“I need the bathroom,” Rosaline says. Still not moving. Desperate, I go around behind her and hook my arms under her shoulders, basically dragging her to the bathroom. We leave a red trail down the hallway, making me wince. It looks like somebody just got murdered here.
I carry her into the downstairs bathroom and help her into the tub, turning the taps on full. Rosaline screams when freezing cold water hits her thighs, trying to scramble out of the bath. I keep one hand firmly planted on her shoulder, to stop her from thrashing around like a wet cat, as I locate the plug and shove it into the hole in the bottom of the tub.
“Running water,” I say, shaking my head in mock surprise. “Who’d have thought?”
“No hot water,” she whimpers, her lips a little blue around the edges.
“Mmm, it’s practically barbaric,” I muse. “You poor thing. Don’t you dare die, you hear me?”
She smiles, trying to cup my chin with her blood-stained hand. “Aww, you’re so sweet.”
I pull my face out of her reach. “Your blood is literally all over my house. If you die, it’ll be like CSI: Verona Heights in here. And guess who they’ll be arresting?”
The water is covering her legs now, and Rosaline seems to be adjusting to the temperature. I’ve even added a little hot water to take off the edge. I’m not completely heartless.
“Stay in there until the bleeding stops,” I instruct her, heading for the door. I let out a groan when I see the crime scene left in her wake, sinking down onto the un-bloodied end of my couch as I survey the destruction around me. Empty wine and whiskey bottles in the corner. My mirrored coffee table, still laden with fat caterpillars of speed, waiting to be snorted up. Bright red drops of blood amongst the white powder, blood and smack, looking disturbingly similar to pizza flour and pasta sauce. Gross. This mess was so not worth it.
I sit there for a few minutes, lighting a cigarette. I watch through the large bay windows as a limousine snakes up the long driveway next door. I wonder if it's her. Probably. It’s her birthday today, and there’ll be a party or some other fancy shit going on. The thought of a bunch of rich assholes standing on the balconies and in the rose garden next door and eyeing off my fire-damaged piece of shit makes anger burn in my belly. I should crash the party. I should drown Rosaline in their fucking pool while everyone watches. I’d drown her in mine, but the pool in my backyard is a swamp now, reserved only for mosquitoes to breed and hatch their babies. I’m daydreaming about sneaking into the party next door later tonight when Rosaline suddenly appears beside me, like a silent ninja, her face still streaked with blood. I put my hand on the Glock that sits on the side table beside me, my fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun before I realize it’s her, and not an intruder.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I say, my heart rate spiking like I’ve just been hit with a dose of adrenalin — or snorted a line, I guess.
“I have to get out of here,” Rosaline mumbles, snatching up her handbag and making a beeline for the bathroom again. I frown, puzzled by her sudden change of heart. My suspicion grows as she closes the bathroom door again, and I hear muted rummaging.
Fucking bitch. I know exactly what she’s doing.
I drag my phone out of my jeans pocket, shoot off a text.
Bitch is in my bathroom trying to steal my stash.
Three little bubbles pop up under my message right away.
I’m in your driveway. Want me to bring the crew?
Can I eat this pizza, then?
One ear still on Rosaline in the bathroom, I reply.
No. Let’s keep this between us. Bring the pizza. I’m starved.
Rosaline exits the bathroom, stepping around her own trail of nose-blood with bare feet. She looks like a dead corpse walking.
“Rosie,” I say sweetly, kicking back on my couch. “I thought you wanted to stay?”
She smiles. “I need to get home, freshen up. Call you later?”
I don’t even need to look in my bathroom to know that she found my stash and stole it. You know why? Because Rosaline would never, ever leave her heroin in my jeans pocket, forgotten, let alone a small mountain of white powder on my coffee table. She’s the kind of girl who would scoop it up and store it in her cheeks to get it past the front door.
Speaking of.
There’s a knock at the front door.
“Pizza delivery!” the voice at the door calls.
“Can you let the pizza guy in on the way out?”
Rosaline grins, her pupils the size of dinner plates. “Sure thing, babe,” she coos, tucking her suspiciously full handbag under her arm and making a beeline for the front door.
She opens the door, her free hand out to grab the pizza, when she freezes. “Merc?” she says, her hand stopped in mid-air. I’m on my feet at the same time, moving across the large, open space to the open door.
“Pizza!” my best friend says jovially, throwing two boxes of cheesy crust pizza on the floor beside Rosaline. “You want to pay with cash, or with the shit you just stole?”
Rosaline tries to scurry around Merc, with no success. Merc crosses his arms over his broad chest, smiling, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth that look even brighter against his Hispanic coloring. Rosaline turns suddenly, probably headed for an alternative exit, but instead barreling right into my open arms. I get her in a bear hug, pinning her arms at her sides as Merc snatches her purse from her hand. He pulls out a metal cigarette box, a skull stamped on the front, and snaps it open to reveal rows of bright red heart-shaped pills.
My pills.
Rosaline starts to panic. “I can explain,” she says, trying to pull away from me. I respond by tightening my hold on her, picking her up off her feet and heading back to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I’m chewing on cheesy crust pepperoni pizza, and Rosaline is tied to one of my kitchen chairs, sitting in the middle of my living room, furious as she tries to yell at me past the piece of tape over her mouth.
It’s not the first time I’ve tied a half-naked girl to a chair and threatened her life, and I very much doubt it’ll be the last. Chicks, man. Sometimes the only way to get them to tell the truth is to show them the sharp end of a knife, make them cry a little. Merc finishes his slice before me, dusting his hands on his jeans as he retrieves a switchblade from his pocket and opens it with a metallic snick sound.
“Hey Rosie, you ready to talk?” Merc asks.
I hold up a slice of pizza. “You tell me who you’re stealing for, I’ll even share my pizza with you.”
If this were an episode of Supernatural, her eyes would be solid black right now, little demon she is. Fortunately, this is reality, and Rosaline isn’t a demon — just a very fucking shady girl, one I should have known would bring me a whole bunch of trouble that I don’t need.
Merc unceremoniously rips the tape from her mouth, and probably takes half of the skin on her face along with it. Her eyes pop a little from the pain, as she gasps in a breath. “Motherfucker,” she spits, pulling at her bindings. “I’m going to make sure you both get what’s coming to you for this.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Rosaline, you tried to steal my entire stash of pills. Pills that are very special to me. The least you can do is tell me who you’re stealing it for.”