Pull Me Close: The Panic Series

  Pull Me Close is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Sidney Halston

  Excerpt from Make Me Stay by Sidney Halston copyright © 2016 by Sidney Halston

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Make Me Stay by Sidney Halston. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399593895

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover photographs: MarishaSha/Shutterstock (couple), fotomak/Shutterstock (background)

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: Dread

  Chapter Two: Fear

  Chapter Three: Rapid Heart Rate

  Chapter Four: Trembling

  Chapter Five: Chest Pain

  Chapter Six: Dizziness

  Chapter Seven: Faint

  Chapter Eight: Shortness of Breath

  Chapter Nine: Palpitation

  Chapter Ten: Hyperventilation

  Chapter Eleven: Confusion

  Chapter Twelve: Speechless

  Chapter Thirteen: Intoxicated

  Chapter Fourteen: Smothered

  Chapter Fifteen: Apprehension

  Chapter Sixteen: Relief

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Sidney Halston

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Make Me Stay

  Our strength grows out of our weaknesses.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One

  Dread

  Katherine

  Panic.

  Blood-curdling fear.

  It was a contrast to all the happy, carefree people at the exclusive Miami Beach nightclub. I used to be like that—but that was a long time ago. So long ago, it’s but a fuzzy memory at the back of my mind causing me nothing but melancholy now. I used to be one of these happy, carefree people, swaying, thrusting, and rubbing against complete strangers. Foreplay is what it is, really. Instead, my hands are clammy and shaking. Thumping bass tattoos against my heart, and pulsating strobe lights are making me dizzy. I am two minutes away from ruining my sister’s engagement party by throwing up all over her expensive designer shoes. And I’ve only been here for half an hour and the Xanax I took at home before jumping in the cab isn’t doing anything anymore to calm my nerves.

  Because of the loud music, I tap hard on her shoulder to get her attention and point toward the far wall, where the restrooms are located. With barely open eyes and a loopy drunken grin, she gives me a thumbs-up and continues to sway her hips to the EDM music with a group of her friends I’ve just met. The guys, including her new fiancé, are at one of the bars on the other side of the club getting everyone drinks. I envy them because they’re having fun, oblivious to everything around them, while I’m a prisoner.

  Fun.

  What a foreign term for me.

  The sickening feeling of impending dread is my norm. That sinking sensation you feel when you just know something bad is going to happen—that’s how I feel when I’m outside the four walls of my apartment, which means I don’t have time to dwell on my sister and her friends. Nor do I have time for self-pity. Instead, I hightail it to the bathroom. I’m unprepared to stand in the long line of inebriated, scantily dressed women, and impatiently I wait there for my turn while feeling the walls begin to close in on me. With shaky hands I reach into my purse and feel for the small zip-top bag I stuffed in there on my way out. After a lot of mental preparation for tonight, I thought I’d be fine, but I came prepared just in case. Without any water, I swallow another quarter of a Xanax—any more and I’d be comatose—and toss the baggie back in my purse.

  My palms are now a sweaty, drippy mess, and the queasiness hits me in a wave of nausea that has me covering my mouth in order to stop myself from throwing up. Leaning a hand against the dirty wall by the bathroom door, I hang my head low, and my heart beats faster and faster while the club spins around me in an orgy of lights, strange faces, and deafeningly loud sounds. I need to find a quick exit, and I need to do so right now.

  I am dying.

  I have to be. It is the only way I can describe how I feel. The tightness around my chest is unbearable and my skin is covered in sweat. It’s going to take at least twenty minutes for the pill to kick in, and I don’t know if I’ll make it. Quickly I look left, then right. Where’s the damn exit? I know I must look hysterical to anyone watching me, but I don’t care. I need to get out of here. My breath quickens and my abdominal muscles cramp as I double over, about to lose my lunch in the middle of the trendiest nightclub in all of Miami Beach.

  “Hey, you okay?” the woman in line behind me asks, her pupils unnaturally dilated. Unable to speak, I nod, but she isn’t buying it because she makes a disgusted face and steps back. I close my eyes and press my forehead against the wall, knowing that people are skipping ahead of me, but it doesn’t matter because I’m unable to move. Faster and faster my heart beats, and sweat drips down my spine while I try to suck in a breath.

  I count to ten and try to work on my relaxation techniques and all the cognitive behavioral therapy I’ve been reading about. I close my eyes and think about the ocean breeze against my skin and the sand between my toes. Months ago I googled “panic attacks” and found that having a happy place is important and, incidentally, beaches were the most popular happy places. So that became my happy place. I stole it from Google and from a million other people like me who need happy places. But tonight it’s of no use. Feeling the blood begin to slowly drain down my body, the last thing I remember is trying to clutch the wall as I fall down into a pit of darkness.

  Nico

  “Swear to God, Bethany, I catch you one more time in my club and I’m having you arrested.”

  “Nick, please. Don’t be like that.” She runs a chipped nail down my neck, and I push it away. I remember a time, in my early twenties, when I was mostly drunk, stupid, and high, when I used to find Bethany gorgeous. She was the older woman we all wanted. My friends and I would run to the bar and fetch her and her friends drinks like the stupid young pussy-chasers we were. Now she looks worn out, and that older experienced-looking woman I once found attractive just looks sloppy. With overly processed blond hair, tanned skin that now looks like leather, and fake tits that are practically on display since the strap on her too-tight dress has fallen down her arm, Bethany is a mess. She used to give my younger self a hard-on, but now I just feel disgust.

  I snap at one of the new bartenders, “Cut her off.” Then I turn back to Bethany. “Finish that drink and get out.” Leaning over the bar, I grab some napkins and hand them to her. “And clean your nose. Have some fucking dignity. Some self-respect, for Christsake.”

  She takes the napkin and wipes the residual white powder off her nose. “Your father was a lot more fun,” she says, and that’s the last thing I need to hear.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  Being compared to my father is the one thing I despise. I don’t hate my father, but it doesn’t
mean I want to be compared to him, not after all the shit he’s put us through and definitely not after the reputation that precedes him and the club. “Bitch,” I snarl, getting so close to her face she has to lean back, “unless you want to end up in the same place he’s at, I suggest you get the fuck out of my club.” Each word is spat out clearly, so there is absolutely no misunderstanding she’s not welcome back. Ever.

  I look away from her and am searching for Toro, my head of security, when I see a bunch of people pressed together by the bathrooms, Toro’s big body sticking out over the crowd. “What now?” I growl to myself. Something’s going on, and I don’t have time to deal with Bethany, who’s forever stuck in the fast times and high life of the eighties. I almost feel bad for her.

  Almost.

  I weave through the crowd and see Toro has a woman in his arms. “What the hell happened?” I ask, pushing people aside to give him room to walk toward the other end of the club. I swipe my finger against the fingerprint pad of my private elevator, and he steps inside with the girl while I follow behind. “What do you want me to do with her, boss?” he asks, now that I can hear him over the loud music. “She was about to pass out. Caught her just in time.”

  “I’m so sick of this shit. Take her to my office,” I say just as the elevator door opens. “Matt! Mateo!”

  My brother sticks his head out of the security room, where he’s probably been monitoring the screens with the other security guys, and yells, “What?”

  “My office. Now.” I swipe my finger on the pad and my office door unlocks. “Put her on the couch, Toro. Bethany’s making trouble in the Red Bar. Make sure she’s gone. If not, make her gone.” I turn to Matt as he walks in. “She’s done. Don’t want her at Panic again. Got it?”

  Matt shrugs, uncaring.

  Toro sets the girl down on the couch. “Got it, boss,” he says, walking out.

  Matt leans in close. “Why’s there a girl sleeping on your couch?”

  “She passed out.” Her chest is moving in and out, so she’s clearly alive, but that’s all I’ve been able to ascertain.

  Matt reaches into his pocket and takes out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Calling an ambulance. What else do you think I’m doing?”

  “No!” I yell, taking his phone from his hand.

  “What the hell, man?” He snatches his phone back.

  “This month we’ve had four run-ins with the cops. The New Times had that shit article about the club. One more piece of bad publicity and we’re done. We’ve worked too hard this year for this to take us down.”

  “What if she’s hurt? What if she ODs? You think we’ve got bad publicity now? That shit’ll ruin us,” he says.

  I know he’s right, but I don’t care—we need to avoid the cops. I reach into my drawer and take out an old first-aid kit. The ammonia capsules are missing, so I find an alcohol wipe, open it, and hand it to Matt. “Here—try to wake her.”

  Gently Matt runs the alcohol wipe back and forth under her nose while I look in the woman’s purse to see if I can find a clue as to who she is. “Surprise, surprise,” I say, holding up a baggie with half a pill in it. There’s also a tube of lipstick and a wallet. I’m surprised I don’t find a shit-ton of drugs, but maybe she’s already ingested whatever else was inside the bag. I take out her driver’s license and place the wallet on my desk.

  “Katherine Wilson,” I say, looking at her photo. By my math, she’s thirty-two years old. It says she’s five foot seven, though she looks tiny lying on her side on my couch. And her hair! I’ve never seen so much hair; it must go down to her waist when she’s standing. My brother is pushing it out of her face while running a hand towel doused in water from a bottle against her forehead. “She’s burning up, man,” he says. “We need to call an ambulance.”

  I kneel down beside her. “Katherine. Wake up.” I shake her gently at first, and then none too gently. “Damn it. Wake up!”

  Katherine

  Am I dead?

  Confused and dizzy, I register voices in some crevice of my mind, but everything sounds distant. My thoughts are slow and thick like molasses, making it impossible to process what is going on.

  “If this doesn’t work, I’m calling 911,” I hear a male voice say through my fuzziness. A strong smell of rubbing alcohol wafts up my nose, clearing a lot of the cobwebs and jolting me back into the present.

  “I think she’s coming around,” a deeper, raspier voice says. The voices come in muffled, as if I’m underwater, but I still hear them, which means I’m not in fact dead. “Katherine?” Someone wipes a cold towel across my forehead, and the excess water drips down my neck as I struggle to open my eyes.

  “There you go. Attagirl,” the softer voice says, pressing an alcohol wipe against my upper lip, forcing me to inhale. Senses assaulted, I jerk my eyes open. The light spotting my vision adds to the confusion.

  “Get her up and out of here.”

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing, Nick?” the soft voice argues. Realizing I have no clue as to my whereabouts or who these men are, I begin to breathe quickly again. Now that the spots surrounding my vision have left, I see two pairs of identical-looking green eyes staring down at me.

  One looks concerned.

  One looks utterly pissed off.

  I sit up and accidentally knock my forehead against the chin of the pissed-off-looking guy. “Shit. Sorry,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my hand and trying to stand up on wobbly legs. The pissed-off guy catches me by the forearm and steadies me before I can land unceremoniously on my face. “Whoa. Slow down. Sit.” He drags me back down. His touch causes my warm skin to heat further, which then makes me realize my skirt has crept dangerously high up my legs.

  “Here, sweetheart, drink this,” the concerned guy says, handing me an open bottle of water as I’m trying to right my skirt. With shaky hands I reach for the bottle and put it to my lips as the two men continue to watch me suspiciously. But as the liquid is about to hit my mouth I bring it back down, shake my head, and hand it back.

  I don’t know these men. What if they’ve drugged the water?

  “I…uh…where am I?” I ask, blinking a few times, my voice coming out shaky and squeaky. I feel sticky from all the sweat, and my muscles ache from the stress I endured before passing out.

  “You’re at Nick’s office here at Panic. The nightclub you passed out in. I’m Matt, and that’s my brother, Nick. We own the club. Toro caught you right before you hit the floor.”

  “Toro?” My voice sounds raspy even to my own ears.

  “One of our bouncers,” he explains. “We were about to call an ambulance.”

  An ambulance? An ambulance that’ll drive me to a hospital? A hospital full of people?

  No.

  No! My heart starts to race again, and I’m fighting back nausea.

  “I’m okay. I’m sorry. Please, no hospitals.” Again I try to stand, holding the hem of my dress down at the same time, looking awkward as hell, I’m sure. The two men stand aside watching me. The pissed-off guy, who I now know is named Nick, looks me over distrustfully, arms crossed over his chest and his jaw twitching.

  Frantically I look around the room. Even though there is a sleek modern-looking desk with a glass top and chrome finish, the walls are cement and the ceiling is exposed, so I can see the ducts. I don’t see any windows. Not one. And the fluorescent light is flickering above me. My vision begins to blur, and I’m afraid I’ll pass out again. “I…uh…Where’s the door? I need to get out of here.” An overwhelming need to escape consumes me, and I know it is just a matter of time until I start to freak out again. Nick isn’t helping matters by being creepily gorgeous with his unabashed angry glare.

  “Wait. You can’t drive. You’re shaking. Are you going to pass out again?” Matt asks, taking a step closer as I take a step back.

  “It’s okay, really.” His green eyes seem genuinely concerned and harmless; he even holds his a
rms out as if he’s trying to show me he comes in peace. On the other hand, Nick…he’s both scaring the crap out of me and intriguing me. Clearly his anger is directed at me. What have I done that’s so awful he has such an instant aversion? Our eyes lock accidentally for a moment, and I feel those emeralds pierce right through me in a way that is unreservedly intimidating. I make it a point to look away because I can’t figure him out and I don’t need to add a new set of confusing emotions to my already out-of-whack ones.

  It’s weird. I’m in the middle of losing control of my body and I’m having perhaps the single most embarrassing moment of my life. Yet I’m also having some sort of visceral reaction to this man. To Nick. Whom I met just thirty seconds ago. A man who is staring at me as if I’m the most appalling creature he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting. I, on the other hand, have never seen a more attractive man before. His long hair is swept up in a bun that seems more like an afterthought than a style—but on him it looks particularly sexy. He’s also sporting a neatly trimmed beard that almost, but not quite, hides a pair of beautiful lips. I mean, I’ve seen lips like his. Full lips whose corners are tipped downward in a snarl. And his unconventional look—the beard, the hair, the scowl—contrasts sharply against the conventional but flawlessly tailored black suit, paired with a perfectly crisp white shirt and a thin black tie. Nick is striking, for lack of a better word. Or at least that’s what my stupid, traitorous body seems to think as my heart pounds not just from fear but from his intense gaze.

  With all I have been through in my thirty-two years of life, I’ve never wished I was someone else.

  Until today.

  Right now, at this very moment, I wish I was someone who has her shit together. Someone who could possibly stand a chance with a man like Nick. Someone who doesn’t make Nick look pissed off. Someone who wasn’t carried in unconscious by a man named Toro. A woman who’d caught his attention on the dance floor, not on her back about to puke.