The Mistake

Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now get the fuck out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”


He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.

To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”

I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”

She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn phone? Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers gangbanged her?”

I’ve never seen Logan this enraged. His blue eyes are wild, his broad shoulders trembling. “Give me the phone. Now.”

The assholes at the door do a little shuffling around before one of them finally pulls Ramona’s iPhone from his back pocket. He hurls it at Logan with lightning speed, but my boyfriend has quick reflexes, and he catches the plastic case before it slaps him in the face.

“Get in the car,” he tells us without turning around.

I’m apprehensive to leave him, but Ramona is shaking like crazy, so I force myself to walk away. I keep my gaze fixed on the motel room the entire time, watching as Logan moves in closer and hisses something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, it causes every St. Anthony’s player to glare bloody murder at him, but none of them act on their volatile impulses. They simply stalk back inside and slam the door behind them.

I slide onto the middle seat of the pickup and Ramona settles in beside me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “I was so scared,” she moans. “They wouldn’t let me go home.”

I force her to buckle up, then wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Did they hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Force you…?”

She fervently shakes her head. “No. I swear. I was only there for about an hour, and they were too busy snorting coke and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. It wasn’t until right before I called you that they started pawing at me and trying to convince me to strip for them. And when I told them I wanted to leave, they locked the door and wouldn’t let me out.”

Disapproval hardens my jaw. “God, Ramona. What were you even doing with these guys? Why would you agree to hang out with them on your own?”

Another sob flies out of her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. Jess and I ran into them after the game and they invited us to the motel, but Jess had to meet up with her dealer first, so she gave me some cab money and said she’d meet me there. But five minutes after I got here, she texted to say she wasn’t coming.”

My upper arm feels wet, and I realize Ramona’s tears have soaked through my sleeve.

“She bailed on me and left me alone with them. What kind of friend does that?”

A selfish one.

I bite my tongue and rub her shoulder, and a part of me can’t help but feel responsible for what happened to her tonight. I know it’s stupid to think that, but I also know I could’ve prevented this if I’d been more of a presence in her life. Ramona and I had a…balance, I guess. She encouraged me to be impulsive and stop second-guessing myself, and I encouraged her to not be impulsive and start second-guessing herself.

I force myself to banish the guilt. No. I refuse to take responsibility for this near-catastrophe. Ramona is an adult. She made the decision to party with those guys, and she’s fucking lucky that I still feel some shred of loyalty toward her and came to her rescue.

That last thought gives me pause, as it suddenly occurs to me that what I did tonight is the same thing I’ve been criticizing Logan for doing—helping someone who might not deserve it. Allowing years of history and lingering loyalty to drive me to do something I didn’t necessarily want to do, but felt I had to.

I jerk when the driver’s door flings open, but it’s Logan, sliding behind the wheel with a stony look. When he addresses Ramona, however, his tone is infinitely gentle. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” she says weakly. “I’m fine.” She lifts her head, and the look she gives us is swimming with shame. “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m sorry if I ruined your evening.”