“Bullshit,” I snap and push the paper along with his jabbing finger away. I suddenly feel clammy, and I’m sweating profusely. “This is just a fucking piece of paper. It means nothing, and I barely remember this girl.”
But I do remember. I remember a lot. Looking around the room, I remember fucking Sadie on almost any clear surface for hours. I was drunk and she was wildly stoned. It was like she was on speed or something crazier. She was an animal and I loved it.
Heath’s revulsion is tangible as he tries to remain calm. “Man, stop being a fucking prick for one second and think. Did you fuck her?”
I stumble to the bed and sit down. “I’m sure I did, Heath. She’s a bimbo groupie. You know there’s a decent likelihood that I did.” I know I did. Many times.
“So think about it. This could really be your kid.” He raises his eyebrows, and for a moment I see a twinge of worry in his eyes, as if he’s trying to imagine himself in my shoes right now. “She must know you pretty well if she has your full name.” His tone becomes accusing again.
“You can get my damn name off of Wikipedia, you fuck.”
“Whatever, G. You need to address this now before it gets out of control. The baby was born a few weeks ago, and this birth certificate looks legit to me.”
“I have no intention of doing a single thing.” Except puking. My stomach churns and sweat starts dripping from my brow.
“You don’t look too good.” He grabs a bottle of water from the table near the door and tosses it onto the bed in front of me. My fingers are tingling as I reach for the cool bottle.
There’s a loud knock at the door, and Mick doesn’t wait for either of us to answer before he comes in. “This situation is not good.” He folds his arms across his chest and walks closer to the bed. “That girl OD’d. She’s dead.”
“Holy shit,” Heath says immediately.
“What?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
“She coded as soon as they put her in the ambulance. One of the paramedics just called to tell me that she was D.O.A.” Mick shakes his head then looks back to me. “You okay?” he asks.
“No, I’m not.” I don’t want to tell him about the birth certificate she had dropped on the floor before she passed out.
His eyes sweep the room quickly. “The police are asking us to clear the bus while they collect her belongings.” He nods toward the flask and the other items that fell from her bag. “Grab what you need. I booked a suite for you at the Marriott for the rest of the day.”
Heath picks up the birth certificate, folds it and shoves it into his back pocket. Why would he do that?
I try to ignore his act and address Mick. “I’m going home. Can you get me a ride back to my house?” I have a home just west of Philadelphia that I rarely spend any time at. My housekeeper, Peggy, is there more than I am.
He nods and leaves the room.
I grab a tee shirt from the floor and put it on, walking past Heath. I pat my back pocket to make sure my phone and wallet are still there and walk off the bus barefoot, steamy August air filling my lungs. I begin sweating immediately, and my shirt is already stuck to my back. A dozen or so police officers are waiting to board the bus, and I slide into the back of the black car parked in front it. Before the door closes, Heath is in the car with me.
“I’m not going to the hotel,” I remind him, annoyed.
“I know,” he says.
“I don’t remember inviting you to my house.”
“You didn’t,” he responds.
He looks out the window as we pull away from the concert venue. There is yellow tape spanning a large area around the bus, and people are gathering with their phones extended in the air, taking pictures of everything unfolding in front of them. There are girls screaming, and a few touch the window as we drive slowly through the crowd.
Heath takes out his phone and his thumbs fly over his keyboard. “I’m letting Dax and Tristan know what happened and where we’re going.”