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When it came to fight or flight, I guess I was the kind to want to take wing.
I couldn't, though, and that reality was making me feel oddly buzzy.
"Oh, um," I started, trying to trudge through the thickness in my brain, finding the consistency much like molasses, confusing me. I reached for the first thought that made sense even though I knew as it was coming out of my mouth that it wasn't the right book, that it wasn't my favorite. No, it was Sammy's favorite. "Sense and Sensibility," I told him, finding my words slow, a little slurred.
That wasn't right.
I didn't drink that much.
I shouldn't have been slurring.
My brain shouldn't have been so slow.
My body shouldn't have felt so weird, so disconnected.
Testing my theory, I went to lift my glass up toward my mouth, but found it wobbly, weak, the fragile wine glass tilting in my hand, spilling what was left of the cool liquid on my dress, soaking through to my thigh.
"Oh, what did you do, princess? Let me help you," he suggested, reaching into his jacket to produce a white handkerchief, holding out toward me, blotting at the spot on my dress.
Then pushing up the material, wiping my bare thigh, fingers high, too high.
The words flashed in my mind as I numbly tried to push his hand away, finding no strength there to do so.
Drugged.
He'd drugged me.
My mouth opened as his body shifted, taking the glass, reaching to put it behind me on the end table, then pressing his body against mine, but I found my tongue fat, unable to make proper noises.
This was how he did it.
He slipped something into their drinks--into Sammy's drink--to make them easy, compliant, unable to scream or fight back, likely woozy on the details later, maybe wondering if they drank too much, if they had been willing participants.
Garbled noises escaped me as a hand grabbed the bodice of my dress, pulling it down, exposing my breast to his greedy palm.
Hailstorm wasn't going to charge in, I realized, a bubble of panic working its way through my system. They didn't put cameras in this room from what I'd heard from the brief Lo had told me. The homeowners had been watching the staff like hawks to make sure they didn't grab any valuables. With the door closed, they hadn't been able to get into the study or the family room which was equally as off-limits during the event.
And they wouldn't hear me speak, cry, scream, because I couldn't seem to make my mouth find any words.
Not even as his mouth moved over my skin, not even as his hands slipped my skirt further up.
No.
Nonono.
"Oh, I have wanted you for years, princess."
That word, God, that word started to break through the fog, reminded me of why this was happening.
Sammy.
He'd hurt Sammy like this.
He made her powerless like this.
She couldn't stop him.
I could.
I could if I could just get word to Lo and her people.
His hand clumsily pawed at my panties as I focused on my arm, getting it to rise, getting it close to my face, knowing that whatever was going to come out of me was not going to be loud.
When I felt the material rip, the word whispered out of me.
"Help."
I heard a zipper slide down.
It was quickly drowned out by something else, though.
A door flying open, feet storming inside, yelling.
Michael's body was pulled off of me, un-obstructing my view, allowing me to see not only Lo's team, but various party guests rushing in, horrified looks on their faces.
The first person to come to my side was not on my team, was not one of the highly trained individuals I had met with several times.
No.
It was a woman in her fifties in a champagne-colored dress with a giant diamond hanging between her breasts. A woman I had exchanged pleasantries with just about an hour before. One of the owners of the house. Olivia.
"Oh, honey, okay," she said, yanking my skirt back down, pulling my top back up, protecting my modesty as she tried to sit me up. "I saw it. I saw what he was doing. Don't you worry. Me and Marvin, we are going to make sure the cops know what he was doing. Are you... can you sit up?" she asked, trying again, finding me flopping around.
"I think she's been drugged," one of Lo's women said, coming up, gently grabbing my face, lifting it, looking in my eyes. "We need to get her to a hospital."
"I called the police," another voice from the crowd called. "They're on their way."
"What's her name?" Lo's woman asked, already knowing, but we had to all play our parts flawlessly if we wanted the charges to stick.
"R-something," the woman still kneeling before me said. "Rachel? No, Reagan."
"Reagan, honey, it's going to be okay," I was told, even as my brain felt even more floaty, more disconnected.
