“I’m going to get her home,” I say to Auston and Radek. “As for what that was, I don’t fucking know.” But I strongly suspect there’s history between him and Sawyer. Or he wishes there was. His vibe was more possessive than protective.
“Pissing off a politician within a week of getting here wasn’t the plan,” Auston says.
I don’t tell him that it’s not the first time we’ve run into each other, and that my agenda and Dalton’s might have just vastly diverged. Until tonight, I hadn’t quite decided. But fuck that guy. I’ll stay with the Bellerive Bullets just to spite him.
“I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” I say, taking Sawyer’s hand and leading her through the crowd. With my other hand, I text the driving service the organization assigned to me. Every time, it seems to be a different person picking me up.
“If you’re going to be sick, tell me,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, her voice dull and numb.
In the car, I bundle her into the back seat and slide in beside her. We’ve barely left the bar when she taps the driver to pull over. She opens the door, and as she heaves, I grab a fistful of her hair, keeping it from sliding in front of her face.
She eases back into the seat and closes the door. Her eyes flutter shut, and I make a decision, giving the driver the new address.
At my apartment, I lift her out of the back seat, and I carry her inside. The doorman eyes me, but he doesn’t say anything whilehe helps me get the elevator. On the way up, Sawyer curls into me, an arm draped around my neck.
When we get to the apartment door, Sawyer says, “Hey, I know where I am. Put me down.”
I slide her down my body and keep her steady with one arm while I punch in the code for the door with my other. She stumbles inside and then stops dead in the entrance.
“Oh, right. Nathaniel doesn’t live here anymore.” She turns to me, shoulders slumped, barely holding herself together. “Why am I here?” The words are slurred.
“I wonder if I should be getting your stomach pumped.” I help her toward the guest room, and when we get there, she fumbles with the back of her dress, unable to reach the zipper.
“Can you?” she asks, gesturing to her back.
I undo the hook and eye above the zipper, and I draw the metal teeth down her spine. When she glances at me over her shoulder, I’m actually grateful she still smells faintly like vomit, or this might be too sexually charged.
Instead of lowering the zipper all the way, I set it at a spot she should be able to reach, and I smooth a hand over her ruffled hair. She winces at the contact.
“Is your head sore?”
“Yeah,” she says, breathing out. “It’s getting better.”
“What happened? Was that tonight?”
“A couple weeks ago.”
“And it’s still sore?”
“Yeah.”
I stare at her for a beat. We don’t know each other, but itfeelsa bit like we do. Or wecould. Or maybe it’s just that Iwantto. “Why is it sore?”
“I hurt myself,” she says, and she reaches around and tugs the zipper down all the way. “I don’t have pajamas or a toothbrush or anything.”
“I can get you something. How’d you hurt yourself?”
“Banged my head.”
“Do you have a concussion?” I take that shit very seriously.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I did.”
“You didn’t get checked?”
“No.” She holds the dress around herself, and under normal circumstances, seeing her clinging to a flimsy piece of material while we’re alone in a room with a bed would be fan-fucking-tastic, but all I can think about is her being drunk with an undiagnosed concussion.
