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“Ky?” Braxton says. His brow is furrowed and he puts a hand on my forehead. “She’s hot as hell.”
“Excuse me?” Derek says. He’s standing at the end of the table, glaring at Braxton.
“Hey man, I think she needs to get home—”
“Yeah, fuck off, I’ve got this,” Derek says.
I feel Braxton tense up next to me, but he doesn’t say anything, just gets out of the booth.
I can barely stand up. My legs don’t want to support my weight, and my head is swimming. It’s like coming to after a drunken blackout, only I haven’t lost time and I’m not drunk. I barely feel the two shots of tequila, and I had all of three sips of my beer. I put a hand on my forehead and lean against the table.
“Shit,” I say.
Braxton stands up and grabs my arm to steady me. “Are you okay, Ky? What’s wrong?”
&ldqsuo;I’ll take her home,” Derek says. He puts an arm around me—roughly, like he’s angry—and pulls me toward the door. I stumble forward, my vision fuzzy. I have to clutch onto him when we get outside, so I don’t fall over.
He gets me to his car and I can’t even fasten the seatbelt. My arms feel weak and my stomach is churning. Derek gets in without a word and starts the car. I lean my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. I can’t keep them open. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m caught between burning up and freezing cold, and it feels like my limbs won’t work. All I want is to get home and crawl into bed.
What the fuck is happening to me?
