Page 20 of Crazy Love
“Can you help?”
“Need me to bring green herbs?” I ask, thinking of my favourite game. I tiptoe along the empty hallway, even though my bare feet don’t make a sound on the carpet. The map shows that stairwell B is just ahead on the turn before the bank of lifts.
“No. Blue ones. Just get here fast.”
Guess Darke’s aResident Evilfan too.
“On my way.”
I hit the door to the stairs. The light here is blinding compared with the dimness of the corridor. I blink, clutch the bannister and lean over to look up and down the central well. Darke is a couple of flights down, crouched with his bare, ink emblazoned, back to me, and one hand clutched to the side of his head.
“Up here.”
He turns, sees where I am, and finishes the call. He doesn’t come to meet me. Instead, I pad down the steps, curling my toes because the surface is freezing.
“You play too many video games,” I say, once I’m within four paces of him. He’s bared down to the waist, giving me a splendid view of his inked torso. He’s no gym bunny, but pleasantly ripped, with nice strong arms and enough dark fuzz on him to make my lady parts get antsy. It’s hard not to stare at the few tufts that are peeping over the top of his low-rise jeans and not contemplate the package below that they’re signposting. I’ve already had him in my mouth tonight and lied outrageously to one of my best mates to avoid a having a serious ding-dong over it, meeting him here now is going to cause a Jessie supernova if she finds out.
“It got you here, didn’t it? And if I play too many games, you do too, because you never once asked me what the hell I was talking about.”
“Yeah.” He has me there, because not only am I here, I’m here wearing a borrowed bathrobe and my undies. Then again, I reckon if he put his mind to it, Nathaniel Darke could relieve me of both those items in the time it takes me to blink. “I’m not seeing a zombie hoard.”
He bites his lips, in an attempt to hide the smile spreading across his face. “I’m not seeing any blue herbs.”
Touché.
“It’s not as if you need any.”
“They weren’t for me. They were for him.” He takes a pace to the left, so that I can see around him. One of his band mates is slumped in the corner, with his head bent at an alarming angle. At a guess I’d say he fell down the stairs, but the puddles of corrosive-looking goo splattered around him hint otherwise. The smell once I get on a level with Darke is eye-watering—an acidic mix of curdled milk, beer and…is that urine?
Darke casts a grim look in the direction of his friend’s groin. Me, I prefer not to think about whether it’s a stain or a shadow across the region of his fly.
“What happened?”
He chews over his reply, which leaves indents in his lower lip where he digs in with his teeth. “Just help me get him upstairs.”
“Upstairs? Seriously?” The only place this guy looks like he needs to be heading towards is a hospital. I tiptoe around the noxious puddles and check his pulse in his throat. For all that he appears to be utterly fucked, it’s going strong. Nevertheless, I swipe a thumb across the screen of my phone and jab in the number for the emergency services.
“No.” Darke leans over and taps the end call button before the connection has properly been made. “The last thing I need right now is a crew of paramedics carting him off. I need to get him straight to face Graham Callahan.”
“You what?” Did he really just say that?
“He’s our bass player.” He throws me a pained look from under his eyebrows.
“Your friend? Yet you’re putting your ambitions over his health? Seriously?” Who does that? Well too many people, I suppose. The world his full of selfish wankers. I just hadn’t pegged Darke as one of them. Obviously, I mistakenly assumed our musical compatibility equated to general like-mindedness.
He shakes his head, disturbing the dark hair that rests upon his collar. “That’s not it.”
“Then prove it. Let me make the call.”
“Who ya gonna call?” the patient blurts, nearly bowling me over I’m so shocked to hear him speak. I thought for definite he was comatose. Apparently, he’s still with it enough for his inner geek to function.
Both Darke and I stare at him, anticipating a follow up yell of “Ghostbusters,” but he just flashes us a toothy grin and then slides back inside himself, his eyes becoming vacant, before his lids droop over them. Perhaps the hospital wouldn’t thank us for depositing him there. They’re none too fond of having drunks clogging their waiting room, and I’m beginning to think that’s all this is—too much booze and zero self-restraint. On the other hand, it’d be irresponsible not to get him help when he so obviously needs it.
“Please. If you could just assist with getting him to bed,” Darke begs.
“You want me to help you get him to bed,” I parrot him, because the information does not compute. “Are you delusional? He’s a mess. He’s not playing anything for Graham Callahan. He’s not playing anything for anyone. Darke, we need to call an ambulance.” This boy needs to have his stomach pumped.
“My name’s Nate, and please—” He covers the screen of my phone with his hand so that his long fingers end up folded over mine. “—let’s at least make this a vaguely fair fight.”
