Page 14 of The Plunge

Chapter 7

Libby

Two thoughts are racing through my mind when I finally manage to open my eyes.

I'm no longer in pain.

And I'm not alone.

The piercing agony in my shoulder is completely gone, replaced with mind-numbing relaxation that soothes every muscle in my entire body. I've never felt this relaxed before, not even back then, two years ago, when we backpacked through Europe and almost lost ourselves in the coffee shops of Amsterdam. My friends were far more experienced with drugs than I was, but I was determined to keep up and not come across as the innocent baby of the group. It may not have been the most responsible journey I ever took, but it was definitely the most fun.

While my current high is a lot stronger and more relaxing than the ones I've had before, it certainly isn't fun.

It's numbing me in a moment when I'd wish for more clarity of mind. Because I'm scared.

Because he is sitting next to my bed, locking me down with a dark gaze.

It's him. It's really him—the handsome waiter who caught my eye earlier this evening.

Was it this evening? Or is it already the next day? I have no way of knowing. There's no window in this room, just four white walls that reflect the cold ceiling light all too brightly. A faint beeping sound to my right plays the beat of my heart. It's the only noise echoing through the room.

He's sitting to my left, leaning back in his chair with his arms resting on the armrests. His uniform is soaked in blood, adding a gruesome effect to his handsome ruggedness. I moan at the sight, realizing that it's most likely not his own blood but mine, and the mere sight of it makes me sick.

I tear my eyes away from his blood-drenched shirt, seeking his ominous hazel gaze instead.

"Who are you?"

My voice is hoarse, and my throat scratches with every syllable, but I manage to phrase my question nevertheless.

For a moment, he just looks at me, showing no intention of answering. He narrows his eyes, surveying me as if he's seeing me for the very first time and trying to make sense of the person in front of him.

His lips move as if he's trying to get a taste of the right words to respond to me. But instead of giving me a much-needed explanation, he retorts with a question himself. "How are you feeling?"

"You shot me," I reply. "And you killed my aunt. How do you think I'm feeling?"

"I didn't kill your aunt," he insists. "Someone else did."

My heart aches at his words. It's not news to me. I saw her drop to the floor right in front of my eyes. I saw the life vanish from her body at that very moment. I saw all of it. Yet hearing his confirmation of my aunt's death still stabs at my core.

"Why?" I utter, tears forcing their way down my cheeks.

His eyes widen in concern, showing that as much of a badass as he might be, he's still uncomfortable with a woman's tears. He presses his lips together, once again denying me the answer I so desperately seek.

"Why did you take me with you?" I continue my questioning, hoping he'll find it within himself to answer at least one of my many questions eventually. "Why didn't you just leave me there?"

This time, he surprises me by giving a clear and definite response right away.

"Because you're an Abbott," he says, "I couldn't leave you there."

I grimace in confusion. "What?"

He shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"I don't fucking know," he admits, speaking louder than before. Exhaustion laces every word, showing that I'm not the only one who has had a rough night—to say the least.

He looks at me, again fixating me with that tense glare from earlier.

"Clyde Abbott is your uncle?" he asks.

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