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Angela sighed. “Don’t call him dipshit.”
“Fine,” Abel snapped. “Does fuckface know it isn’t a date?”
She shot him a frustrated look, adding her ID, a credit card, and some bills to her purse, along with her apartment keys. “Of course he does. Brian is a colleague. Nothing more. Besides, he’s not my type.”
“No,” Abel shot back. “We all know what your type is: brown hair, brown eyes, a dangerous aura, and a take-no-prisoners attitude.”
Angela donned an amused smirk. “Careful. With such a poetic description like that, I’ll start thinking you want to date Roman.”
Abel puffed out his chest. “He should be so lucky.”
Now that she thought about it... “Why don’t you date?”
“Nope,” he said simply and began heading to the door.
“What do you mean nope?” She chased after him with a laugh.
“I’m not doing this.” He waved his hand back and forth between them. “I’m not discussing my love life with you like some gossiping twit.”
“Does that mean you have a love life?” Angela pressed, enjoying the panicked look on his face. “I’ve never seen you with anyone.”
Abel huffed, bending over to pat Smithy, who was winding around his ankles. “Angel, any woman who is dumb enough to have me is too dumb for me to be with.”
“You’re not that bad...”
“A glowing testimonial,” Abel replied dryly.
Angela snickered and thumped him on the biceps. “Don’t be so sensitive.”
“You know who is sensitive? Roman is. When other men touch what is his. Be careful, Angel. Be very careful.”
Before she could refute Abel’s claims that she was Roman’s woman, he walked off. She ignored the way the words resonated in her skull—and in her heart.
* * *
The party was boring as hell. She had spoken with each of her colleagues, sincerely wished the retiree well in his future endeavors, and now she was ready to go home.
She smiled and excused herself from an ER doctor she was talking with. She was feeling a little off, a small headache creeping in and some nausea in her belly. Finding a quiet table in the rear of the bar, she sat down for a moment, taking small sips of her water. She’d had one glass of champagne thirty minutes ago and had no intention of having more.
When her stomach rolled, and she was forced to swallow her rapidly forming saliva, she bolted into the restroom. She pushed her way into a stall, leaning over the toilet bowl. She stayed that way for a few minutes, until she was confident she wasn’t going to barf everywhere. Her stomach really wanted to, but it wasn’t happening. And that made her feel even worse. Oftentimes, once she vomited, she felt much better.
Groaning, she went to the sink, cupping her hands under the cold water. It felt nice. She watched, frowning when the water started to look a little funny. She tilted her head to the side to get a better look, but that made her feel dizzy. Very dizzy. She stumbled a little, gripping the vanity to keep her steady. That’s when it hit her.
She’d been drugged.
It had been a long time, but she recognized the signs for what they were. With the room now spinning, she fumbled for her phone. It took her three tries to press the right button. She called the only person she knew she could trust completely.
“Roman...” she rasped when the line connected within a single ring.
“Angel? You don’t sound right. What’s going on?”
His voice soothed her fear but not the rising dizziness. She was struggling to focus. “Roman... drugged.”
When her fingers went lax and she dropped her cell, she tried to retrieve it but no longer had the dexterity. She was also quickly losing her concentration. Trusting that Roman would find her and make everything okay, she stumbled to the restroom door. One of her colleagues would help her.
“Angela. There you are,” Brian greeted her as soon as she pushed her way out of the restroom. He must have noticed how she looked because his face turned worried. “Angela? Are you okay? You look sick.”
She managed a wonky nod, and he jumped into action, gripping her gently but firmly and leading her to a private room down the hall. “Here, sit down. I’ll check you out. Do you need an ambulance? What’s happening?”
