Fuck him. Fuck Gabe.

She hated him so much she could kill him. If she went home and got her gun, she could find him, and shoot him. She could blow his fucking head off. And she would enjoy it.

A yellow taxi was moving slowly down the street, looking for patrons in need of a ride home. She raised her arm, but the weak appendage would barely move past her shoulder before flopping back down, dead and useless. But the cab had spotted her, was slowing down. She staggered toward it, her limbs as awkward as a baby fawn’s. But she made it. She got into the back seat and closed the door behind her.

“Take me to the West Twenties first,” she slurred, giving the driver her address. “And then take me uptown.”

46

Blood

Nat woke up in a strange room. But it wasn’t a strange room; it was her apartment. It took her a moment to acclimate to the familiar surroundings from an unfamiliar vantage point. She was on the floor in the entryway, still in the cute spring dress she’d put on to meet Gabe. There was a small puddle of sick beside her, and streaks of blood on the hardwood floor. Her hands and her knees smarted. Her head pounded. Her stomach churned.

She tried to stand, but she was weak and dizzy. But she needed to get away from the vomit and the blood, their pungent and metallic scents. Half sitting, she dragged herself on one elbow and one hip, toward the bathroom. There, she turned on the shower, tore the slip of a dress from her sticky body, and climbed into the tub.

The water pelted her huddled form as she sat on the cool porcelain. If she tried to stand, she would fall, but she needed to wash away the filth and grime of the night before. What had happened to her? How had she gotten home? She felt battered and numb; she knew something very bad had taken place the night before. But what? She remembered the fight with Gabe at the end of the High Line, drinks at a bar, a man with green eyes. She remembered stumbling into a nightclub, ordering a drink and then . . . ? And then a frightening void.

Blood was swirling in the water, circling the drain. Her hands and knees were raw and scraped, her chin, too. But there was so much blood. Too much blood. Had she gotten her period? She was too weak to check. Despite the warm water, she was shivering uncontrollably, her head still throbbing. Someone had drugged her, had slipped something into her drink. And then what? A sob shuddered its way out of her throat, a tortured, guttural sound. She had been hurt and abused, and she had no one to help her.

With tremendous effort, she turned off the water and climbed out of the tub. Her hair was matted and wet, unwashed, dripping in her face. She pulled a towel off the rack and patted at her bruised body. She tried to wrap the soft cotton around her slick form, but it required too much coordination and strength. Naked, she dragged herself out of the bathroom.