My hands felt gritty from just touching the chairs in this place, so I made my way to the ladies’ room—sorry, the “Cowgirls’ Room” according to the sign—determined to wash up before enlisting Bee in my search for Blythe.
But when I opened the door to the bathroom, Blythe was already in there, standing by the sinks, fists clenched at her sides.
And at her feet was a guy, blood slowly trickling from his temple.
Chapter 22
“OH MY GOD, are you okay?” I asked, stepping over the guy’s prostrate form to go to Blythe. She was breathing heavy and some of the hair had come out of her ponytail, but other than that, she seemed all right.
“Good!” she said, almost chipper, and held up a can of hair spray. “Stole this out of your bag and put it in my purse, hope you don’t mind.”
I looked at the bit of blood clinging to the bottom of the can and swallowed hard. I couldn’t fault a girl for improvising a weapon, but now that can of Big Sexy Hair was headed for the nearest garbage can.
“If he touched you, I hope you at least gave him a concussion,” I said, kicking at the bottom of the guy’s shoe with my toes. “Now can we please—”
And then I looked closer at the guy on the floor.
Tall, Asian, definitely handsome despite the blood dripping from his temple . . .
“Dante?” I asked, and Blythe nodded, tossing the hair spray can in the trash.
“Yup. So no worries about me being okay. I knocked him out in the hall and dragged him in here.”
I stared at her for a second, then looked back to Dante, who was starting to moan and move around a bit. “And the purpose of knocking him out was . . . ?”
Blythe put her hands on her hips. “I told you I always hated that dude.”
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I studied my reflection in the grimy mirrors over the sink, telling myself I’d count to ten before I said something I regretted. “We have to ask him all kinds of questions,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “so maybe giving him a concussion was a less-than-stellar plan?”
Dante moaned again, and I added, “And also, would’ve been nice to hear you’d found him before you clocked him.”
Blythe tugged at the hem of her shirt, sniffing. “Fine. I just . . . I have trouble not leading, I guess.”
That cut close to home. I nodded, then turned back to the guy on the floor.
Dante was conscious again, staring at both of us, befuddled. Whether that was because he’d been listening to us or from the damage Blythe had done with that can of Big Sexy Hair, I couldn’t say.
“Ugh, finally,” Blythe said, stepping over to Dante. “I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“Why did you hit me at all?” he said, hand still to his head. Then he glanced back and forth between us, wary.
“You’re not, like, going to steal my kidney or something, are you? I saw that kind of thing on the news once.”
Rolling her eyes, Blythe crossed her arms and cocked one knee. “Oh my God, Dante, don’t act like you don’t know me.”
His eyes traveled over her, and if he was acting, he was doing a damn good job of it because he genuinely looked confused and scared. “I . . . don’t?” And then he scowled. “Other than as the crazy bitch who hit me with . . . was that hair spray?”
Blythe dropped her arms and moved closer to Dante. “What are you talking about? Of course you know me. We worked together for over a year. We . . .” She glanced over at me, and then dropped her voice. “We made out that one time? At the office?”
The word “office” surprised me. It was so . . . normal. Did the Ephors have a regular building somewhere with, like, cubicles and fax machines? That was almost too bizarre to contemplate. As was the idea of Blythe making out with anyone. She seemed so . . . okay, no-nonsense isn’t right, because Lord knew there was plenty of nonsense around Blythe, but she was . . . determined. Serious. She might have taken us to the ball field to ogle boys, but I hadn’t actually seen her doing any ogling. I wasn’t sure Blythe even liked boys. Or girls, for that matter.
Still, the idea that the same kind of drama that had been dogging me, David, Ryan, and Bee was also an issue for the Ephors was kind of funny, I had to admit.
This is what happens when you use teenagers for all your crazy world-controlling stuff, I thought.
But Dante was still watching Blythe, now less scared, more pissed off. “Look, I don’t know you,” he said, rising—more than a little wobbly—to his feet. “And if you hit me because you thought I was your ex or something, I feel really sorry for whoever it is you think I am.”
Blythe stepped right up to him, rising on tiptoes to look at his face, and Dante flinched (not that I could blame him).
“You . . . seriously don’t remember?” she asked, and he stepped back, one hand raised defensively toward his head.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know you.” He looked over to me. “Either of you.”
“Blythe,” I said, “I think he’s telling—”
“The truth,” she finished. “Yeah, me, too.”
Someone rattled the bathroom door handle, and I was glad I’d had the presence of mind to lock it. But still, we were going to have to move fast now.