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She shook her head and swatted him away. “I’m fine. Rhett backhanded me, but I ducked out of the way in time to deflect the majority of the impact.”
Red clouded Jordan’s vision and his fists bunched at his sides.
“Ambulance is on their way,” Officer Hunt said, returning to them, crouching down and checking Peyton’s pulse. “Did she take anything?”
Rayma shook her head. “We’ve both had a few drinks and are a little drunk, but she spit out the pill they gave her.” She pointed to the small white pill on the gray carpet.
Officer Hunt nodded. “I’m just going to grab some gloves and a baggie from the car. I’ll be right back.” She left, just as Officer Woodward returned.
“Do you know their names?” he asked Rayma.
“Rhett and Ethan. Said they worked here.” She then went on to describe their appearance and what they were wearing. Jordan was impressed with her attention to detail and how descriptive she was. Right down to the puffy pink scar the length of a crayon running up from the base of Ethan’s left thumb to his wrist bone. She even remembered what they were wearing and that they said they both had condos on Bear Mountain.
“That’s amazing,” Officer Woodward commented. “Great memory. Great detail. Thank you.”
Rayma’s smile was tight and humorless. “Not my first attempted assault. You get to know how to remember people in the event you need to give a description.”
Officer Woodward’s expression turned grim.
Officer Hunt returned and with a black rubber glove on, picked up the pill from the carpet and put it in a Ziploc bag.
Rayma returned to Peyton, crouched down next to her, and was patting her cheek. “Come on, Pey, you need to wake up.”
Shuffles and scuffs in the rest of the office drew their attention and a moment later two EMTs appeared in the doorway. They rushed into the conference room and went about checking Peyton over, eventually managing to rouse her.
Her gray eyes blinked groggily and she winced as she pressed her hand to her cheek. “Ow. Rayma?”
“Right here, Pey,” Rayma said, fresh tears brimming her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Peyton shook her head. “Not your fault.”
The EMTs finished checking out Peyton, adding a butterfly bandage to the cut on her cheek and another to the slice on her eyebrow.
One of them took a look at Rayma's bruise as well and determined that it would heal and probably disappear in a day or two. He did offer her a cold cryopack, though, which she declined.
“Were they wearing rings?” Jordan asked, turning to Rayma. “Those cuts on Peyton's face look like they were made by something.”
Rayma nodded, her face a mottled red, pink, and white, aside from the already purpling bruise. She sniffed and wiped her wrist under her nose. “Yeah, Ethan was the one who hit Peyton and he had on an ugly-ass pinky ring. Some insignia, the top part was an oval, the whole thing was yellow gold.”
Officer Woodward’s eyes were wide as he scribbled down more notes. “Great job.”
Pride of a disturbing kind surged through Jordan. Yes, Rayma was extraordinary in every way, even her ability to recall the smallest of details, but the fact that it was helping her identify guys that attacked her friend was just wrong.
“We should have known not to go anywhere with guys who wore pinky rings,” Peyton murmured. “Only gangsters and kingpins wear pinky rings.”
The EMTs, both men, snorted and tried to hide their grins as they began packing up their bags.
“Gangsters, kingpins, and douchebags,” Rayma corrected. “And royalty, but something tells me neither of those fuckers is a duke or a count.”
Jordan chuckled, even in a shitty situation, Rayma managed to bring her spark and sense of humor. It was dry, honest, and sorely needed because it had her friend smiling, and if Peyton could smile after this ordeal, then Rayma knew what she was doing.
“You’re sure you haven’t ingested anything?” The taller of the two EMTs asked.
Peyton shook her head. “Like I said, I put the pill in my mouth and then five seconds later spat it out when they turned away.” She glanced at Rayma. “Right, Ray?”
Rayma nodded. “And I think since we got to the bar at ten-thirty we had five vodka-sodas total. And it’s what, almost 1am now?” She glanced at her phone to confirm her theory. It was five past one if you trusted the ordinary white clock on the wall of the conference room.
The EMTs’ heads bobbed. “Okay,” said the shorter one. “But we are strongly encouraging you to go to the hospital and get blood work done anyway.”
