I’m staring at a blank screen inside my mind, willing someone to press the remote control and switch it on.
The voice is right there. Faint but present.Fuck, Remy. What did he do to you?
Who? Cash?
The dots are not connecting though. What am I missing?
George. It was George, but not George.
Shit. I’ve lost it. The black hole has opened wide and swallowed previous events whole, leaving me with an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with whatever I drank, and everything to do with falling for the wrong man.
Men.
Everything about this situation is plural for God’s sake.
Voices.
To begin with, I wonder if they’re in my head, but I have no control over the whisper-buzz of their conversation, so they must be real. I crawl across the floor, feeling my way with my hands, until I miss a step and lurch forwards. My chin hits the floor, jolting my front teeth, and scraping the skin raw.
I sit up and touch my tingling jaw. It’s wet. I open and close my mouth and my skin tingles as fresh blood oozes out. Tears spill from my eyes and I sniff hard.
“Stop being a fucking baby, Remy.” I try to channel my inner Ariel, and it works. A little.
My ears are still ringing, and the clanging in my skull has become a steady rhythm that probably belongs to a well-known rock anthem, the name of which I don’t even try to remember.
Keep crawling. See a door ahead. My pulse races when I fear that it might be locked.
My legs tremble as I straighten and reach for the door handle.
I almost cry out when it opens.
Holding my breath, I open the door a fraction at a time until there’s sufficient space for me to crawl through. The light from the next room is blinding, and I peer out from beneath fluttering eyelids. I don’t recognize it. There’s a huge flat-screen TV on the wall. Mustard-colored couches arranged around a glass coffee table. A drinks trolley pushed up against one wall. I’ve never seen the artwork before, or the thick-pile gray carpet, or the teal cushions.
I can’t see who’s talking, but I’m certain I don’t recognize the voices.
Two men. At least two, maybe more.
Then a door opens and someone else enters. Tall. Lanky. Expensive suit that still manages to look casual on his angular frame.
George?
Why did he leave me here with strangers? Why didn’t he take me home? He was going to help me. I remember now, he was angry with Cash, and he said that he would help me get away from the Titan.
I open the door wider.
The other men come into view. They speak to George briefly, and then they leave. I only get a chance to see their backs, so I’ve no idea who they are.
I need to speak to George. He must’ve brought me here—wherever here is—to sleep off the hangover from hell. He doesn’t know about the pregnancy. He would’ve had no clue that I wasn’t drinking. He can take me back to the residence halls now, and I can get an appointment at the OB/GYN clinic.
He tosses something onto the coffee table and peers directly at me. He smiles when he sees me on the floor, approaches me slowly, almost cautiously, eyeing me up like I’m a feral animal programmed to attack in self-preservation.
When he is within touching distance, he crouches on the floor. He doesn’t try to help me get up.
“Look at you, Remy Jones. Did you learn nothing from your sister?”
I blink. I don’t know what he means. Danielle died eight years ago; George barely even knew her before she passed.
“What a fucking state to get in.” He shakes his head, his mouth turned down at the corners. “Pity those poor babies you’re carrying.”
