Fall Into You (Morally Gray, #2)(40)

“Wait, go back to the bar. Yes, there. Stop.”

I scan the crowd at the bar, but Dylan isn’t among them. He got up a minute or so after Shay left the table, and I assumed he went back to the bar for more drinks. But he’s not there, and he’s not at the table either.

A familiar feeling raises the hair on the back of my neck.

It’s a heightening of all my senses at once. A sharpening. My surroundings come into brighter focus, my breath quickens, and all my muscles tense.

Shay might be talking with Dylan in the back. She could be flirting with him, or simply chatting about work. I have no way of knowing if they arranged to meet here for drinks, which is the most likely scenario given that they work right next to each other and have probably bonded over a mutual dislike of me.

But an animal that always slumbers beneath my skin has blinked open its eyes, sniffed the air, and started to growl.

When I speak, my voice is low and tense. “Show me the entry to the hallway again.”

He clicks to the view of a dark rectangle flanked by potted palms. The lighting is bad down the corridor that leads to the restrooms, but it’s enough to show that Shay isn’t on her way out.

“Show me the parking lot.”

“You think she ditched her friend?”

“No.”

He shoots me a glance, examines my expression, then changes the image on the screen to show the restaurant’s parking lot.

Stumbling over her own feet, Shay clings to Dylan as he drags her across the asphalt toward a blue sedan parked near the back.

I’m out the door before Emiliano can even blink.

I charge through the kitchen, burst out the door I came in through, bolt around the side of the building to the parking lot, then sprint at top speed toward the blue sedan.

Dylan has the back passenger door open. He’s trying to force Shay inside with one hand on the top of her head as he pushes her to a sitting position.

“Hey!”

Dylan looks up and around. Spotting me, he freezes. I skid to a stop two feet away from him and get into his face, breathing hard.

“Hi. Going somewhere?”

He swallows and glances down at Shay. “Oh hi, Mr. McCord. Uh, yeah, we were just…just leaving.”

I look at Shay. She’s sitting upright on the back seat with her eyes open, but she’s totally out of it. Damp tendrils of hair cling to her forehead and neck. Her breathing is rapid and shallow. Her pupils are dilated, and her head lists to one side as if it’s too heavy for her to hold up.

I’ve seen this before. Too many times to count.

When I look back at Dylan, a snarl of fury rumbling through my chest, he turns white.

“She asked me to take her home. She’s sick! Look at her!”

“Oh, I fucking know she’s sick, my friend. But you’re not taking her anywhere.”

Fear plain on his face, his gaze darts between me and Shay. I see the wheels turning behind his eyes, excuses and lies tripping all over each other on their way out of his mouth.

“Sh-she really had a lot to drink. I was just trying to be a good friend. I just wanted to help.”

“One more fucking word, and I’ll rip your tongue out of your mouth. Move.”

I shove him so hard, he falls on his ass. As I pull Shay gently from the car, he scrambles to his feet, then runs to the front of the car and crouches there, shaking.

Shay mumbles something incoherent as I gather her into my arms. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Lean into me.”

I carry her quickly across the lot to the restaurant. Her head lolls back. Her eyes slide closed. She’s boneless in my arms, like a ragdoll.

Fuck.

Kicking the door open, I carry her inside and back to Emiliano’s office. He’s already on his feet, spreading a blanket over the battered leather sofa against the wall.

“What do we got?”

“Spiked.”

“Doc?”

“Yes. Tell him to hurry.”

He pulls his cell from his pocket and jabs his thick finger onto the screen, dialing a pre-programmed number with one touch. As I lower Shay to the sofa, he speaks a few quiet words into the phone in Spanish. Then he hangs up.

“Here in fifteen.”

My relief is instant. Considering it’s a Friday night, traffic is worse than usual. The ten-mile drive to the beach from here could take an hour. “That’s fast.”

“Got lucky. He was on his way to see the Lakers at Staples Center.”

“They don’t call it that anymore.”

“Fuck if I’m callin’ it Crypto-dot-com center. That’s fuckin’ stupid. Need a bucket?”

“Yes. Then go get her friend.”

He turns, pulls a waste basket out from under his desk, and sets it on the floor next to the sofa. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

“Shay. Sweetheart, open your eyes. Can you hear me?’

She mumbles something about her head.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m going to help you with your head, okay? Let me roll you over a little bit.”

Careful to support her neck, I roll her to her side, adjusting her head on the cushion. Then I slide the bucket in range and gently grasp her jaw.

“You have to throw up now, baby. You understand? We have to get the bad stuff out of your system.”