Page 37 of Mating Theory
“I can be a friend.”
I’ve seen what he sacrificed for Christopher and Harper—his own happiness. He can be more than a good friend. He can be the very best friend someone could want.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashleigh
Anders Sorenson is a man with an exceptionally stern expression, with pale hair, high cheekbones, and wintry, pale blue eyes. He sets up a makeshift triage room in the second floor of the Den that could rival any actual hospital room. In short order, without judgment, Ky is hooked up to an IV. The diagnosis includes big words such as tachycardia, hypertension, and coronary vasospasm.
“To put it in layman’s terms,” he says to me. “Crack cocaine significantly increases the rate of oxygen usage in the body. There’s a possibility here of a seizure, a coronary event. Sudden death becomes more likely the higher the hyperthermia.”
Sutton makes a growling sound. “Those aren’t layman’s terms.”
“He’s having a very bad trip,” Anders says.
“What can we do for him?” I’m sitting by his side, holding his hand, which feels clammy and burning hot. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t seem aware of where he is.
“Exactly what you’re doing right now. Hold his hand, talk to him. Try to keep him calm. I’ll be watching him closely, including hooking him up to an EKG so I can monitor it.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling feverish myself.
“She needs to rest,” Sutton says, his voice curt.
Anders gives me an impersonal, assessing look. “You’ve stayed up with him all night? It won’t do him any good to burn yourself out. I can show you to another room.”
“I’m not leaving his side.” The thought of him waking up in a strange place is enough to make me itchy. Ky acts like nothing bothers him, but I know that would be terrifying.
A nod. “Then you can sleep here in a chair. Or climb into bed with him. It won’t hurt him any. Might even calm him. But if he wakes up and acts aggressive, you back away immediately.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me,” I say immediately.
“People do crazy things while under the influence,” Anders says, sounding faintly apologetic. “I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself.”
He leaves the room, and I’m left with only the harsh breathing of Ky and the intense presence of Sutton behind me. I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself. I think it’s more about Sutton, that statement.
* * *
Ashleigh
I keep vigil over Ky while he sleeps, feeling sick that I let him worry for me. We’re supposed to stick together. He saved me. Why couldn’t I protect him?
“It’s not your fault, you know,” comes a voice from behind me. A woman walks in wearing jeans and a Henley, her exuberant blonde curls a contradiction to her casual clothes.
“Penny,” she says by way of introduction. “My mom named me Penelope from the Odyssey which I’ve always thought was a weighty namesake for a girl from the trailer park.”
“Ashleigh,” I say.
“Ash-leigh. That feels like a weighty name, too. A mom who had hopes for her child.”
You can be anything. She never thought I’d be a prostitute. “She’d be so disappointed.”
“Maybe.” Penny comes to sit down on the other side of Ky. “Or maybe she’d be proud of you for surviving. It’s a lot easier to give up when things get that hard.”
“Or maybe she’d rather I died than become this.”
“No. Never. No mother would want her child to die. Because that’s the end. This way, there’s more. It doesn’t always feel like it, but there’s more.”
Ky seems so fragile on the bed. “More for him.”
“So much more. A lifetime of hope and yearning and loving.”
I glance at her. “I know who you are. Penny Scott. You own this place.”
“With my husband, yes. The Den is our safe space. You’ll find your own.”
Something about the implication in her voice makes me look at her sharply. “It won’t be with Sutton. We aren’t… We aren’t like that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. He pays me for…” Tears spill over my cheeks. “He pays me for sex.”
She doesn’t look shocked. “He’s downstairs right now. Been there for a few hours now. How much is he paying you for this time?”
I turn away. He’s only downstairs out of guilt right now. He only found me tonight out of guilt. You’re seventeen. How old did you think I am? Eighteen. At least. “You don’t understand.”
Her footfalls cross the carpet. She places a hand on the crown of my head, soft and absolving. “No, I don’t understand. I don’t think many women do, but they’ll judge you anyway, won’t they? They’ll think they know better, because it’s easier than acknowledging the truth—that we’re all vulnerable, that we’re all one second away from a life of desperation. It isn’t something you brought on yourself. It’s something you’re surviving, and you’re doing it with more grace and more strength than those people could dream about.”
