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“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate?”
I nodded, torn between being furious and relieved that it wasn’t worse. The bigger question was why did he feel the need to use that shit? And to the point of passing out? At a hotel… on Michigan Avenue… Chicago’s prestigious “Magnificent Mile”—an area of town Marek routinely turned his nose up at due to the flocks of tourists and extravagant lifestyle.
The fury returned tenfold as the nurse turned her attention to her tablet, typing away. “What was his name again?”
“Marek,” I replied, unclenching my teeth for the second attempt at answering. “Marek Sommers.”
“Great. And you are?”
I shot her a look, softening it a second after the fact. “His employer.” At that moment, claiming to be anything more felt like a lie. The man lying in that bed wasn’t the Marek I knew. If I even knew him at all.
She cringed, shifting on her feet. “Shit… Sorry. I hope he’s not fired after this.”
Ignoring her, I moved to the side of the bed and looked down at him, at the mechanized rise and fall of his chest. He was on his back. He never slept on his back. He preferred his stomach, unless he was curled up against me, but still, I’d woken more than once to find him practically on top of me.
The fact I knew that—that I knew he preferred Margherita pizzas to any other kind; that he only read biographies of people who had clawed their way out of the lower class; that he’d wanted to help kids just like him—apparently meant nothing. Because I didn’t know he used GHB. I didn’t know with any certaintywhyhe was at an expensive hotel at three in the morning in a part of the city he claimed to despise. And I didn’t know what else he was hiding from me.
33
MAREK
My throat hurt like hell.It was raw and scratchy and no matter how much I swallowed, I couldn’t get the feeling to go away.
“Try some ice,” Misha said, appearing on my right with a little plastic cup.
I stayed exactly where I was, blinking hard. I’d never had a trip last so long but there was no other explanation as to why I was looking into Misha’s crystal blue eyes instead of—
Nausea swirled in the pit of my stomach, tossing a wave of bile up the back of my throat. I sat up quickly and threw myself to the side, grabbing onto the railing of the hospital bed in case anything actually came out.
When the sickness passed, I eased myself back down, swallowing with a grimace. Nothing about my current situation made sense. I was in a hospital, for starters, instead of a hotel. Misha was there, not Ken. I didn’t know what, exactly, had happened but I knew without a doubt that itwasn’tgood.
“How are you feeling?” Misha asked quietly. The ice rattled in the cup as he set it to the side and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Wrecked.” His face may have been blank but I sensed anger in the rigid line of his shoulders, the distance of where he stood relative to the bed. I closed my eyes, like somehow he’d be less pissed if I wasn’t looking at him. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?”
“I don’t fucking know, that’s why I asked,” I snapped, opening my eyes to glare at him. So it was going to be one ofthoseconversations, where he fucking danced around the subject instead of being straight with me. Just what I needed.
“Do you even know where ‘here’ is?”
I stole a glance around the room before settling my narrowed gaze on him again. Didn’t have a clue but it also didn’t matter because it’s not where I imagined waking up. “A fucking hospital. Answer the question.”
His gaze darted away and his jaw shifted as he glared at the corner. “They called me to identify you, since you came in with nothing except my card and some GHB.”
Perfect. Just… fucking perfect.
Flopping back into the pillow, I glowered at the ceiling, waiting for a fucking lecture or Twenty Questions to start.
“I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” Misha said on his way to the door. “As soon as you’re discharged, I’ll drive you home. Or back to the hotel. Whatever you want.” His words were clipped, matching the sound of each stride striking the tiled floor. Becauseof coursehe had to look like he strolled off a fucking catwalk in a black suit and lavender shirt when I was sure I looked like pure garbage. I knew I felt like it, especially with that parting comment.
He knew about the hotel. He knew about the GHB. In passing, he knew about Ken. Did he put it all together? And if he did, did he care? Even if he didn’t put the pieces together, did he care? I mean, he was pissed, that much was obvious, but maybe it was because he saw another giant ass medical bill flashing before his eyes even though there was no way in hell I was letting him pay for it.
A little flurry of panic stirred in my chest. I could take the screaming, I could take the silence, I could take a day-long interrogation. Even though I knew it was inevitable, I didn’t think I could take him walking away from me for good. If anyone was going to do the leaving, it would be me. The old pro. It hurt less that way. He couldn’t beat me to the punch, not now, not before I was prepared.
Misha returned with a doctor a little while later, quickly followed by a nurse with discharge papers. They spoke to Misha the entire time, like I was a fucking child and he was my parent. I guess it probably looked that way, given the age difference, but all it did was add another level of disgust and humiliation to this whole fucking scenario.
“I’ve included a pamphlet for NA and some outpatient rehab centers in the area,” the nurse said, patting the pile and explaining everything to Misha while I dressed in my own black suit behind the curtain, rumpled and gross and missing half of the buttons on my shirt. A perfect comparison between myself and the embodiment of flawless masculinity on the other side.
