Page 9 of Dead Set on You
Rafael was the second-worst part of the most important client dinner of my entire career. Passing out at the end of it was the first.
One moment he’s inciting feelings that make anesthetic-free root canals seem more bearable, and the next I’m blacking out at the corner of Chicago and Wells. That’s what I get for thinking I can keep my syncope in check long enough to get through the evening with him. Silly me.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out, but my blood is on a slow simmer as I return to consciousness. With a quiet groan, I blink my eyes open, massaging my temples and fighting off grogginess as the room comes into focus.
Despite feeling like roadkill, I’m prepared for his smug face—because me fainting in the middle of Chitown is the closest he’s come to winning a new tally in this war of ours (despite his best efforts).
But it’s not his face I’m staring at as my vision clears, nor is it the gilded ceiling of the Aviary.
Oh God.
Morning light—hazy and nausea inducing—floods my senses, and I think I’m going to be sick. I shut my eyes, taking deep, deep breaths, and wait for the nausea to subside before I attempt to try again.
I squint my eyes open. Slowly the room shifts and solidifies around me. One. Terrifying. Element. At. A. Time.
The camel-colored leather sofa beneath me. The stone coffee table in front of me, laden with books and a half-empty pizza box. An unnecessarily large TV hovering over a marble fireplace. And there—directly above the liquor cart—is a framed poster of thePublicity Todaycover, from last year, when he and I tied for its Emerging Game Changer of the Year award. Rafael is sitting in an armchair wearing a dark-gray suit, and I’m standing beside him wearing a crimson Oscar de la Renta gown that accentuates curves I don’t actually have. When I found out I’d be the one to stand in the photo, I almost popped a seam on the one-size-too-small dress. It’s why there’s the shadow of a smile on my ruby-red lips. Even if we had tied for the award,Iwas the one standing a head above his in the photo. Naturally, I considered myself the victor.
But now I’m the one waking up in Rafael’s apartment after screwing up possibly one of the most important nights of my career … possibly my entire life.
Who’s the winner now?
A fresh wave of nausea makes it hard to think about the answer. The throbbing at the base of my skull makes it even harder. I swallow another groan and wish the world would gobble me up whole and spit me out approximately six months ago when I should’ve dug my heeled feet in and told our boss I wasn’t going to work with him.Wishing is for optimists.So is hoping I didn’t somehow give Rafael another reason to think he’s got the promotionin the bag.
The pressure inside my chest might crack my ribs, and it’s enough to make me double over and clutch my middle. I need to breathe, relax, and pretend like I’m not living out a nightmare.The alternative is giving in to my extremely ill-timed condition and fainting. Again.
One Mamma Mia.
It could have been worse, I remind myself, hoping it’ll calm me.
Two Mamma Mia.
His smirk in the poster taunts me.
Three. Mamma. Mia.My breathing has morphed into a harsh wheezing.
I’m in hisapartment.
No breathing exercise will make this any less petrifying, because I’m on Rafael’s sofa, wearing yesterday’s clothes, without any recollection of the rest of last night.
This time when I groan, it cuts through the silence of his loft. I hold my breath for the span of a few seconds, readying myself for Rafael to pop out of wherever he’s hiding and for whatever gloating he has planned. I imagine his knowing smirk and the glint in his eyes as he recounts the rest of the evening, and I haven’t even had my coffee. Screw syncope.
I listen for a second. Then three more.
When he doesn’t manifest from one of the rooms, I breathe aquietsigh of relief. With slow, painfullyquietmovements, I shift my body, perching on the edge of the sofa. I scan my surroundings for my things, mainly my purse and my phone. Whatever happened last night, my phone will have some answers. Texts?Possibly.Photos?Dear God, I hope not.
The Jell-O–like feeling in my limbs spreads as I search the area around me. Beneath and behind the couch. Beneath and atop the coffee table. No sign of my Prada shoulder bag.
Anxiety pokes holes at my resolve the more this entire situation clicks into place. Passing out on a crowded street. Surrounded by strangers. At Rafael’s mercy. And I don’t remember any of it.
Hands shaking, I press my palms together to keep them still.
Get a hold of yourself.
I close my eyes and take a steadying breath.
I’m Evie flipping Pope.
I breathe in.
