Page 101 of A Little Broken

“Or what? What you gonna do? Tell my boss? You. Don’t. Own. Me.”

She loses her balance, tumbling to the side. I wrap my arms around her waist and tug her into me while losing my own balance in the process. With a thump, she lands on top of me as my ass hits the ground.

Fuck, that hurt.

Ignoring the twinge in my tailbone, I grumble, “Shit, you okay?”

Her head rolls to the side, and her eyelids flutter closed. “I think…I think I’m going to puke.”

Grabbing the back of her neck, I pull her to the side and slide out from under her, wrapping her hair into a loose knot around my fingers in case she vomits. By some miracle, she holds it in, though I doubt she’ll be able to keep it down for long. How much did this girl have to drink? I recount everything I did since she raced down the stairs, disappearing from my line of sight. Despite taking Tatum’s side in the drink spill event, the woman Tatum ran into is a friend of a friend with some pretty strong connections in the music industry and pissing her off wasn’t on my to-do list for the evening. After tracking her down and apologizing, I ran into Roman and we talked before a shady guy in a dark suit asked to chat with him. Yeah, that didn’t set off any warning bells at all. Now, here I am, holding a drunk off her ass Tatum. It’s been what? An hour? She got this shit-faced in one fucking hour?

Gently, I cradle her to my chest and carry her to the nearest bathroom. She lowers her head to me, burrowing into the crook of my neck, and reminding me of a little kid. When she lets out a few slow, controlled breaths, the scent of alcohol punches me in the face, confirming what I already assumed.

She’s definitely gonna puke.

“Come on, beautiful.” I lower her to her feet and touch both sides of her face in an attempt to get an actual read on her. Her skin is hot and clammy and her eyes are unfocused and glazed. Fuck, do I take her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped? Seriously, how much has she had to drink?

“Look at me, Tate,” I order.

She shakes her head.

“Tatum, look at me.”

“I think I’m gonna—” Like a bag of bricks, she collapses onto the tile floor and hunches over the bowl, vomiting her gutsout. I pull her hair back just in time as she expels so much fucking liquid, I’m surprised the toilet doesn’t overflow. My nose wrinkles at the putrid scent, but I rub her back with my opposite hand, making sure her hair stays as far away from the toilet as possible. “That’s it, Birthday Girl. Get it all out.”

Another heave wracks her body as she clutches the porcelain seat. Once she’s finished, a sob breaks past her lips. Then another, and another, fucking obliterating the organ in my chest in the process.

What the hell happened?

My mind races, trying to put the pieces together, to sort out what might have triggered her to have this reaction, but I’m lost. Mascara streaks down her face as she squeezes her eyes shut, her hair falling in her face and hiding her twisted expression.

“Hey,” I coo. The cold tile seeps through my jeans as I shift onto my ass and touch her shoulders. “Hey, come here.”

Without protest, she burrows into my chest. Clinging to me like I’m a lifeline, her fingers twist in the black fabric of my T-shirt while she shatters into a million pieces. It makes me want to kill someone. Kill whoever hurt her. Whoever made her break like this.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“It’ll never be okay,” she cries. “None of this will be. Not ever.”

What the hell?

“Sh…,” I coo, unsure what else I can say as my mind reels. “Sh… I got you. I got you, baby.”

Another sob wracks through her, and my grip constricts around her tiny frame. I need to calm down, but all I see is red, and it takes everything inside of me to keep from grabbing her face and forcing her to tell me who hurt her before promising retribution. Because I can’t. Not right now. Not when it isn’t what she needs.

Forcing my muscles to relax, I drop a kiss to the top of her head and stay on the ground, rocking us both on the cold tile. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until slowly, her sobs fade into cries, and her cries fade to whimpers and tiny hiccups of grief. I don’t know how long it takes. Whether it’s seconds or minutes or hours. My butt is numb, though. And my arms ache from holding her limp body against me. Even then, I wouldn’t move for the world. Not until she’s ready.

Pulling away from me, Tatum wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, refusing to look at me as she lunges toward the bowl again, puking like before.

I climb to my knees and hold her hair away from her face. Vomit splatters along the back of the toilet and on the seat, making my stomach squirm on instinct, but I ignore it, focusing on the silky tendrils of hair in my hands and the flowery scent of shampoo clinging to it. Once she’s finished, she slurs, “S-sorry.”

Oh, Birthday Girl.

I’m the one who’s sorry. We’ve all been here, and I don’t envy her next twenty-four hours, that’s for sure. The question is, why? She was fine in the hallway. A little prickly, maybe, but fine.

Who was calling her?

The question sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it aloud. Instead, I reach for the hand towel and bring it to Tatum’s face. After wiping her mouth, I carefully urge her to look at me. My grasp on her hair stays firmly in place while I take in every micro expression and minute detail of her pretty face. Maybe I should have her stomach pumped. Or maybe she got everything out of her system? She puked a lot. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve been to parties before. Saw people shit themselves. Wake up in their own urine and vomit. I’ve witnessed the repercussions that come with substance abuse. But none of them were Tatum Taylor. And none of them scared the shit out of me like Tatum is right now.

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