected alcohol. I close my eyes, praying alcohol is really all it was.

She’s nowhere to be found by the time I park the car and get inside. I gather supplies—a few bottles of cold water, some Advil, a cold washcloth, a mop bucket in case she can’t make it to the bathroom—and knock on her door before opening it, glad she didn’t have the wherewithal to lock it.

“Darla?”

She groans, lying face down on her bed.

“Darla, I need to know if you’re just drunk or if you took anything else.”

“I’m not stupid,” she says into the mattress.

That point is fully debatable but now is not the time for a lecture.

“Did you ever pass out or even fall asleep?”

“No. I didn’t even drink that much.”

“If this was your first experience with alcohol, it wouldn’t take much to make you feel this way.”

Still, I suspect it was far more than she’d have me believe. It’s almost as if she thinks the less she drank, the less trouble she’ll be in. I’m not about to break it to her that, knowing Asher, quantity will have absolutely no bearing on her punishment.

I put a bottle of water and the Advil on her nightstand.

“You need to hydrate. Being dehydrated will make it worse. And you should take Advil. Two of them. If you throw them up, it’s okay to take two more.

” I put the cold washcloth on her hand so she can feel it.

“This will help. Try and keep it on your head. There’s a bucket right next to the bed if you can’t make it to the bathroom.

And we should probably get you out of these clothes. You puked on them.”

“I can’t move or I’ll throw up.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll help.”

I untuck her shirt and lift it up. Her arms are like Jell-O when I maneuver them out of it.

“Just lift your head for one second.”

She groans as she does it. I toss the horrid-smelling shirt on the floor. Luckily, her shorts have an elastic waist, and I shimmy them down her legs. Once she’s down to just a bra and underwear, I pull the sheet over her.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to toss these clothes in the laundry. Can I bring you anything?”

“A gun?”

I put my hands on my hips even though her eyes are closed and she can’t see how angry her comment made me. “Please don’t joke about that.”

“My dad’s pregnant girlfriend had to rescue me from a party. I’ll never be able to show my face again.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, so does another round of vomit—right into the bucket next to the bed.

I pick up the washcloth and put it on her forehead before going downstairs.

In the laundry room, I lean against the washing machine and contemplate calling Asher.

He’s her father. He would know what to do in this situation.

But it’s almost two in the morning and he’s had such a long week.

Besides, there’s nothing he can do from there but stress about it, so I decide it can wait.

I get a few more cold washcloths, a sleeve of saltine crackers, my kindle, and head back up.

~ ~ ~