Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(10)

My head is pounding, so I ask him to grab some aspirin, too. “Sure thing,” he replies.

I assume Haven is in bed with Eric. He’s probably pounding all thoughts of Professor Walsh out of her body by now. But, oddly enough, I swear I hear Vincent talking to Eric outside my bedroom door. I can’t hear what they’re saying—they’re speaking too low— but it does lead me to consider Haven may be as f*cked up as me. Maybe she needs a bucket, as well.

I fade in and out of consciousness. When Vincent returns, he has to prop me up so I can swallow the pill he gives me. It tastes bitter, much more so than aspirin, but I have no chance to question why.

A minute later, I lose consciousness.





I wake up with a blinding headache. “Oh, God,” I mumble, wincing from the pain.

I assume it is morning, but when I roll toward the alarm clock on the table next to my bed, big red LED numbers inform me it’s two in the afternoon.

“Shit.”

I try to sit up, but everything around me wavers and tilts, forcing me to lie back down.

“Ugh,” I mutter as the events of the evening rush back to me.

“Vincent?”

I glance around my room. Where is he?

Well, he’s not in here, I conclude. I can’t imagine he stayed long after I passed out. Just to be sure, I take a quick assessment of myself and my surroundings. The bed I’m lying on top of appears to have barely been slept in. I must have hardly moved from the position I passed out in. I rise up slightly. There’s an indentation from one body only, mine. It’s a relief to know I was not violated in any way last night. Because, let’s face it, it was pretty stupid bringing home two strange men. Further indication Vincent did not touch me in any inappropriate way is that I still have the same clothes on.

And, Jesus, do they ever reek. The smell of dried sweat from dancing, as well as grinding in the car on top of Vincent, pushes my uneasy stomach a bit too far. I lean over the edge of the bed and promptly throw up in the bucket Vincent left there for me.

When my stomach settles somewhat, I flop back on the bed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I’m so glad Vincent isn’t here. It would be embarrassing to have him see me like this.

Then again…I suddenly realize he could very well be around. What if he had to wait for Eric? Crap. An image of him out in the living room, listening to me yakking and having a good laugh over how lame his seemingly “sure thing” turned out to be, fills my mind.

Then I remember the pill Vincent gave to me before everything went black. Was it really just an aspirin? The white tablet tasted different. And it sure made me sleep for a long time. The few other times I drank too much, I experienced a restless sleep, with lots of waking and tossing. Last night I was dead to the world.

Slowly, I force myself to stand. When I’m more or less upright, I waver left, then right. I’m still far from sober. Consequently, it takes me longer than usual to reach the door. When I do, I have to lean my forehead against the cool wood for a few seconds. It helps to soothe my pounding head.

“I’m never drinking again,” I vow.

Finally, I open the door and take a tentative step out into the living room. Thankfully, it’s empty. There’s no laughing Vincent, like I feared.

Our apartment consists of a modest living room, a galley kitchen you can see from the living room, a tiny bathroom, my room, and Haven’s room. Glancing around, and noting that the kitchen is empty, I think, three rooms clear, two to go.

On unsteady feet, I make my way over to the bathroom that is nestled between my room and Haven’s.

I swing open the door.

“Empty,” I whisper as I breathe out a sigh of relief.

It’s then that I realize I have to pee like crazy. After I relieve my bladder, I wash my face and hands, and then linger in front of the sink. The aspirin is kept in the medicine cabinet, the one right in front of me. Last time I checked, there were only four pills left in the bottle. I’m sure of this because I clearly recall telling Haven that we needed to restock.

Tentatively, I rest one hand on the edge of the sink. Using my other hand, I open the medicine cabinet.

There’s the aspirin bottle, in its usual spot. And there are four round white pills settled in the base. Four, not three.

Oh, no.

Now, I panic. Hell with queasiness and an aching head. I race out of the bathroom like the place is on fire and skid to a stop in front of Haven’s closed door. Tapping out a slew of frantic knocks, I shout, “Haven, are you awake? Is it okay if I come in?”

Silence.

“Hav, I’m coming in,” I announce in a loud voice.

I’m hoping not to walk in on her and Eric in some compromising position. But I need not worry. When I push open the door, there is no sign of Eric. In fact, the bed appears as if no one has slept in it, let alone engaged in other things. A quick survey of the room—neat and tidy, as always—leads me to surmise everything is in place. But the one thing glaring me in the face is that there is no Haven.

I know then that my best friend has been taken.



An hour later, I am arguing with a burly cop named Officer Knowles.

He rubs his beefy hand over his bald head, while he listens to me say, “Haven did not just leave. I know my best friend, and she’d never take off without telling me. Plus, I’ve called her cell, like, a hundred times, and it keeps going straight to voice mail. She wouldn’t turn off her phone like that. And, again, she wouldn’t pack up and leave the apartment without telling me.”