I roll my eyes, grab his jacket from the disgusting floor, and loop it over my free arm. His wallet and phone are sitting in a puddle of something vile beside the base of the toilet, but I shove them into my back pockets anyway.
Bastard owes me a new pair of jeans.
“Come on, buddy.” I loop his limp arm over my shoulders and heave him up, staggering a bit under his weight.
With lumbering steps, I manage to get him out of the bathroom, through the side exit. We end up in a litter-strewn alley. It smells like piss and rotting garbage. Linc leans against the brick wall and vomits noisily.
“That’s good, man.” I pat his back. “Get it out.”
The faster that shit gets out of his system, the better.
When he stops throwing up, I pull him away from the wall and start leading him toward the mouth of the alley. He leans heavily on me, his eyes half-closed. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get him home. He reeks of piss and vomit — no cabbie in their right mind would let us in their car, right now.
“Linc, how you doing?” I grit out, straining to keep him on course.
“Fine. I’m fine,” he slurs, falling back against a nearby wall.
“What did you take?”
“Coke. Just coke, I think.”
“You think?”
His eyes crack open a bit, focusing on my face. I think he’s going to say something, but instead he leans forward and vomits again — this time, right on my shoes.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, reeling backward. I slam straight into someone who’s just walked into the alley where we’re standing. “Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, turning around to apologize. My eyes widen a fraction as I take in the sight of an LAPD officer standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.
He looks highly unamused.
* * *
The handcuffs chafepainfully against my wrists as the officers put me into the back of the squad car, one hand pushing down on my head so it doesn’t bash against the roof. They slam the door at my back with chilling finality. My nose wrinkles when the smell of vomit wafts up, overwhelming in the enclosed space.
Just when I thought my night couldn’t get any shittier…
Linc is with the paramedics, probably headed to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. For that, at least, I can be grateful. That way, he’ll still be alive for me to strangle. I could kill him myself for dragging me into this mess.
After I slammed into the officer, he ordered me to brace my hands against the wall of the alley. I did as he said, not putting up a fight as he kicked my feet apart into a wider stance and performed a quick search of my person. I tried to tell him I was clean — no illegal substances or weapons of any kind. He might’ve even believed me, if he hadn’t found the bag of cocaine in the pocket of the jacket I was holding.
Linc’s jacket.
But possession is nine tenths of the law, and frankly neither the officer or his partner seemed too keen on hearing anything I had to say to defend myself after they found the eight ball of blow. They slammed me up against the wall so hard I saw stars, folded my arms behind my back, and slapped cuffs on my wrist so fast, I barely had time to realize it was happening.
I watch the red-blue lights flash against the brick building, rhythmic as a metronome. My mind is consumed by worries about the shit-storm I’m about to cause — with the press, with the police.
With Felicity.
Fuck. I really should’ve left her a damn note.