Where was her GHB? Was she given any? Had Slade gotten to her before? Or was this her luck? Did I?—
No. She wouldn’t be in this situation if she’d been bought by the congressman instead of me. Our roles could’ve been reversed, and for a second, relief seeps into the marrow of my bones.
Oh, God. Please, help us.
The moment extends on. Her head bobs as her shallow breaths push her chest to rise and fall. Lips parted, eyes barely open, she stares at herself—the red undergarments darkening to match the blood pooling around her.
I’m not sure she knows where she is, or that we’re here, and it’s probably not my place, but I speak up. “Can—can I do anything?”
Juliette’s head snaps to mine, her own eyes red-rimmed and void. Like she’s on the verge of losing it, too. Her glare, almost destructive, is haunting, and I’m thrown by the ire in her look. I’m the last person she wants to speak to right now. “No. Get dressed. Actually, get her some water.”
I scurry from the bathroom, grateful for the command todosomething.
I don’t bother with my clothes. Water. She needs water.
At the fountain, I grab a stainless-steel cup from the bin and shove it under the faucet-like tip. The stone is cold beneath my wet bare feet as I lean over, using my body to press the fountain’s push button, and watch the slow stream take forever.Come on. Come on.
My towel clings to me, soaking up the water slicking my skin, becoming heavier. It’s damp and loose—barely knotted—as I will the water to fill the cup faster. Disregarding the subtle tug of terry as it slips lower, I shift, popping my hip to the side.
The cup is only half full when the metal door groans open, and I jump, yanking up my towel. I glance over my shoulder and forget how to breathe. What? Why is the congressman here?
Dressed in a suit and holding a stack of papers, his broad frame fills the doorway and completely overshadows the man in scrubs next to him.
The man next to Slade is older, wiry, and freckled. A pristine leather bag hangs at his side, and a stethoscope dangles around his neck.
Medic, my mind shouts. His voice doesn’t reach me, and I stare at him talking. As if there wasn’t a girl nearly unconscious and bleeding out in the bathroom feet away from me.
Forgotten, the cup tilts in my hand. Water spills over the rim and cascades down onto the hard concrete floor, and I gasp. Eyes, clinical and barren, snap to mine, drawn to my frantic inhale. They widen as he takes me in, and I cling, unmoving, to my towel like it’s my lifeline. More water soaks my fingers, tickling my wrist and jolting me to action.
“In here!” I blurt out, pointing toward the bathroom where the girl’s body lies half hidden in the shower stall. “She needs help!”
The medic doesn’t move. He just stares, lips pressed into a flat line, like I’m speaking another language. My stomach twists. Why isn’t he doing anything? Why aren’t any of them moving?
My hands curl into fists, and before I realize it, instinct kicks in. What the hell are they waiting for? This girl is in the bathroom and?—
Rage, hot and bitter, gurgles in my chest and burns in a way I haven’t felt since my drunk father made it a habit to smack my mom at 2:00 a.m.
Something shifts, and I drop the cup. It clatters to the floor, garnering the attention of the medic and other girls in the room. I hold Slade’s eyes as he catalogues me, and I march over. Anger pushes me forward, but when I reach the door, my shoulders drop. My bravado falters under the weight of their attention.When the medical staff person backs up a step, a security guard rounds the threshold, keeping me from exiting.
My voice catches somewhere between my ribs and throat; I swallow and open my mouth anyway. “She’s b-barely alive. Y-you need to come in here!”
I don’t know if she’s dying or just badly broken, but there’s too much blood. They must’ve sent for this nurse or doctor, so why is he just standing there?
The guard, thick with muscle and dressed head to toe in black tactical gear, shoves me hard. I stumble back into the room, catching the edge of the doorframe with my hip. Pain flares, but I keep my feet planted.
Stay standing.
I taste the fear crawling up my esophagus, sour and bitter. Adrenaline chokes me from the inside out. Whipping back toward him, pulse pounding, and clenching the towel together around me one-handed, I open my mouth.
Say something. Demand help. Be louder than the part of you that wants to disappear.
But before I can say anything, Slade steps forward, quiet as always. He doesn’t spare me a glance. All his attention is on the guard. Rigid, he lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, then brings it down on the man’s shoulder with a dull slap. It’s not gentle, nor is it friendly.
His grip tightens over the padded uniform, and I suck in a breath as the guard freezes. Clamped down with silent pressure, his fingers dig in while the tendons in his partially exposed forearm flex. Still, he doesn’t say a word, and the guard … the guard steps back, avoiding the congressman’s eyes.
Slade removes his hand, nods at the guard, and then gestures for the medic to enter the room.
“Here! She’s in here.” Another girl in the room shouts. The medic follows her into the bathroom, and when he vanishes inside, I let out a trembling breath.
