Page 94 of Jesse

“What?”

“I think he drugged me last night.”

“Get your ass in to the office! We need to talk!”

The call drops and I just stare at the screen. A text pops up.

Mila: Move it! I want you here in less than an hour!

I don’t make it in an hour. I’m pretty sure I spend at least one hour standing under the hot water in my shower. And when I finally do manage to get my shit together and dress, then make my way down to the parking garage, I stand and look at the Huracán for a good ten minutes, trying to piece last night back together again.

It’s pretty hazy but I think I got it.

He drugged me.

He fucked me, then drugged me, then took me home in my own car. Somehow he got me upstairs and into bed. I was wearing the yellow dress when I woke up, so he dressed me too.

Then, and this is the most important part as far as I’m concerned, he left me.

Again.

Mila has been texting me constantly wanting updates on my whereabouts and I’m at a red light half a block away from my building when this last one comes in. So I text back: I’m here. Be there in ten seconds.

When I pull up in front of the building for the valet, I spy Mila pacing in front of the revolving doors that lead inside, looking like her whole world is falling apart.

Hell, maybe it is?

She stops and stares off at the valet entrance. Just stands there and stares.

I get out of the car and look at her. But now she’s texting and my phone dings.

Where are you?

“I’m right here,” I say, walking up to her.

“What the—” She whirls around and stares at me. “Where did you come from?”

“My car,” I say.

She looks around. There’s no car here except for the Huracán. “What car?”

“Mila, my car,” I say, pointing at the Lamborghini.

“That’s not a car, that’s a dick! Why would you buy a new dick? You don’t even have an old dick!”

“Are you OK?”

“No, I’m not OK!” Then she looks around and says. “We need to talk. Upstairs.”

She grabs my arm and pulls me along to the Bright Berry Beach executive elevator and then spends the entire time inside the glass-walled box with crossed arms and glaring eyes.

But she does not say a word.

When the doors open onto the top floor I follow her out. One of the receptionists stands up, like she has a message for Mila, but Mila puts up a hand and says, “We are all unavailable. Do not interrupt us.”

We end up in Mila’s office. Hannah and Natalie are already there looking worried and maybe even borderline scared.

“OK,” I say, flopping down into a chair in front of Mila’s desk. “What’s going on?”