Layla stood outside Tommy’s door and pressed hard on the buzzer. He wasn’t answering his phone, wasn’t responding to texts, but according to Aster, he was in there and possibly in need of help.
Being on Tommy’s permanent guest list allowed easy access to his front door, but it did nothing to get her inside. Only a key card could do that, and it wasn’t like Tommy had ever given her one.
She watched as a member of the cleaning crew entered an apartment down the hall. Maybe they would help her get in? Then again, it was just as likely Aster was wrong. Sure she’d gone to great lengths to describe the scene Madison had set, but last Layla checked, Tommy was an adult who could decide for himself who he did and didn’t want to sleep with.
Layla had pushed Madison on him for precisely that reason—a sort of test to see if there was still something between them. If she and Tommy were ever going to make it work, Layla needed to know he was really and truly over whatever he and Madison once shared.
If it turned out he was still into her, well, it wouldn’t be easy, but at least Layla would know where she stood. She’d always been more comfortable dealing with the truth. As a journalist, facts were her friends. She took the same approach to her personal life.
She was halfway to the elevator, when she found herself sneaking a peek inside the open apartment and giving a little wave. “Hi, um . . .” She forced a friendly grin and forged ahead. “My friend lives a few doors down, and he’s not answering. I was wondering if you could maybe let me in?”
Well before she could get to the end, the woman was already shaking her head.
“I know it’s against the rules,” Layla said, unwilling to surrender so easily. “But I thought maybe just this once you could—”
“You’re Layla Harrison.” The woman placed a hand on her hip as Layla tried not to cringe under her scrutiny. “And you’re asking me to help you break into Tommy Phillips’s apartment?”
“No!” Layla flashed her palms in defense. “No—not at all! Not even close. You see, Tommy’s inside—he’s in there right now. But I think he’s sick, which is why he’s not answering the door. I just want to check and make sure he’s okay. It’s totally legit. I swear. If it turns out he’s not there, you can kick me out. It’s all good.”
“Is this about the girl?”
Layla squinted, unsure what she meant.
“Because I tell you right now, this is no way to handle it. You’re in enough trouble already, don’t you think?”
Layla was horrified, but did her best to keep her face blank.
“I should call TMZ.”
At the sound of that, Layla started backing away. “Not necessary,” she said. “Forget this ever happened. Sorry to have bothered you.”
She could feel the woman’s piercing gaze as she retraced her steps. Stopping before Tommy’s door, she rang the buzzer again, then composed a text to Aster explaining how it was none of their business. If Tommy decided to hook up with Madison, that was his choice. Layla was choosing to move on before she could embarrass herself any more than she already had.
She was about to hit send, when the door swung open and Tommy swayed unsteadily before her.
“Tommy? Omigod!” Layla scrambled toward him, catching him by the arm before he could topple over.
His eyes were glassy, his face pale, and there was a trail of what looked to be vomit running down the front of his T-shirt. She started to veer him toward the couch, but there was more vomit on the floor, so she steered him toward the bedroom instead.
“Are you okay?” She settled him onto the mattress and pulled his soiled T-shirt over his head. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
He squinted but couldn’t quite focus. “I think she drugged me.” His chin bobbed against his chest.
“Shit—just—” Layla glanced around wildly. She had no idea what to do. Racing for his bathroom, she grabbed a clean hand towel, ran some cold water over it, and pressed it against his forehead and cheeks. “What did you drink—what did she give you?”
“Tequila. Couple shots. I think she . . . she set me . . .” He tried to form words, but all he could manage was an incoherent mumble.
“She set you up. I know. Don’t talk, just—” She looked at him. “Or maybe you should talk? I don’t know—crap!”
Panicked, she reached for her phone, about to call 911, when she remembered Aster’s warning and texted Mateo instead. He was the only one she knew, aside from her dad, who had experience with these things.
What do you do when someone ODs?
She hit send, then waited impatiently. A few seconds later, he replied.
Call 911.
What else?