**THIS BOOK IS ON HOLD UNTIL I'M DONE WRITING LOVE CONSEQUENCES** Linda Baxter's trust fund makes life easy, but she learned that things in pretty packages are not worth her time. By twenty-nine, she tried marriage, fabricated a fake relationship, a...
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The clamor that wakes me up is not part of my dream. My room is dark, but there's a sliver of light underneath my door. Do I have an intruder? Heart in my throat, I paw for my phone. It's almost midnight. I've slept for at least two hours. Should I turn on the light? Or will that alert the burglar to my location?
My brain telegraphs words: not alone, roommate. Artem must be the one making the noise. Is he having a party? Did he get drunk?
I slide out of bed, pick up my silk robe, and wrap it around me, as if it would protect me from something other than overactive air-conditioning. I clutch the handle and slowly, ever-so gently open my door, crossing my fingers and toes it doesn't creek in case there's indeed an intruder, the whole money for rent was a scam, and Artem brought a crew to clear me out. Like there's anything worthy left to sell that I haven't already.
My books! He saw them on the shelves. If they try to take my first editions, I'll scratch their eyes out. I would rather move into a first-floor studio in front of the entry gate than sell my precious books. They are not touching them—
The clatter followed by a thud comes from Artem's room and not the living room/kitchen's side of the hall that leads outside. Something crashes. A hail of a million sharp pieces falling rings out of his room, and the light under his door disappears. Goosebumps crawl up my neck and pebble the skin along my collarbone. I shiver, take a step back, and turn on the light.
Maybe I should ignore this, go back to bed, pretend I heard nothing?
My feet freeze to the floor.
What if he is having a heart attack? That hits too close to home. I can't abandon him. What if I can help? Save him? I cross the hallway and barge in. The smell of vomit hits me without me even inhaling. The only light comes from my room but it's enough to reveal a mostly naked Artem on the floor. I flip the switch. Even with my rich vocabulary, I have a hard time finding words for the view of Artem on the bedsheets covered in yellow stuff and shards of what used to be the bedside lamp.
Artem groans and shields his face with his hand. "I'm going to be sick again."
He attempts to stand, and like in the C-list movie with the cheapest special effects, stuff splatters on his bed. My stomach roils. I'm two hundred percent glad I didn't eat dinner, because it would be joining whatever came out of Artem.
"Bathroom. Now." Is the only thing I can think to say.
I approach Artem, who in his boxer-brief-wearing state seems much larger than in his clothed version. I drape one of his arms over my shoulder and let him lean on me as we take slow, shaky steps out of the hallway and to the side where his bathroom is.
"What did you drink?" I've had some experiences with alcohol during my college days, but that was long enough ago. I don't remember what you are supposed to do for alcohol poisoning. Something about pumping the stomach? "Do I need to call the ambulance?"
