What the hell are they doing there?
“Cam.” I suck in a ragged breath, willing myself to keep it together.
“I’m here.”
“Do not let her out of your sight. The people she’s with? They’re trouble. They can’t be trusted. I don’t care what they tell you, or even what Sawyer says. She cannot leave with them under any fucking circumstances.”
“Understood,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “Bryant’s here with me. We’ll make sure she doesn’t leave.”
Good.
“I’m on my way.” I heave myself off the floor, ignoring the spots of light dancing in my vision and the flames of agony licking up my torso.
I tap the end button and tug at my hair, hopelessness consuming me.
Sawyer’s self-destructing.
Hands balled into fists, I turn in a circle, scanning the room. I need a jacket. Shoes. My phone. Keys.
Keys. Shit. My heart sinks.
I can’t drive on these pills. I can barely stand upright without swaying.
Even if I could, Atty took the car downtown, swearing he’d get one of the guys to go with him to retrieve it in the morning. By now, he’ll be too drunk to help. Cam said she already tried him and he didn’t answer.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
My phone vibrates in my hand once more.
Another message from Cam. This time, it’s a video.
I swallow down the bile threatening to burn up my esophagus. If Cam sent it, it has to be important.
It’s a quick clip.
Six seconds. Maybe seven.
Like in the photo, Sawyer is sandwiched between the useless excuses for humans I thought she left behind in Montreal.
Except the video makes everything more real. Sawyer’s movements are languid and uncoordinated. JD has his fucking hands all over my girl. Then there’s Keira. She’s grinding against Sawyer’s front, dragging her hands up and down Sawyer’s body. They’re lingering at the hem of her pushed-up skirt when the video cuts out.
I have to get there. Right fucking now.
I don’t have time to wait for a rideshare, and I don’t have time to walk the halls in hopes of finding someone who isn’t out at eleven thirty on a weekend and might be willing to give me a ride.
Desperately—hopelessly—I tug on the ends of my hair and scan my room once more.
When I pass over the half-eaten pumpkin pie Noah Henry brought by last week, I stop.
Fucking fuck.
He’ll answer.
He put his fucking number in my phone already.
The only thing standing in the way of me getting Sawyer away from that party is me.
Resigned, I close my eyes and blow out a hard breath. Then I scroll through my contacts, select Noah Henry’s name, and make the damn call.
