Page 75 of Burn Bright
Blood drains out of my head.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my pulse accelerating. This many incessant calls from Audrey means something is wrong. Four or five and maybe it wouldn’t be anything dire, but fifteen? If she were inserioustrouble, she’d call all our brothers, especially Charlie and Eliot.
My brothers check their phones, but no one seems distraught or panicked. Eliot even listens to his missed texts and grins.
I keep my phone in my fist, then spin to Harriet as she goes to grab her messenger bag. “Hey, can you give me ten minutes? I need to call my sister back.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I head out to use the bathroom for privacy, but when I step through the doorway, I hear Beckett say, “What’s wrong, Tom?”
My stomach nosedives. Rotating back, I see Tom clutching at his throat. “I fucked up,” he croaks. “Beck—” His voicecracks.Panic lances his widening eyes. He’s the lead singer in his band.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck.Wind is knocked out of my chest, and it takes everything to reach the bathroom in one choked breath.
The door swings shut behind me.
I don’t call my sister right away.
I brace my hands on either side of the sink. What the fuck…what the fuck? A raging anxious heat swarms me. Sweat quickly builds up on my forehead, and I yank at the collar of my shirt. Suffocating—am I suffocating? Why is it so fucking hard to breathe? I intake an unsteady one and splash water on my face.
Groaning out, I try to calm down, but I can’t…I can’t because all I’m thinking about is how Tom likely justdamagedhis vocal cords. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t be here. This wouldn’t have happened if I stayed at the apartment. Folding my arms on the rim of the sink, I press my forehead to them, feeling ill.
It’s so dumb.
I’m being fucking dumb. This isn’t my fault.This isn’t my fault.But I caused this. Being here caused this. There are consequences to everything.
Hot tears burn the creases of my eyes. “Stop,” I grit at myself. “Stop.”
Now I’m on my knees, and I’m puking in the porcelain bowl. I white-knuckle the top of the toilet, my insides on fire. All of me is trying to turn inside-out. I try to think of Harriet.
I didn’t hurt her.
I haven’t hurt her at least.
Harriet.
With a few deep breaths, I begin to slowly…so very slowly…calm down. I spit, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and hang my head. Breathing. I’m just trying to breathe.
17
HARRIET FISHER
Beckett and Eliot are consoling a seriously freaked-out Tom in the small foyer of the brownstone. I followed them out of the parlor when Ben left for the bathroom, and I hang back while Tom paces left and right. His elbow knocks into a tower of books.
He whirls around, trying to catch a few of them. “Shitfuck.” The hoarseness of his voice widens his gaze. Panicking, he laces his hands on the top of his head.
“Don’t talk,” Beckett advises.
“I’ll call your laryngologist,” Eliot says, taking Tom’s phone and searching through his contacts.
“It’s past midnight,” Tom squeaks out, tears cresting his eyes. “He’s probably asleep. OhmyGod.” His scratchy voice is a whisper now.
“Don’t talk,” Beckett emphasizes.
Tom runs his fingers through his hair multiple times and begins pacing again. I know he’s my nemesis and I should be inwardly jumping for joy seeing him rattled, but I kind of feel…bad. If someone broke both my thumbs and left me incapable of becoming a surgeon, I’d be devastated. No part of me wantsto celebrate a dream being potentially ripped away. Even if it isTom’sdream.
