Final Destination III Read Free

I dashed out the door to my apartment and down the three flights of stairs. Once outside, I hailed a cab.  Luck was on my side. One pulled up immediately.
    “Fifty Seventh Street between Park and Lex.”
    The cab raced off. I held my breath.
    When we got to my destination, I jumped out of the cab.
    “I’ll pay you double the next time I see you,” I told the shocked cab driver and ran off.
    I sprinted up to Lauren’s building. The doorman recognized me. I composed myself and said, “Apartment 15C. Lauren’s expecting me.”
    With a smile, the uniformed man buzzed her apartment. There was no answer. My already fast heartbeat accelerated.
    “I bet she’s listening to her iPod with her earphones and can’t hear the intercom.”
    The doorman chuckled. “Just like my thirteen-year-old daughter.” He gave me access to Lauren’s apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to the elevator.
    Thankfully, I was the sole person on the elevator and got to the fifteenth floor quickly. My heart was racing as I ran down the long hallway to Lauren’s corner apartment. I prayed that she hadn’t slit her wrist again! And that I wasn’t too late.
    When I tore into her apartment, Lauren was in the living room, sitting on her white shag carpet in a pool of vomit. A half-drunk bottle of white wine was next to her along with an empty container of aspirin. Her normally glorious hair was matted to her head, and tears were streaming down her vomit-coated face. She was sobbing uncontrollably.
    Panic charged through me as I ran to her side. “Oh God, Lauren, what have you done?”
    “I can’t live without Taylor,” she sobbed.
    “Fuck him!” I barked at her. “He’s a total creep! You deserve better.”
    Lauren clutched her stomach and upchucked again. Her eyes rolled back in head.
    “Lauren, we have to get you to a hospital!”
    “No!” she shrieked. “My parents will institutionalize me! Go away!” She began to convulse and sweat profusely.
    Oh, God! What was I going to do? Lauren would never forgive me if she ended up in a mental institution. And there was this to consider—if Lauren’s attempted suicide got out to the press, she and her family would never live it down. Think, Sarah, think!
    The answer came to me quickly. Ari. I pulled out my wallet from my messenger bag and fumbled through it for the hundred dollar bill with his cell phone number scribbled on it. He told me to call him if I ever had an emergency. This was an emergency.
    I found my cell phone and punched in the number. His phone rang and rang. Pick up, Ari. Please pick up. And then a voice. Cold and stinging.
    “Sarah.”
    “Ari, I need your help. I’m with Lauren. She’s overdosed on wine and aspirin.” I was speaking a mile a minute.
    His tone took on urgency. “Where are you?”
    I gave him Lauren’s address and apartment number.
    “I’ll be right there. In the meantime, see if she has any Gatorade. If not, make her drink water.” CLICK.
    I hurried to Lauren’s refrigerator, and miraculously, among all the Diet Cokes, I found a single bottle of Gatorade.
    “Drink this!” I urged Lauren when I returned to her side. She was still shaking and sweating buckets. I put the bottle to her lips, and to my relief, she slowly sipped the contents down. I prayed that Ari would get here soon. In the meantime, I managed to get Lauren cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes. I noticed, for the first time, that she wasn’t wearing her five-carat engagement ring.
    The intercom buzzed ten minutes later. Ari! Pretending I was Lauren, I told the doorman to send him up. He fell for my impersonation.
    The doorbell rang. I ran to open it. I was not prepared for my reaction when I met him face to face. I thought my knees would buckle as my blood rushed to my head. He held me in his gaze for a brief moment—oh, those beautiful but unreadable gemstone eyes—and then sprinted past me to Lauren. Shaking, she had begun to hallucinate.
    “Fuck!” he