Page 49 of Freeing Ruby

“Goodbye, Darren,” I say. Using my foot, I close the door in his face. Asshole.

“Here you go,” I say, handing Ruby her cup. “Mocha Peppermint.” The drinks aren’t hard to tell apart because our names are written on the disposable cups in black permanent pen. Plus, hers has a mountain of melting whipped cream and sprinkles beneath the domed plastic lid. Mine doesn’t. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Darren delivered our drinks to the apartment?”

“Not really,” she says. “He’s done it before. He’s just trying to be helpful.”

That’s not how I see it. I think he’s being presumptuous and territorial. Or maybe I’m the one being territorial. I glance at Ruby just in time to see her take a sip of her drink.

“Mm,” she says. She pulls her straw out and licks the whipped cream off it.

Immediately, my dick hardens. Yeah, I’ve got it bad for her.

Ruby picks up the remote and resumes the movie while I sit down. I have to shift in my seat to relieve the pressure on a very inconvenient erection. My mind isn’t on the movie, though. It’s bugging the hell out of me that Darren delivered the coffees to us. The suspicious part of my brain is working overtime. Or maybe it’s the jealous part. “Do you order coffee from this shop a lot?”

Ruby nods. “More than I should. They’re my guilty pleasure.” She takes another sip. Again she pulls her straw out of her cup to lick the whipped cream, getting some of it on her upper lip in the process.

Watching her lick her straw only heightens my arousal. I can’t help imagining her tongue licking—okay, just stop it. Pay attention to the movie.

Ruby takes a long, leisurely sip before setting her cup on the coffee table. “How do you like yours?”

I try my iced caramel latte, and I’m pleasantly surprised. “It’s good. Really good.”

Pumpkin stands and jumps onto the coffee table, flicks his tail, and knocks Ruby’s drink over in the process.

“Crap!” When I jump to my feet, Pumpkin bolts from the room, disappearing into Ruby’s bedroom. I run to the kitchen to grab some paper towels. As I’m mopping up the puddle of coffee, which is running off the table onto the rug beneath, I notice Ruby is just sitting there, leaning back against the sofa cushions, staring in the direction of the TV screen. She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by her spilled drink puddling on the floor. “Ruby?”

I pat her knee. “Ruby?” When she doesn’t respond, warning bells go off in my head. I switch on the lamp on the end table and look her in the eyes. “Ruby?” I shake her gently, but get no reaction. My anxiety skyrockets as I grip her chin and make her look at me. “Talk to me, honey.”

Ruby’s head lolls back, and she stares up at me with glassy eyes. “Miguel?” Her voice is slurred. She starts to reach out to me, but her hand falls limply to her lap. “Wha—” She starts shaking, and I notice sweat beading on her forehead.

Shit!

I grab my phone and call 911. While the call is connecting, I send a text message to Shane.

Me – Ruby’s ill. Calling 911. Taking her to ER

Shane – I’ll meet you there

When the 911 operator answers, I give her Ruby’s address and all the information she asks for. “Caucasian female, 24 years old, approximately five-seven, one hundred thirty pounds. She’s unresponsive, shaking, sweating.” I eye her spilled coffee cup. “I think she’s been drugged.”

The operator asks me what she took.

“She didn’t take anything, but she just drank some coffee from a local coffee shop, and I think it might have been spiked with something. As soon as she took a few sips, she zoned out on me.”

I continue trying to get Ruby’s attention, to get her to respond to me, but she’s barely conscious. When she does try to say something, the syllables come out slurred and unintelligible.

“Stay on the phone with me, sir,” the operator says. “I’m sending a squad to your location.”

While we wait for the EMTs, I sit with Ruby, holding her in my arms as she continues to shake. She’s mumbling, but I can’t make out any of the words. I feel utterly helpless. The only thing I can do is hold her. “It’s okay, honey. Help’s on the way.” I press my lips to the crown of her head. “Just hang in there. You’re going to be all right.” But even as I say that, I wonder who I’m trying to console—her or myself.

My stomach knots with fear.

Ten long, interminable minutes pass before there’s a knock at our door. Carefully I release Ruby and jump up to let the EMTs in. Two of them, a man and a woman, rush into the apartment.

I stand back to give them room to work as they take her vitals and radio the information to the hospital. The female EMT calls on her radio for assistance with transporting the patient. A few minutes later, two firefighters appear at Ruby’s door, carrying what looks like a wheelchair. The four of them place Ruby in the chair and securely strap her in from head to toe.

Seeing Ruby like that—so pale and lifeless—is unnerving. On impulse I take the ruby ring off her finger and slip it into my pocket. She’d be heartbroken if that got lost.

I grab my phone, wallet, and keys. “I’m riding with you.”

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