They’re gone before she’s done talking. I sprint to my car, and gun the engine.
Tasha, you owe me for this.
Students leak out of the frat house doing the drunken shuffle. The fine fa?ade doesn’t dissuade me from the fact that my sister’s called me in for a 9-1-1. Inside, the music pounds and the drinks are poured so strong I can smell them from here. Along with a collection of smells I’d rather not identify.
I check my phone again: First floor living room. Tasha promised to stay in that room until I got to her. I’d have preferred she find something more private—with a lock—but all of those rooms were taken, she said—and the bathroom was off limits.
“You’re cute,” a college girl says, stumbling into me. She’s gone. If there’s one rule I have, it’s that I don’t fuck wasted girls. It’s not sexy when someone can’t remember their own name, let alone what happened when they wake up the next day. She leans in, and I almost get tipsy from her breath. Apparently, Tasha’s not the only one who needs saving tonight.
“You’re drunk.” I take her glass and pour it out. She pouts and backs off.
“Don’t touch me.” I hear Tasha over the music and crush of the crowd. Pushing my way through the pack, I find her seated on a couch in what I’m sure in her mind counted as a whole outfit, but I can only call a rag. Her movements are slow, but not so sluggish that she’s completely wasted.
A boy has his hands down her skimpy dress and she’s trying to push him off.
I see fucking red.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing the kid by the back of his shirt and yanking him off. “She said stop.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I’m ready to smash his smug little face in, but Tasha pulls me back. “Please,” she begs, tearful. “I just want to go. Please?”
I throw the guy down. Any other night, and he’d need stitches, but right now, I just want to get Tasha out.
We head back outside and to my car. Tasha doesn’t say a word, she just curls up in the front seat.
“Did he hurt you?” I demand.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Just leave it, OK?” Tasha demands.
I try to calm down. She’s safe now, and it doesn’t look like that asshole hurt her. But there is no way she can go home like this. Mom would go ballistic, and Dad would lecture her for days. I’m surprised they haven’t tried to dry her out already. Or maybe it’s just easier to pretend that she doesn’t have this problem. Just like they could pretend they weren’t to blame for ruining other peoples’ lives.
“Burgers or tacos?” I ask. We’ll grab some food, she’ll relax and have some time for herself before she has to deal with mom and dad.
“Just take me home.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and lays her head on top. There is no way I’m surrendering her to my parents’ care.
“Hey,” I say, tousling her hair like I did when she was a kid. She bats at my hand, but for a split second I get a smile. I think there’s hope to finding the sister from my childhood.
“You sure you have time?” Her voice says it all. Mom and Dad never had time for us as kids. It was always nannies and tutors. Them taking time for us was scheduled and perpetually canceled due to rounds of golf or luncheons.
“Of course I do,” I say, “Pick your poison.”
“Tacos,” she mutters.
We stop at a drive through and grab food. I order a bunch of tacos and several bottles of water. There probably aren’t enough carbs to soak up the alcohol, but getting something in her will help. Once she’s at least semi-coherent, we’re going to have a talk, because I already know that no one else will be straight with her. Someone needs to give her the lecture of a century. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, what would have happened?
We sit on the hood of my car, eating tacos and watching the people pass by us on the street. Many stare, because who sits on the hood of a BMW eating tacos? Go on and take a good look, people, because this bartender and his sister do.
Tasha doesn’t say much, just sits and eats her food. In the years since I saw my sister, she’s grown into her looks. She is a beautiful girl, and that is a lethal combination when mixing too much booze and too many frat guys. If she is anything like my mother, she knows how to use those looks to her advantage. But as I watch her, there is a sadness to her that I can’t help but feel that I contributed to.