Page 21 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

Then she promptly spits it back out… right on the bar counter.

The bartender she’d been flirting with looks murderous as he turns to me.

“Okay, she’s cut off,” he tells me. “Time to get her home.”

“Good call.” I nod in agreement and grab Tamara, pulling her away from the bar. She doesn’t resist this time. In fact, she actually moans a little.

I know then that something is really wrong.

“Tamara?”

I’ve got her arm around my neck, so it’s hard for me to see her face. But a quick side glance tells me that her color is not quite right.

“Esm’, I don’t feel so…urgh…”

She stops talking. I watch her turn a nasty shade of yellow right in front of my eyes.

“Oh, God,” I gasp. “We need to get you home right now.”

Tamara shakes her head violently. “No…urgh!Bathroom…”

Shit.Looks like home is out of the question. T-minus sixty seconds or so until projectile vomiting commences.

Nodding, I try and support her as best I can as I half-drag, half-carry her past Boulder Man and off to the bathroom on the other side of the club.

On our way there, several men accost me with offers to “help” carry Tamara.

“Come on, baby. Let me carry her for you. If you’re jealous, I’ll carry you too.”

“What will you give me if I help you with your skank friend?”

“I like my women barely conscious when I fuck ‘em.”

I act as though I hear none of them. I just keep my head down and power through, ignoring the comments as well as the stares and wolf whistles. Even though the increasingly vulgar comments make my skin shiver.

Men are vile.

Drunk men doubly so.

I’m panting by the time we reach the restrooms.

Tam looks even worse than she did back at the bar. Her face is an unnatural green and the sounds coming out of her are like baby gurgles mixed with a clogged garbage disposal.

Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck.

I have to kick the door of the bathroom open, but I manage to get us both inside.

For the first time since she threw up on the bar, Tam moves of her own volition. Her drunken, wobbly legs carry her towards one of the open stalls.

She’s down on her knees in seconds, spewing her guts out into the open toilet.

Suppressing my own gag reflex, I reach forward and pull back her hair. Tamara grips the toilet as though it’s a lifeline. Her bare knees scrape against the silver-grey slate tiles beneath us.

In that moment, I’m grateful that Tamara decided on one of the more upscale clubs in the city. There are worse floors to be kneeling on, that’s for sure.

Some time passes. I’m not sure how long. Three or fouryaaakks’worth, if that’s a unit of measurement.

But eventually—mercifully—Tamara’s puking slows.

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