Page 30 of Tiny Fractures

“Rum and coke.” I shrug. “That’s my poison, Ran. Rum and coke,” I slur in a deep Southern drawl that only emerges when I’m severely impaired. But I haven’t had that much, I wonder to myself.

“Cat, did you make this drink yourself?” Ronan asks me, adding to my confusion. Why is he asking me this?

“Corbin did,” I say, no longer able to keep my eyes open. I let my eyelids fall shut.

“What the fuck did you put in this?” Ronan growls. Why is he mad at me?

“Nothing,” I say, but when I force myself to open my eyes, I realize Ronan isn’t talking to me. He’s glowering at Corbin, his right hand balled into a fist by his side, his nostrils flaring, lips pressed together like it’s taking everything in him not to go ballistic.

“Nothing, man,” Corbin says, releasing my arm from his hold.

“Fucking bullshit,” Ronan says, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “I can see the fucking residue on the glass, you fucking asshole. What is it? Molly?”

Corbin doesn’t answer, taking a couple of steps back from me and Ronan.

“Fucking answer me,” Ronan shouts, taking a step toward Corbin. Even in my impaired state, Ronan’s stature is impressive. His chest puffs out, muscles flexing so intensely they strain against the fabric of his white shirt. His back flares, testing the resolve of his plaid flannel as he steps around me, shielding me from Corbin.

“It’s just Rohypnol, man. It’ll be out of her system in the morning. I swear, man,” Corbin finally admits, his hands raised. “I swear I didn’t touch her.”

“What the hell is going on?” I hear Shane ask.

It’s the last thing I’m conscious of before I feel myself black out and begin to slump off the barstool in slow motion with nothing to brace my fall.

Sunday, May 30th

Cat

It’s a slow ascent into consciousness. The brightness shining through my closed eyelids lets me know it’s daytime, though I have no clue what time it is, where I am, or what the hell happened.

I’m obviously lying down, that much I can tell. I have soft cushions underneath me, a light blanket covering me, and I feel warm and safe. Cocooned, almost, with cushions pressed against my back.

I become aware of a warm body in front of me.

I blink my eyes open slowly and grimace. My head pounds and my whole body aches, though my discomfort is eclipsed when I realize I’m cuddled up against Ronan. He’s on his back, sleeping soundly next to me. Heat rises in my face when I notice how close he is to me. My body is turned to him, my left leg hitched over his, and my left hand—oh god—is tucked underneath his white shirt, resting on his bare chest, which rises and falls calmly, steadily.

I withdraw my hand and sit up next to Ronan, looking around in an effort to orient myself. We’re still at Shane’s beach house, on one of the large white sofas in the living room.

I carefully move the blanket off me, noting that while I was completely covered in my sleep, Ronan slept on top of the blanket rather than underneath it with me. I can tell without even looking down at myself that I’m still completely dressed, as is Ronan. Though he must have taken off his flannel because his chest is only covered by his fitted white t-shirt contoured to his pecs, his shoulders, his abs.

I climb over him slowly, careful not to wake him; his face is relaxed in his sleep.

The moment I stand, my stomach churns uncomfortably.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Shane asks, and I turn my head to my left. He’s standing in the open kitchen, his shoulder-length, undercut hair loose and swept to the right side of his head this morning rather than held in place by its signature bun. I have to admit that even this hairstyle suits Shane exceptionally well.

I make my way into the kitchen before speaking, trying to keep any noise to a minimum. Shane’s eyes reflect unfiltered concern as he watches me. “Horrible,” I admit.

Shane nods. “How much of last night do you remember?” He pours a cup of coffee and pushes it across the counter to me.

I take it into my hands gratefully. I rack my brain for a minute, trying to recall last night’s events, and am dismayed to find that I have absolutely no memory of what happened after I saw Ronan disappear into the guestroom with Sophie.

“I remember Ran… Ran talking with that girl, and then… then it’s blank,” I admit to Shane, horrified. “Oh god, Shane. What happened?” I ask him, suddenly panicking. Snippets resurface in my mind’s eye: of me sitting at the bar counter with some random boy, taking sips of a drink. Memories of incidents with Adam mix with blurred memories of last night, and anxiety pricks at the soles of my feet. Fear of what I did—of what someone may have done to or with me—bubbles in my chest.

“Nothing,” Shane reassures me, his right hand on my arm. “Nothing bad, Cat. Ran stopped it.”

“Stopped what?” I ask, my eyes wide.

Shane sighs deeply before filling me in on what took place after I apparently stormed into the house once Ronan and Sophie went into the guestroom.

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