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“Fuck,” I groan. It hurts like hell. He is lying motionless on top of me. Damn, is he still breathing?
“Navarone,” I cry, shaking him. He crushes me beneath his weight. I push him to the side, and he’s still out of it.
“Rone,” I yell again, shaking him. I slap him hard in his chest. My tears spill over when he opens his eyes.
He groans before turning his body to the side and throwing up on the bed. His expression changes when he notices I’m still naked. Little cuts cover my chest and blood runs down my sides.
“Fuck, what did I do?” His body is trembling as he tumbles forward before throwing up on the floor again. “What did I do? Fuck, what did I do!” he roars, clutching his face while gagging.
“Shit.” I sprint out of bed and grab a towel. I wet another while I pull one of his shirts over my head. When I run back in, he is sitting on the side of the bed, clutching his face. The top button of his jeans is still open.
I kneel in front of him between his legs. The blood spills between his fingers from the cut.
“Let me see,” I whisper, pulling his hand away, my voice shaking like his body.
“What did I do to you?” he slurs, he can barely focus his dilated pupils on me. When I look up at him, I spot the tears in his eyes.
“You blacked out.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, while I grab his hand. Fuck, the gash on his cheek is deep. He is going to need stitches. He is lucky I didn’t hit his eye.
I don’t answer him. Instead I focus on the cut.
“What the hell happened, Al?” His voice is strained and hoarse, his head lolling from left to right. I dab the wet towel against the straight red line.
We lock eyes while I hold my other palm against his cheek. “I don’t know if there is still glass in the wound. You need stitches.”
He nods, standing and rubbing a hand over his mouth. Grabbing his wallet, he shrugs on his leather jacket. After pulling his long hair into a ponytail, he brushes a stray lock behind his ear.
“Do you want me to drive?” I ask, following him to the door. He tries to take my hand but I shudder and take a quick step back.
“Fuck.” He shakes his head, stepping out. He lets go of the doorknob and turns around with tears in his eyes.
He smells of booze but he’s sobered right up. His pupils are back to normal. Like the Rone I thought I knew.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says softly, not looking at me. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he drawls, reaching out for my stomach but he pulls his hand back like I’m going to burn him.
“Rone,” I whisper, brushing my wet nose with the back of my hand. He takes a step toward me but I recoil again, and the hurt in his eyes tears me apart.
“Don’t wait for me,” he tells me, closing the door behind him.
“I won’t,” I answer, my voice breaking.
I swipe the glass from the bed and reach for the covers. The pain in my stomach gets more intense with every breath I take. I close my eyes and drift off.
“What the hell is happening?” The words come out husky and raw, and I open my eyes when I start to shudder from the sharp pains stabbing in my side. Biting on my bottom lip, I drop my head back, clutching my stomach. “It hurts,” I say out loud.
I look around the room and smell the blood on my shirt. Fuck. I hit Rone with a beer bottle.
“Rone,” I whisper, shivering under the blanket. I’m so cold. Cringing, I cry out when another shooting pain goes through me. The cramps get worse as the minutes tick by. I’m having trouble breathing.
“Fuck,” I groan, pinching my eyes shut when another cramp pierces my side. “Rone, are you back?” My voice falters as I scan the room; there is no sign of him.
Shit. He is probably still at the emergency room.
The clock on the nightstand indicates it’s five in the morning. Gritting my teeth, I try to sit up straight. I swear under my breath—Navarone should be back already.
With a shaking hand, I take my phone from my purse, checking if he called. I drop it when another sharp pain stabs into my side. “Motherfucker,” I groan, leaning forward. “Damn. Not good.” My voice croaks.
