Page 107 of Syncopation
Thankfully, the bartender corroborated everything he’d said about Ray and drinking. Told the cops what Zavier already knew—Ray hadn’t touched alcoholthat night. They noticed some kind of white substance at the bottom of Ray’s glass, but in the end, it was the security recordings that told the whole story. Ray getting his tonic and lime. Chatting his way through the crowd. Putting his drink down for a second while talking to someone...and Carl dropping something in while no one was watching.
FuckingCarl.Again. Carl, of course, had clammedup as soon as the officers read him his rights. Wouldn’t even tell them what the drug was. Said he wanted to speak to a lawyer.
Eventually, the cops cut Zavier and the bartender loose, with thanks and business cards. They’d be in touch. By the time Zavier stumbled out into fresh air, his mind was a mess of emotions and his body buzzed and ached in ways he didn’t know were possible. Chest tight.Pounding headache. Heart racing. He was both cold and sweating. Zavier pulled out his cell and read the first two texts that were visible.
When will you be here?That was from Dom.
Mish, too.Honey, where are you?
There were more. Details about Ray. The hospital name. They scrolled off screen and his vision blurred.
He wasn’t religious, but he threw a prayer up into the universeanyway.Ray. Fuck. Ray, please be okay!He closed his eyes, and forced his stomach to quell, tried to take enough deep breaths to get his pulse under control. In, out. Control. Find a center and latch on to that.
From behind his eyelids, he saw a flash of bright light. Cameras. Press. Paparazzi. He opened his eyes.Of course.
They descended on him like locusts to wheat. He’d been Nadia’sstudent, so he drew himself up, pocketed his phone, and found the restaurant’s taxi stand. “Get me a cab.”
The attendant was wide-eyed. Zavier watched him flick a glance at the reporters, then he ducked his head. “Right away, sir.”
He tucked his fear for Ray deep down and schooled his features, then faced the cameras. They called his name, asking questions on top of one another. A miasmaof sound that screeched across Zavier’s brain.
What happened to Ray Van Zeller? Was it true he was drunk? Were he and Ray lovers? Why had they taken away Carl Roberts in cuffs? Why wasn’t he at his boyfriend’s side? How did he feel?
He felt like knives were stabbing through every part of his body. That was how hefelt. Ray had needed him—and he’d been helpless. Zavier swallowed the painand held his ground. “I have no statement at this time.” He spoke low, but with force, like the deep boom of a bass drum.
Didn’t matter. The questions went on. Recorders and cameras were shoved in his face. He couldn’t duck them, couldn’t make them stop. Trapped and enclosed by bodies, Zavier’s every nerve said to fight, to escape.
Once—only once—in his life, he’d been bound. Held by ropesand cuffs and completely at the mercy and will of another. He’d submitted freely then, and had hated every second of that loss of control, but he’d endured, because that too was a type of self-mastery.
If you keep your head, Nadia had purred that night,nothing will ever faze you again.
She’d been so very wrong about that. He could be unnerved. There were some things—some people—that threwhim off. Situations that cut to his bone. Ray did more thanfazehim.
But he’d never let this pile of camera-laden, ethically challenged humans know that. When his taxi pulled up, he pushed through the crowd and slipped into the cool, dark interior, and shut the shitshow out. They rapped on the window and yelled at him.
Only a thin strip of the driver’s face was visible in the rearviewmirror. “Where to?”
“Whatever the nearest hospital is. Wait—” There had been a text with the name. He dug his phone out and read the name of hospital off.
The driver pulled away, and the flashes of cameras and tapping on the window were gone. “You okay?” Concern in the driver’s voice.
“I’m trying to get to my friend.” Zavier held on to his phone, focused on breathing, and read therest of the texts. That helped, somewhat. Ray was all right. Not well—but he wouldn’t die. Didn’t die. Would recover. That was all that mattered.
Except relief unlocked a faucet of emotions that churned through Zavier and roiled him with nausea. He clutched his phone to keep his hands from shaking. The bitter, bitter taste of helplessness. Gratitude that Dom and Mish had been there to do whathe couldn’t. The awfulwhat-ifthat lingered—what if he never saw Ray again?
He swallowed. Ray was alive. Repeating that took the nausea away.
Zavier sent a message to both Mish and Dom via a group text.I’m on my way. Had to talk to the cops for a while.
Mish texted back with a room number in the emergency department.They want to keep him overnight for observation, but they’re waitingfor a room to open up in the hospital.
Good. Bad. He couldn’t tell. He just wanted to get there andseeRay. Touch his hand. Verify what his logical brain knew was true. Ray wasalive.
Zavier needed to see the rise and fall of his chest, feel the warmth of his skin. Wanted to know beyond a doubt that everything was all right. He cared for Ray more than he’d ever cared for any other friend.Didn’t know what that meant, needed to examine it further, but there was no time, because the taxi pulled up to the hospital.
Thank goodness he’d shoved his driver’s license and a credit card into the pocket on his phone case, because he had no cash whatsoever. His wallet was packed in some bag at the hotel, but he refused to be without some means, even at fancy dress parties. He handed thecredit card over. When the receipt came back, he left a sizable tip and signed. Then he was out of the cab and heading toward the door of the emergency department.
There was a metal detector to get through at the emergency room, then an information desk. He explained who he was, filled out some paperwork while they checked out his license, then led him back.
