Connie eyed him warily as he approached, curling her hand tighter around the bottle in her possession while her other hand reached out to pull a tattered brown paper bag closer. She guarded her alcohol with all the passion of an Alsatian defending its bone. “You should go now. Don't want you here.”
“Unfortunately, Connie, what you want isn't at the top of the list at the moment.” Thane dropped to his knees beside her, but his attempt to pluck the whisky from her grasp was eluded.
“What I want never is,” she fired back, using the bottle to bash his fingers when he tried to touch her. “It's all about everyone else, as usual.” She blew a raspberry and drank, using her sleeve to wipe away a dribble running down her chin. “I want t’be alone now.”
Thane was quick enough to grab the paper bag. A quick look told him she'd come prepared for more than just a night's binge-drinking. Excluding the bourbon he'd found by the track, the empty Canadian Mist on the rock, and the half-empty one in her hand, she'd brought along another four bottles. Different brands, as though she couldn't decide what she liked. He set it out of her reach. “Your hands are bleeding. Did you fall?”
“What d’you care?”
Thane slapped his hands gently on her cheeks, capturing her face and keeping it turned toward him. “You've scared the shit out of a lot of people tonight, Connie. People who love you. Four of them are risking their lives above our heads, searching this godforsaken wilderness because they thought you were in danger.” Christ, her eyes were like crushed velvet when she was intoxicated. Sad and so, so soft. “We’ll take you home and—”
“No!” Connie's scream was sharp enough to cut glass into shreds. She wrenched away from him, launched the half-empty bottle drunkenly, then performed what might have been a tuck and roll under any other circumstances. Tonight, however, it was more of a tuck and faceplant that left her curvy ass in the air.
“Thane? Thane!” Jasper's voice grew closer. “Everyone okay?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Thane shouted back. Bracing himself for a wildcat to attack him, he used the flashlight to poke Connie's hip, wary of flying feet. The gentle nudge rocked her, but there was no response otherwise. “She's smashed, Jasper. We’ll have to carry her out.”
Light flooded the cavern as Thane carefully rolled Connie onto her side. He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, feeling the chill of her skin. The alcohol was keeping her warm enough on the inside—it was the outside she'd left open to the elements.
“Here, let me take a look.” Jasper hurried over, hunched down low. He mimicked Thane's position on the opposite side of the unconscious woman, and immediately got to work checking her pulse, and flashing his light in her eyes. “Was that her screaming? Was she lucid?”
“She's just out cold, Jasper. She was sitting here drinking when I found her. Talking too. Seemed lucid enough, just pissed. I told her we were taking her home and she screamed, threw the bottle, then executed what I think was supposed to be an escape attempt.” He waved his hand over her body. “She passed out mid-execution. By my guess, she's had a bottle and a half of whisky, depending on what she's spilled. She gave bourbon a try, but that bottle's still full.”
“Christ, she is going to be sick tomorrow,” Jasper murmured, stroking his hand over her hair. “Pulse is strong, I can't see any major traumas. No head wounds. Just the bloodied hands and knees.”
They looked at each other and asked, as one unit, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
Thane rubbed his jaw. Connie wasn't a small woman. She was tall, curvy, and he knew damn well he couldn't carry her safely back along the path with his bum leg. One slip and he'd bring disaster down on both of them. Jasper looked strong, maybe he could get her back to the road without an accident. Or maybe…
“Atticus,” they said in unison.
Chapter Six
Jesus, Lord, and all the saints in heaven, what did I do?
Nausea twisted her stomach like laundry in a washing machine on a spin cycle. Saliva slicked her mouth, pooled around her teeth and under her tongue, until it tried to overflow from the part of her lips. Someone was trying to drill a hole in the center of her forehead, radiating pain over her skull, into her neck and jaw, and making her eyeballs pulse.
“Here, sugar. There's no stopping it, I'm afraid.” Fingertips grazed the back of her neck as she rolled onto her side, her stomach heaving. They gathered her hair away from her face, then cupped her skull gently, guiding her toward the bowl floating beside the bed. “You drank some shit last night. No wonder it's coming back up.”
Please shut up, she begged silently. I think my brain is leaking out of my ears.
Expelling the crap in her belly was like vomiting acid. Her stomach lining felt raw, her throat was burned, and her tongue was positive she'd scrubbed it with vinegar. Every time she retched, there was a split second of relief from the pain in her head before the next beat of her heart brought it back with a vengeance.
Groaning, sure she'd fallen into the pits of hell, Connie flopped onto her back and didn't move. Did it hurt to breathe? Yes, that wasn't advisable. Neither was thinking, blinking, or swallowing. What the hell had she done to herself? Because it felt suspiciously as though there'd been a bus involved with her downfall.
“A little bird told me you don't drink heavily. What the hell possessed you to drown yourself in Canadian whisky?”
Oh God, the voice was still there. Why wouldn't it go away? She just wanted to die in peace. “Gah.”
“Okay, okay, I'll save the lecture for later. I doubt you're taking in much of what I'm saying anyway.” A warm palm brushed over her forehead, then she was eased upright. Was she supposed to throw up again or pass out? She gagged as a couple of pills were pushed onto her tongue, then a gush of water washed them down her throat as she swallowed in reflex. “Keep them down, sugar. They'll help with that headache.”
Not headache, she wanted to argue, migraine. But she couldn't form the word, and if she opened her mouth, more than just her voice would spill out. Her body was in full revolt, resisting all form of touch. The pillow beneath her head was flipped so that when her head was lowered back on to it, cool fabric pressed against her neck and skull.
She moaned in relief, then again when a cold, wet cloth was draped over her forehead. “Meds. Need meds.”
“You're on medication? Shit, no one told me that.” The voice was taking on a familiar quality now, not just buzzing in her head. “Okay, Connie, I'll get you what you need. Can you tell me what you take and where you keep them?”
She tried to mouth the name, couldn't get her face to work properly. She kept stashes all over her house, her office, her car—and couldn’t tell him. Instead, she just moaned quietly and prepared to spend the rest of eternity trapped in hell.
“Atticus, it's Thane. No, she's awake, but in a lot of pain. No, I don't think it's a hangover, or not completely. Does she suffer from migraines? You don't know. Fabulous.” Oh, the voice was displeased. “She's asked for meds. I don't know what they are, or where she keeps them. Would any of the subs know? Any of the other Masters? Yeah, I'll hold. Fuck's sake.”
The silence that followed was irritating. It gave her too much time to focus on the swelling of her brain matter in the confined space of her head. She wanted her audio book, the one she listened to whenever she had a migraine severe enough to force her into bed. Concentrating on the words being spoken, words she knew by heart after a hundred times, distracted her from the pain.
“Yeah, I'm still here. She's on what? Christ, I've never heard of that. Oh, that. Okay. Shit, that's a prescription drug, isn't it? No, I can't leave her. No, not even to go check the car, Atticus. She's throwing up and I can't risk leaving her in case she chokes. No, if she's asking for it, she knows she needs it. Yeah. Yeah. Okay, I can do that.”
Suddenly, the lightness outside her eyelids went completely black. She breathed a sigh of relief and her body relaxed a fraction. She turned her head to the side, easing the pressure on the le
ft side of her neck where the pain there throbbed. It wouldn't work for long, but even a few seconds would be welcome.
“Sugar, I need you to roll onto your side, okay? I have to run downstairs to your car and see if your meds are in there, and I don't want you to choke if you vomit again.” Firm hands insisted on punishing her for whatever infractions she'd made last night, asking her body to change positions. “Is there anything else you need from the car?”
“Ph-phone,” she managed to choke out.
“Sorry, Connie. Coyotes got your phone.”
Was that some new band she hadn't heard of, like Dingoes Ate My Baby? she wondered. She remembered them, vaguely, as a band from a popular supernatural TV show she'd been obsessed with as a teenager. Coyotes Got Your Phone wasn't quite as catchy. “Need my book. Meds. Sleep.”
“Okay. I'll be back.” A hand skimmed over her bare shoulder, then she was alone.
Drifting in the dark with only pain for company, she tried to piece together the puzzle of what she'd done, where she'd ended up, and why she was wherever she was. Alcohol and stress had to be involved, she knew that much. Migraines of this caliber rarely hit her unless she imbibed over her capacity, which she never did, for this reason. Add in a heavy dose of stress and it was a perfect storm.
She hoped she had a good excuse for putting herself through this. She wasn't a masochist, she didn't particularly enjoy pain. Not the way Archie did. That girl could take a flogging and still beg for Jasper to imprint a five-bar gate on her butt with a cane. Connie could take pain, to a considerable level, but she wasn't a painslut, especially when it came to her brain killing itself.
Oh God, she'd been crying by the side of the road. The argument with Braun, the hurt and the betrayal, came flooding back. They were taking Alicia away from her, because she hadn't succeeded in fixing the broken woman. But she just needed more time, that was all. So Connie had driven away, broken down, and then…had she gone into Phoenix? She had flashes of memory flicking past—wandering aimlessly around a store, grabbing bottles of whisky; talking to a clerk, handing over her credit card; driving away, out into the wide-open space she'd never been before.
But where was that? Where had she gone?
Had she pulled over near a tree? An acacia, she thought. That sounded right. She'd pulled over and cried some more, then…ah fuck. She'd opened one of the bottles and gulped. Things got fuzzy after that, but there were quick snaps of recollection that were crystal clear. Staggering up a rocky path with a paper bag full of bottles. Tripping over her own feet, sending bottles tumbling everywhere. Shoving them all back into the bag and veering off down a hill. Giggling as she slipped and slid, taking long swallows from a bottle every few feet.
Whisky. No wonder her body hated her today.
Whimpering, she rolled slowly onto her back again. The cold cloth flopped off the side of her head onto the pillow with a plop. She didn't want to move just to put it back on her forehead.
“All right, sugar, you're a smart cookie. Found your meds in the glove box.” Thane's voice was low, little more than a whisper. The bed dipped as he sat beside her, then the sound of a box opening and something ripping open almost made her throw up again. Too loud. “I'm guessing you breathe in deep through your nose, then I stick this up your nostril and press the plunger.”
Connie blew out a breath and nodded. Breathing in, she felt gentle hands on her over-sensitized face. He held one nostril closed, then cold plastic invaded the other one. There was a pause, a click, then liquid spurted up into her nasal cavity. She hated the next part. The meds tasted like shit when she swallowed, almost acidic, and always gave her a sore throat. “Thanks.”
“It's okay. It's not a problem. Atticus called Braun and asked him about your meds. They're pretty pissed you haven't told them about the migraines, by the way, and that's on top of your stunt yesterday. Braun spoke to Alicia, and she says you listen to audiobooks when you have an episode. The coyotes used your phone like a chew toy, so I've downloaded the book app onto mine and bought the book she's sure you listen to most.”
What? For the first time, Connie cracked her eyelids open a fraction. She whispered, “You bought me an audiobook?”
“Alicia swears you depend on it when you're sick. You need it, I got it. No big deal.” Thane offered her a quiet smile in the dim light and held up a pair of earphones. “You use these, or just on speaker?”
She swallowed. If her head wasn't on the verge of exploding, she'd have burst into tears at his kindness. For some, it would be a simple thing to be brushed aside, but to realize he'd gone to the effort of installing an app he didn't use himself and bought her a book because she was sick? No one had ever done that for her. No one. She was an independent woman who took care of herself, but this gesture wormed inside her like no other.
She lifted her hand, ignoring how badly it shook, and grasped his wrist. “Thank you, Thane.”
He bent and kissed her forehead, then eased away and gently pressed the buds into her ears. Pulling his phone from his back pocket, he messed around with it, turning down the volume, then plugged the earphone cable in. “Shout if you need me,” he told her, then pressed play and set the phone in her hand.
Years of training her body to relax to the spoken word kicked into effect. As the narrator began to speak, the muscles in her neck and shoulders stopped straining against the pain and relaxed, the rest of her following suit. Ignoring the horrible taste in her mouth, Connie closed her eyes and let the story flow through her mind until her brain finally went quiet.
*
Thane hobbled around his bedroom, feeling every hour he'd spent hiking around the damn desert the night before. He tidied up the trash from Connie's meds, then posted himself as her guardian, stretching out beside her in the dark. He didn't know much about migraines, but he was gaining firsthand knowledge now.
With the amount of whisky she'd drunk, he wouldn't be surprised if that had kickstarted the episode. God knew he'd have been on his knees, his head in the toilet after a session like that.
For the moment, Thane was holding the Masters off. The migraine was a good excuse to keep them away for a bit longer, but all five men were champing at the bit to read Connie the riot act. She was lucky he'd been quick tongued and persuaded them to let him bring her here.
Braun wasn't pleased he'd been outvoted on taking her to his house—a pregnant sub who needed as little stress as possible, and her disabled sister weren't exactly who he needed to stand as witnesses for Connie's lecture.
Jasper had volunteered to tend to her for the night, with Anarchy's help. But the way the guy's fingers twitched, Thane thought the sadist was keen to get the spanking underway.
Both Loki and Liam hadn't pressed too hard to be considered as caretakers—Liam had an early delivery at Avalon to see to, and Loki claimed he had to be at work by eight a.m. Considering the search and rescue hadn't finished until almost four, Thane didn't think the boy would be in much shape to do any work at all.
And then there was Atticus. The big oaf was a complete softie, that much was evident. He'd hovered around Connie like a new mother, flipping between acting like an irate Dom and coddling her. When Thane sweettalked them into letting her come with him, Atticus had weighed him up with a keen eye, then given his nod of approval…and a strict warning of what would happen to Thane if anything happened to Connie.
After that warning, Thane wasn't sure breathing in the Master's presence was a brilliant idea.
Avalon was open tonight, and he'd promised to drive Connie there if she was well enough. He had his doubts, especially now he'd seen her paler than glass and chucking her guts up as though she'd shoved her fingers down her throat. He'd emptied and washed the bowl on his way to the car, and made sure to place it back on her side of the bed in case she had need of it.
Hopefully, the spray he'd injected up her nose would work quickly. He hated seeing anyone or anything in pain, and she had been in monumental agony. It had a habit of carving lines arou
nd the eyes and mouth, and the grooves around hers weren't fresh. They spoke of periods of time where pain was her whole existence.
Checking his watch, he read 15:02 on the luminous numbers, and settled in for a nap. By the time Atticus had dropped him off with his new charge—with Loki following behind in Connie’s car, which had been located down on the highway—it had been after five in the morning, and Thane had tended to Connie before he even thought about catching up on sleep himself. But he was lagging now, and a nap wouldn't harm—not when he was adamant she was sleeping, with a book called Kept By Him chattering away in her ears.
When he woke, the bed was empty. He damn near had a heart attack until the toilet flushed. He pushed himself up into a lounging position, hooking his hand behind his head and resting the other on his belly. He listened to the tap run as Connie washed her hands, then smiled as she padded out of his bathroom, the light backlighting her naked figure to perfection.
She flicked the light off, and her footsteps were hesitant as she navigated her way toward the bed in the dark. He loved the blackout blinds he'd installed; they cut out every speck of light. The covers rustled as the mattress sank slightly, and Connie settled back in as if she'd never left.
“Feeling better?” he asked, unsure if she was still wearing the earphones.
“So much better,” she murmured emphatically. “Thanks for getting my meds. Migraines like that won't die without a little chemical assistance. I'll be nauseous for a while, but I don't think we'll have a repeat performance of the hurling Olympics anytime soon.”
“Good to know. I think you brought home the silver.”
Connie laughed as her body shifted to face him. “You're a nice guy, Thane. Before I freak out that I've been kidnapped, I'm assuming we're at your house? Not on some fancy yacht sailing out into international waters?”
It was a pleasant treat to hear the humor in her voice. “Definitely not a yacht,” he assured her. “But after the lecture the Avalon Masters have in store for you tonight, you might wish we were sailing to the Bahamas to avoid their wrath.”
Talk For Me: Club Avalon Book 3 Page 14
