Page 53 of Toxic Kiss

I reach him just before he collapses into a heap, and I keep his head from hitting the stage. The rest of the band rushes over as I kneel there, holding him.

Vex uses the palm of his hand and rubs Cy’s chest.

“Come on, buddy. Open your eyes.

Cyrus looks wrong. Pale. Sweaty. His chest rises in uneven stutters, like his lungs are trying to remember how to work.

“Cy,” I whisper, grabbing his face and slapping lightly at his cheeks. “Cyrus. Hey. You with me? Come on. Don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t get to do this to me, asshole,” I say as my chest tightens and fear makes it feel as if my windpipe is being crushed.

His hand comes up and touches mine as his eyes flutter open slightly. They close immediately as if that is all he has the strength to do.

A crew member runs past me, screaming for the medics to hurry up.

Ash drops to his knees next to me, cursing violently.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know.” My voice cracks as I continue to rub my thumbs over his cheeks so he’ll know I’m here. “He was fine, and then bam! He looked at me and collapsed.”

But he hasn’t been, okay. I know it, and he knows it, too. The chopsticks last night, the way he has been avoiding me all day. The water bottle from only a few minutes ago. The pills in his bag. His hands have been shaking, and I let it all slide.

Something is very fucking wrong with Cyrus.

I don’t want to care. I really don’t. Except now he’s lying here, and all I want is for him to be alright.

The medics arrive in a blur of uniforms and commands. They check his pulse, ask me if he has epilepsy, is diabetic, or was he not feeling well. I answered numbly.

“I don’t know. He has a doctor, but I don’t know the name,” I say, hating that I have so little information to share.

One of them looks up, face drawn.

“Does he have any allergies? Is he taking any medication?”

I blink. Then jump up.

“No to the allergies, but yes to the medication. I’ll be right back.”

Heart in my throat, I sprint from the stage and tear down the corridor toward the dressing rooms. I fling the door open, and my eyes dart to the couch where Cyrus left his pile of clothes and the black duffel bag he carries around everywhere.

Racing across the room, I drop to my knees and unzip the main compartment. I fish around and pull out some T-shirts. There, tucked away at the bottom, like he is trying to hide them, are the bottles he flashed at me last night.

I squint at the labels, but the drug names are unfamiliar. I race back, shoving past confused staff and stagehands.

“I found these,” I say, holding them out to the medic as they finish strapping him to a backboard.

Taking them, he glances at the labels and nods.

“This helps. Thank you.”

They move fast, but it all feels…wrong. It’s like I am in the middle of a skit or scene, and at any moment someone will yell cut, and all of this insanity will be behind us.

I grab his hand as they load him onto the stretcher and only let go when they tell me I’m in the way.

Nothing about this is normal. This isn’t a hangover or withdrawal. This is something else entirely, and I will get to the bottom of it.

“I’m sorry you can’t go,” the paramedic says when we reach the ambulance.

“I’m going,” I say, grabbing the door before he can close it.