Page 101 of Sycopation
Probably shouldn’t have talked to the cops, either, but the worry and fear crept in enough to cloud common sense. Yes, he had threatened to rip Carl’s hand off—but Carlhadbeen storming toward him. Yes, there was a history of animosity between Carl and Ray and the band. No, he didn’t know why.
Thankfully, the bartender corroborated everything he’d said about Ray and drinking. Told the cops what Zavier already knew—Ray hadn’t touched alcohol that 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 clammed up 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 universe anyway.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’s student, 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 miasma of 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 pain and 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 ropes and cuffs and completely at the mercy and will of another. He’d submitted freely then, and had hated every second of that lossof 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 threw him 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 rearview mirror. “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 the rest 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 what he 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 waiting for a room to open up in the hospital.
