Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101261 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
My stomach pitched a little. Ugh, the lack of food and abundance of drink was going to be an issue. I had to slow down if I wanted to keep it together for my flower-crowned goddess of song. Pretending to check my invisible watch, I asked, "So, is she even going to be here?"
Deja frowned. "Of course, she is. And by the way, I've seen what she's wearing."
"I am so jealous right now. And slightly horny," I admitted. Also, increasingly nauseated. I should have eaten before we left, belly-bloat be damned. I sipped my second cocktail slowly, hoping in vain that it would somehow settle my stomach. "When does she get here?"
"She will be fashionably late," Deja said, checking her phone. "She's heading over right after a Spotify podcast or something."
"How ever will we kill time?" El-Mudad's arm slipped around my waist. "Would it be too scandalous if we danced?"
"It might be." On the other hand, it might distract me from the fangirl nerves there were obliterating my guts. "Okay. I'm game. We didn’t arrive together, we didn’t leave together, and if anyone takes a picture, it’s not like we’re the only ones dancing.”
“I’ll dance with you next,” Ian offered, raising his glass as if to toast. “That way, he’s not your only partner.”
“Wow. You’re shockingly good at deception.” It sounded more like Penny was accusing him than admiring him, but when he gave her a wink, she visibly melted.
El-Mudad and I moved onto the dance floor, where a few couples already swayed to a mellow instrumental cover of Billie Eilish’s "when the party’s over," which should have been horrible on its face but was quite catchy.
“Stop being so jumpy,” El-Mudad whispered against my cheek as he held me close. I couldn’t quite remember when he’d pulled me into his arms.
“Am I being jumpy?” I looked around. The room was super fuzzy at the edges. “I think that drink is hitting me harder than I expected it to.”
“I would say so. Your speech is very...not mumbled...what is it...” His brow creased. It was super rare for El-Mudad to not know a word in English. Usually, it happened when he was distracted or upset.
“Slurred?” I most definitely slurred.
He stopped moving and stepped back. “Sophie, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m…” Having a difficult time hearing the music. Or not vomiting. “I think I got too drunk.”
“Let’s go sit down,” he said, guiding me with a hand at my back that slipped up higher and higher.
Nope. I slipped down lower and lower.
A female voice gasped, “Sophie, oh my god!” but I didn’t know who it was. Just like I didn’t feel the impact when I hit the floor, but I sure got down there somehow.
El-Mudad leaned over me. “Sophie! Sophie, can you hear me?”
“I think maybe…” Damn. I’d downed two drinks in quick succession, on an empty stomach. “Blood.”
“You’re bleeding?” He grabbed my head to check it for wounds. “Deja, ambulance!”
“Blood,” I repeated because I couldn’t remember what I had meant to say. I closed my eyes and clenched my back teeth against the puke rising in my throat. I choked, and someone turned me roughly onto my side.
“Sophie! Sophie, stay awake!” El-Mudad frantically pleaded.
So, I opened my eyes.
And unless Gotham Hall had installed a drop-ceiling and fluorescent lighting, I was not the fuck at the party anymore.
I groaned and sat up. The tape on the back of my hand tugged when I moved; it held an IV in place. A nasal cannula tickled my nostrils. I pushed it down with a grimace.
“Oh, thank god,” Neil said from somewhere in the dimly lit room.
My mouth was super dry and tasted like all the worst parts of the alcohol I’d consumed. I rasped, “Did I miss Lana?”
Neil sat beside me on the bed and took my un-IVed hand. “I’m afraid so, darling.”
My head was killing me. Even the soft light at the head of the bed was too much. I squinted in pain. “Can you turn that off?”
He moved quickly to do so.
When it was as dark as possible, I croaked, "Can I get some water?"
"No. Oral swabs only."
I whined as he tore open a packet, but I was desperate. I opened my mouth, and he put in the ghastly lemon sponge tip.
"It's refreshing to be on this side of an NPO order," he mused as he watched me desperately suck whatever moisture I could get out of the awful swab. There had been so many times during his long chemotherapy and transplant journey when he'd been denied food or water, so it was no wonder he would rather be on the other end of the stick.
I pulled the ineffective sponge from my mouth. "What the hell happened?"
"I have terrible news for you," Neil said, retaking my hand. He paused long enough for me to nearly drop dead of fright, then said, "You have diabetes."