Chapter Twenty-Nine

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT smell?

It took me about a minute from the moment I recognized that I was lying somewhere on my stomach, in a room I didn't know, till I managed to open my eyes. Shit, they were heavier than carrying Trent on my back, which I actually did once when he got injured in high school. That wasn't the time to dwell on that story, though.

Where was I? I looked around. There was a white nightstand to my right, the sheets were pink, and the room looked clean and smelled of flowers…

Holy shit, no.

I got up too fast, stumbling over a pile of dresses and righting myself on a white and pink nightstand. I knocked off a row of beauty products, then heard dishes clanking outside the room. I didn't have my shoes on, but my pants and shirt were intact—thank God—and it took me exactly three seconds to stand in this woman's hallway—her apartment was the size of my pantry—and try not to throw up my last meal on her floor.

The room spun, my head was pounding, and I was pretty sure there was an infinite hole in my stomach waiting to be filled with soft bread so it could soak up some of the alcohol I consumed yesterday.

"Did we sleep together last night?" I asked the woman in the kitchen. She spun around and looked at me like I was a green creature who fell from the sky wearing a silver onesie. I blinked a few times, trying to figure out if I was hallucinating or if this was real.

"I would stab myself in the face before sleeping with you." Elle pursed her lips and got back to washing the dishes. "No. I saw you zigzagging on the street and mumbling something about your dad and Rosie. I tried to call your girlfriend, but she didn't answer, so I figured I'd offer you a place to stay. I took the couch. You owe me a massage gift card. Just putting it out there." She hitched one shoulder.

Rosie.

I thanked Elle and ran out, not even bothering to grab my coat. My phone died sometime yesterday, and I had to plug it in the charger to read her messages. I tried calling her a thousand times, but she didn't answer. There were a pile of missed phone calls from the rest of the guys, but I ignored them. My next phone call was to Millie. It went straight to voicemail. I called Rosie's parents. Nothing. Finally, my screen lit just as I was about to call her again and it was Vicious. I pressed the phone to my ear.

"I don't know where she is," I answered, terror gripping me by the throat. "Fuck, Vic, she's not in her apartment, and she didn't have the keys to the Hamptons house, so I have no clue where she went."

"She's in the hospital, dickbag. Her lungs are collapsing. Her liver is not functioning, and she can barely breathe. Congratulations, you fucked up royally," he said in his dry voice.

I collapsed onto a stool in my kitchen, clasping the back of my neck so tight I drew blood.

"What hospital?"

"I'm not telling you shit, man. No one wants to see you here."

"I need to see her."

"Not happening. I will beat your sorry ass if you try, and even if you somehow manage to get past me, her dad will shoot you straight in the fucking face. Stay away."

"Vicious," I growled.

"What the fuck were you doing? What was more important than opening the door for your sick girlfriend?"

Getting drunk,I thought bitterly. Then it dawned on me that that was exactly what she did. Clawed at the door desperately when I was sitting in a bar by a fireplace, drinking hard liquor.

Asshole, asshole, asshole.

"Is she awake?" I asked, already grabbing my keys. He heard and tsked, telling me it was a bad idea.

"She comes and goes."

"I need to see her." I was a broken fucking record that would not stop spinning until it got what it wanted.

"You already said." Vicious didn't seem impressed by my persistence. "It doesn't look good. The LeBlancs are distraught. Millie looks like hell. Not a good time to come here."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should." Vicious's voice was grave. "Timing is everything."

It was, and we knew it. Timing brought Millie and me together, even though we shouldn't have been. Timing tore Rosie and me apart, even though we should have been. Timing was also what brought us back together.

I was going to defy timing. For her.

"Tell me where she is."

"Not happening."

"Vicious, I will ruin your ass if you don't tell me, and we both know that I'll find out at some point."

No answer.

"Vicious."

Nothing.

"Vicious!"

The line went dead.

I had a feeling my heart was going to do the same soon, if I didn't find her.

I found out where she was hospitalized an hour later. Made Elle call Rosie's parents, promising her a spa weekend wherever she fucking wanted, and made my way there. Took the Mercedes that sat unused for months and drove there like I was being chased by demons. And I was. Those demons made me drink. They made me responsible for the fact that my girlfriend was dying in a hospital bed.

Hey, asshole. You deserve to die, too.

My dad kept on calling, killing my battery in the process. Hundreds of times. Mom, too. My sisters left voice messages and texts to last for centuries. Fuck 'em. Well, not my sisters. First, gross. Second, they probably only knew what my parents wanted them to know. They would never forgive Eli. Fuck, how could my mom take him back after what he'd done to her? I made a mental note to ask her that when my life wasn't covered chin-high in shit. Whenever that would be.

I parked by Good Samaritan Hospital in the Hamptons and approached the receptionist asking for Rose LeBlanc. She told me to go fuck myself, but in nicer words. The bottom line was that the LeBlanc patient was not accepting any visitors who weren't family. I couldn't tell for sure where the order came from—her or her parents—but the outcome was the same.

I loitered around the waiting room because there was nothing they could do to stop me from staying. Called Vicious, Millie, and Rosie every two minutes. Kicked the vending machine a few times when my mind strangled me with guilt. Pulled at my hair. Made promises to Rosie that she couldn't hear. Broke those promises. Thought about creative ways to sneak into her room. Remembered I didn't even know what her room number was. Cursed some more. Generally acted like a fucking madman.

I was losing it, and it wasn't pretty.

Vicious came out of the elevator a few hours later and strolled over to me, not even half-surprised to see me there. He clasped the back of my neck, just about ready to pull me into an embrace. Fuck no. This wasn't a daytime soap opera. Though I did find out that his beloved hero, Eli Cole, was actually a manwhore, fucking douchebag of the worst variety.

"You look like shit." His lips barely moved.

"Fucking coincidence, you ain't Victoria's Secret material yourself." I cocked a brow.

He laughed.

The fucker actually laughed in my face. Rosie was fighting for her life, and he looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Well," his mirth died abruptly, "you acted like a little shit, too."

"How is she?" I rubbed my eyes, feeling like I hadn't slept in years.

"Not good," he admitted. "Stable, though. She sleeps a lot. And she makes that rattley sound when she breathes. Like her lungs are full of rusty needles."

Kill. Me. Now.

He knew. He knew by just looking at me that there was no point giving me grief for everything that had happened. I was already in the gutters of life, trying to claw my way out and back into Rosie's universe with bleeding fingers.

"What happened?" Vicious started walking toward the Starbucks across the road, and I fell in step with him. As much as I hated to be the underdog around Vicious, I had to recruit him to my side. That, in itself, felt impossible. We always went head-to-head. I think that was what had kept our friendship alive. The constant battle.

"The mother of all shitstorms." I ran a hand through my hair and punched the nearest wall. Fuck, I was going to tell him. Because I had to. Because of Rosie. "In bullets: I'm adopted. Up until now I thought that my parents adopted me from my slutty aunt who got knocked up by a no-show piece of shit. Turns out the no-show piece of shit is actually hot-shot lawyer Eli Cole. He slept with his wife's sister while they were already married and decided to keep it from me for thirty years. Just, you know, in a fucking nutshell."

"Fuck," Vicious hissed, stopping to look me in the eye, making sure it wasn't all a big, fat, sad joke. After that, we took our coffees and sat down by the window overlooking the hospital. The thought that she was so physically close yet mentally far messed with my mind. It felt like the end of everything. The world. Us. Her. "That's some heavy mess. I had no idea Eli was capable of out-dicking us," Vicious said, probably referring to the fact he dipped his dick in his wife's sister.

"It's in the genes, I guess." I stroked my chin thoughtfully, taking a sip of my cup of Joe. "Who fucking cares, Vic? Seriously. She needed me, and I stood her up. She needed me, and she stood in the rain waiting on me. I should burn in hell. In fact, I bet you'd be happy to light the fucking match."

Vicious offered me an uncommitted shrug, moving his teeth across his lower lip.

"What?" I elbowed him.

"I mean, honestly? Who hasn't fucked up? I fucked up with Emilia so many times. I did things that were far worse. But she wasn't sick. That's the only difference. She was there to accept me when I finally pulled my head out of my ass and started groveling."

"And you think Rosie is not going to make it?" I cleared my throat so I wouldn't choke, and there was not enough air in the fucking room as I waited for his answer.

He looked down. "I'm not a doctor, but I'd be lying if I said her prognosis is good."

"I have to speak to her." I angled my body to face him, clasping both his shoulders and forcing him to look at me—look at my grief. "You need to help me, Vic. I can't not see her right now. You realize that, right?"

He measured me, silent and cunning. His lips were pressed together. He was thinking.

"What do you want?" I scrubbed my face. "Name your price."

Holy fuck, we were doing this again. This. Negotiating each other's happiness. Fine. Whatever. Everything had a price tag. Especially in Vicious's world.

"What would it take for me to get to her?"

Nothing was a hard limit. I think he knew it.

"I want fifteen percent of your shares in Fiscal Heights Holdings." He served me my own medicine and shoved a good amount of it down my fucking throat. I didn't even think about his request before the words left my mouth.

"Take them. They're yours. Now get me up there. I need to see her."

"Twenty," he said. Fucker.

Straight-faced, I said, "Yours."

"Twenty-five. All of your shares. Mine. Sign it tomorrow morning."

"Take all my shares. Take my clothes and my apartment and my inner organs. Let me see her. Reason with the LeBlancs."

He got up, finished his coffee in one gulp, and set his cup down.

"The thing is, Mr. Cocksmacked, I don't need any of your shit. But I'll help you. This is the hard part, by the way. Even if her parents would let you see her, the LeBlanc sisters don't go down easy."

I stood up, finally allowing a smirk to grace my face.

"Well, then it's a good thing I'm a very good tackler."