“Oh gosh,” I breathed, pulling my hands off him. “I apologize.”
Even though, like I said, I’m pretty sure he walked into me. But an apology couldn’t hurt, especially not when you’re dealing with people from this side of town. People you don’t want to piss off.
“Um,” I said, dropping my gaze to his hands. They were still on my waist. “Can you let go of me?”
He did. Immediately. Like he hadn’t realized he was still touching me. But he still didn’t say anything.
“Well. Alright then,” I muttered under my breath. Judging by where he came from, he was probably high. And I didn’t have the energy to deal with another person who had fallen victim to the same poison that claimed Holden.
I sidestepped him, heading for the door. We were already close. I only had to take a few more steps. I reached for the doorknob, about to knock, when I felt the same hands wrap around my wrist.
“Hey,” the guy snapped. His fingers closed around my arm, pulling me back so fast my body twisted to face him. “You can’t go in there.”
“Excuse me?” I shot back, locking eyes with him. This time I looked harder. His pupils were steady. His gaze was clear. Sober. “Let me go,” I said, louder now. He wasn’t high.
“Did you not hear me?” he said, shaking his head like I was the unreasonable one. “You can’t go in there. I don’t know what you think this is, but it’s not a house party with free vodka and dance music on the speakers.”
I scoffed, trying to yank my hand back. His grip only tightened. “I don’t drink, asshole.”
“Sure you don’t,” he muttered like he didn’t believe a word I said. “Just wait out here. Have a cigarette.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a carton, and flipped it open like it was supposed to impress me.
“I’m Austin. This is Levi. We can take you home if you need it,” he added, nodding to the other guy I hadn’t noticed until now.
“Gross,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Is there a reason you think I’d want to choke down rat poison in smoke form? Life is too good to die of lung cancer.”
“Okay…” Austin started, but I cut him off.
“And I don’t need you to take me anywhere. I need to go inside.” I pulled again, not that it made any difference.
“Listen,” he said, quieter now. The sharp edge in his voice dulled. “You don’t need anything in there. Seriously. Walk away. It’s not worth it.”
I paused. There was something in the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he was pleading. But why?
“I’ll remind you that you don’t know me,” I told him. “And your assumptions are wrong.”
“No, they’re not. You’re looking for drugs,” Austin said without flinching. “Walk away while you still can.”
Then it hit me. The misunderstanding. And it almost made me laugh. I looked down, letting out a short breath of amusement. “I’m the last person who would ever be looking for drugs.”
“Oh,” he said. His hand finally loosened. My arm dropped back to my side, free again.
“Yeah.Oh,” I muttered, turning back toward the house. What a complete waste of my time.
I heard him say something else, but I wasn’t listening. I was already pushing the door open, not bothering to knock. The smell hit me first. Mold. Rotten air soaked in smoke, decay, and something unwashed. It flooded into my nostrils and made me gag. I scanned the room quickly. Bodies slumped against the walls. Passed out. Hollow. Nobody looked at me. I kept walking. My eyes checked every chest to make sure it still rose and fell. My feet moved faster, driven by a panic I was trying to swallow down.
And then I saw him. Holden. Slumped against the arm of the couch wearing the red hoodie I bought him for Christmas last year. My heart sank. I rushed to him, dropped to my knees, grabbed his shoulders and tried to pull him upright.
“Holden,” I said, cradling his face in my hand, trying to lift his head. It fell again. Limp. “Fuck. Holden, come on.”
I pinched the skin of his arm. Nothing. I grabbed his wrist, felt for a pulse. Weak. My own pulse, meanwhile, was exploding. Panic surged through me, flooding my brain with static.
“Damn it, Holden,” I whispered, letting his body drop again. I fumbled with my phone, fingers shaking as I pressed three numbers.
“What are you doing?” a voice said from behind. I turned. Of course. The tattooed guy. Austin.
“Calling an ambulance,” I told him, somehow keeping my voice even.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.
