“You told me not to interrupt,” he reminded her.
“Oh, right. I tend to ramble when I get nervous. Okay. Where should I start?” She pursed her lips, thinking, and then blew out a large breath. “Right. Okay, so about three or four years ago, me, Gretchen, Greer, and Asher all roomed together.” She nodded at his confused look. “Yep, that Asher. It was super platonic, though. He never dated anyone in our little group. We were just college friends hanging out together.” She shrugged. “Eventually we lost the lease on our place and split up. I forget where Asher went, but I think Greer and Gretchen kept rooming together. I was seeing a guy and got an apartment over in Brooklyn with him, only to have him dump me before he moved in. I couldn’t get out of the lease, so I decided to stick it out on my own. Turns out that was a bad idea.”
Sebastian’s entire body tensed, waiting for her to continue. His gut felt tight, uncomfortable. He felt the intense need to . . . fuck, punch something. Maybe that was where she got it from.
She licked her lips and continued, gazing down at her hands. “About a week after I moved in, I went to the local bar to meet a few friends. I hung out there on a regular basis and I think the bartender had a crush on me, because he always had my favorite drink fixed and waiting for me when I came in. I didn’t think anything of it, you know? It was like Cheers. You went there and hung out, and everybody knew your name.” She sucked in a deep breath and then paused, thinking.
He held his own breath, waiting.
“And because I always got the same drink, and I felt comfortable at the place, I guess I didn’t pay attention to what I was drinking,” she said slowly, staring at her knee. Her wet hair dragged across her shoulders. “I don’t know if it was drugged before I got there or if someone slipped it in when I wasn’t paying attention. I just thought I was kind of . . . bulletproof. Like nothing could hurt me. And all I remember after that was downing my drink and talking to some guy who was flirting with me.” Her voice got distant. “I don’t remember anything after that. Just that I woke up and I was sore all over and it was really dark. So dark. I couldn’t breathe.”
God. He was such a shit stain. He was making her relive all this just to satisfy his curiosity. She didn’t have to tell him anything. “Chelsea, you don’t—”
“No, I do,” she said, voice faint. She looked up at him and her gaze was glassy, distant. “My therapist told me that if I talk about it more, I can help normalize the emotions, you know? So I need to.” She swallowed again and shrugged. “The good thing is that because I was drugged, I faded out. I don’t remember anything. I just remember being scared and waking up in a dark place.” Her hands clenched spasmodically. “It was hot, and smelly, and I couldn’t move. I felt so sick, and I hurt. I think that was the worst—the utter confusion and the feeling of helplessness.” She spread her hands, and he saw they were trembling. “I . . . I don’t like to think about it.”
That must have been where her fear of the darkness came from. He remembered her terror. I can’t breathe.
“Someone found me and helped me out, and the police came and took me to the hospital. I gave a statement. Stayed with family for a few days. I got the usual ‘You’re a stupid girl for leaving your drink unattended’ spiel and they made me feel like I was at fault. Maybe I was. I don’t know.” She rubbed her arms.