Page 43 of Rock Bottom

“Thank you.” I tucked the photo and my wallet away.

“Might want to hurry, though,” Jenkins shouted after me. “Your friend wasn’t looking too hot.”

I pushed through the crowd, heart pounding in my ears to the beat of the music. Acid ate at my insides, and my hands trembled at my sides, but I couldn’t focus on that. Oscar had Dante, and Dante needed me.

I showed Dante’s picture to a couple making out near the exit and they pointed toward the door, telling me I’d just missed them. My arms felt like Jell-o as I pushed open the back door. Cool, garbage-scented air licked at my face and I gulped it down like I’d been drowning, hanging onto the door while I tried to catch my breath.

My relief was short-lived when I looked up and caught Oscar trying to shove an unconscious Dante into the back seat of a black sedan.

Oscar’s terrified eyes met mine. He bit out a curse as I pushed away from the door. Rather than continue fighting with Dante’s long limbs and limp body, he shoved Dante onto the pavement and scrambled to get into the driver’s seat. I lunged and barely managed to catch Dante before his head hit the pavement. Wheels screeched and Oscar took off like a bat out of hell, fishtailing onto the road and disappearing into the night. As much as I wanted to go after him and twist his head clean off, my first duty was to Dante.

“Dante, can you hear me?” I lowered him to the ground and slapped his cheek lightly. When he didn’t respond, I shoved my ear against his chest, pulling out my phone at the same time. “Hey, Siri. Call Wattson!”

The phone rang three times before he answered. “Church? What’s wrong? Did you find him?”

“Yes, and he’s unconscious.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes, but it’s shallow. Something’s not right.”

Wattson snorted. “He’s an alcoholic, Church. He’s probably black out drunk.”

“Do you have any idea how much he’d have to drink to get that drunk in less than an hour?” came Bowie’s voice through the speaker. “If he’s an alcoholic, it’s more than you’d think.”

“He’s been sober for ten days,” I said.

“Maybe it’s drugs,” Wattson suggested. “Find out what he took.”

“How am I supposed to do that if he’s unconscious and the idiot he was here with took off?”

Wattson let out one of his frustrated sighs. “Make sure his airway is clear and put him in the back seat on his side in the recovery position. Then get your ass back to the cabin. I’ll meet you there. If he throws up in the meantime, pull over and call me again. I’ll get the trauma kit just in case.”

I hung up.

Dante opened his eyes when I picked him up, but his eyes were unfocused, and he was still pale and sweaty. “Church?”

“I’m here, Dante. Can you tell me what you took?”

“I didn’t—” He choked suddenly and vomited everywhere.

I sighed and shifted him, so he mostly missed himself. “It’s important, Dante. What did you take?”

He fell back into my arms, eyes closed, shaking his head, but he didn’t say anything else.

The drive back was nerve-wracking. From the front seat, it was impossible to tell if he was still breathing. I kept reaching back to touch any part of him I could, trying to reassure myself that he wasn’t dead, but it got more difficult each time. His skin was cool and clammy, and he wasn’t responding, even when I tried pinching him.

Bowie’s truck and Wattson’s Prius were in the driveway when I pulled in. Both he and Wattson were pulling open the back door as soon as I put the Tahoe in park. Wattson climbed in, slipping his stethoscope into his ears while we waited in tense silence.

“Breathing’s good,” Wattson reported, and I let out a relieved sigh.

Bowie slapped a syringe and a rubber tourniquet into his outstretched hand.

“Wait a second. You’re not drawing his blood in my car!”

“If I can do it in a chopper under fire, I can do it in a car,” Wattson replied, deadpan. “You want me to treat him? I need his BAC. Only way to get that if he’s unconscious is a blood test. Then he’s all yours.” He turned his head to look at me, curly hair bouncing. “Now would also be a good time to tell me if you’re sleeping with him.”

I stared at him, my jaw hanging open. “I’m not! Why would you think that?”

---