Chapter Forty-Seven
JENSEN
PRESENT DAY
I drift in and out of consciousness, my eyes fluttering. Blurry shapes move around me, and every sound feels muffled and far away.
Jesus, my heart is pounding. But it’s slow, methodic—loud.
“Oh, good. You’re alive,” a voice says.
Is that… Alley?
What the hell is happening? Did I have surgery again?
“You dropped these.”
I feel something land on my chest, and I force my eyes open. My vision sharpens just enough to make out a woman stepping into a skirt, pulling it up around her hips. She’s in her bra, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes.
She’s pretty, maybe. Hard to tell beneath sunken eyes and hollowed-out cheeks, her hair a tangled mess.
I groan, head fuzzy, my gaze shifting down to the little plastic baggie she tossed on me. I’m shirtless—and my pants are undone.
Panic surges, nausea rising fast. “Fuck,” I rasp. “What the fuck?”
Her eyes flick to me. “Relax. We didn’t sleep together. You got up to piss, came back with your pants halfway down, then passed the fuck out on the floor.” She lets out a dry laugh. “Classy.”
She bends to grab something off the floor, her tone flippant. “Good thing, too. Jake and I went to town after. That could’ve been awkward… unless you’re into watching. Are you?”
Her words bounce around in my head like bumper cars, slamming into each other while I try to make sense of what she just said.
What? I passed out?
I try to lift my head, but it’s too heavy. My neck gives out halfway. “What?” I ask, my voice scratchy.
“Are you into watching?” she repeats, way too casually. “Better yet, are you into threesomes? Because Jake’s still here, and you’re hot, so…”
“No. Jesus. Fuck no, I’m married.”
She laughs as she pulls a shirt over her head. “Right. You know, you were passed out for a whole thirty minutes. It’s not like you’re a saint. That shit’ll knock you on your ass. Especially the first time smoking it.”
“I smoked something?” My mind is spinning, trying to dig through the fog, to remember what I did, what I took.
Where the fuck even am I?
I can’t remember. I don’t know where I was earlier tonight, or how I got here. Shit. I can’t remember the last fucking month.
My relapse hit hard. I spiraled fast. Worse than ever before. I don’t remember it ever feeling like this.
She hums but doesn’t answer. “You gonna be alright?”
“What did I smoke?” I ask again. I try to sound firm, but it comes out groggy, slow and slurred.
She looks down at me—her expensive heels just a few feet from my face. “Oxy.”
I’m half-slumped in the corner against something soft.
A chair maybe… or a chaise? I don’t know, but it feels expensive.
Everything in here does. The bed across the room is wrecked—sheets tangled, something black hanging off the edge.
The air reeks, too, a thick mix of perfume, sweat, sex… and something burnt.
There’s some kind of fancy silver tray on the table with wax hardened on it. Ash is scattered on the floor, foil crumpled around it. A wine bottle’s tipped over in the corner—red, I think. Or maybe it’s the lighting—honestly, it’s all kind of a blur.
“Listen, I don’t know you, but Seth vouched for you,” she says. “The party’s still going, so take your time. If you need a bump to get you going, I can get you one.”
I force a nod and squeeze my eyes shut. My stomach lurches, and cold sweat beads along my hairline.
“Yeah? I’ll be back in a bit.” She slings a Yves Saint Laurent purse over her shoulder and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
A whimper escapes my throat. “Fuck.”
Jesus, did I take something else? Seth said it was Oxy. But—what if it wasn’t just that?
I smoked it? I’ve never done that.
I vaguely remember coming to the party to meet Seth. He handed me pills and told me if I needed it to hit faster, there was a setup in the back. He said nobody would bother me.
But I had a drink first, and I think I took a benzo before he even showed up. My anxiety was through the fucking roof. And now—
I guess that’s how I ended up here.
The girl’s words slam back into my skull. You passed the fuck out.
My stomach twists tighter. Everything inside me swirls like a storm—loud, violent, sick.
I smoked it? I fucking smoked it? Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?
My head throbs. My limbs feel heavy. My pants are undone, I’m half-dressed on a stranger’s floor, and I can’t even remember how I got here.
Wait.
Alley.
I suck in a breath. Shit. Was I supposed to meet her tonight?
My mind grasps for the memory, but it’s slippery.
Fuck. Our anniversary. Was that today?
Panic surges, swallowing the nausea whole.
My whimper turns into a cry. “God. No. Not today. Please, no.” The words tear from me, desperate and broken, begging my own mind to believe them.
A sob rips through me, raw and full-body, and I curl onto my side—because my limbs are fucking useless.
“Alley,” I whisper. “God. No. Alley.”
I’m a piece of shit.
I don’t deserve her.
She’d be better off without me.
I wish I would just fucking die.
My gaze drops to the baggie that slid off my chest, now lying on the floor in front of me. I reach for it, my fingers wrapping around the plastic. I grip it tight, like it might save me from my choices—from myself.
Relief ghosts through me, filling the corners of my mind, body, and soul.
I scan the room. My eyes land on the foil and a candle.
Fuck.
I push myself to my knees, crawling toward it like it’s my Savior—like it will give me life—or end me. Maybe both.
Fuck it. I’ve already ruined everything anyway. I’ve already lost. It’s just a little more. Just enough to forget. I’ll deal with dying later.
Besides, I’d be putting Alley out of her misery.
I drop back on my heels, whispering the lie I always start with. ”It’s the last time.” My hands shake as I hold the bag, and the second I make my decision—they stop.
And I stop fighting.
I stumble into the side of my building.
No. Not my building.
Mine isn’t brick.
Shit. How much farther?
I fix my gaze on the street sign at the corner.
Goddammit. I can’t make it out. I squint, trying to bring the letters into focus, but everything’s spinning.
The streets swirl around me. The noise of the city feels louder than usual.
Sirens, voices, and tires on wet pavement all bleed together into one haunting sound.
“Almost home. Just get home,” I whisper, my teeth chattering. “Youcanlaydown. Just… gethome.”
My shirt’s soaked through, and I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing up and down for warmth. I wipe my face. Rain—or sweat—I can’t even tell. Everything’s wet.
I focus on a nearby building sign, lit up like a beacon, but it’s too bright. I flinch, squeeze my eyes shut, and press my hand to the wall. My knees buckle, and I slide down, my body giving out beneath me. “I jus’wanna lay down,” I mumble.
“You have to keep going,” a voice says.
“No. Need to rest.”
“Keep going.”
My head snaps up. “Who said that?” My voice comes out cracked, weak. I look around, trying to make sense of what’s happening—of where the fuck I am.
Someone’s following me. I know they are. I have to get home. I think I’m close. I have to be close.
A blonde flashes through my mind—distorted, lips parted, fuzzy like a dream. Alley. Was she at the party?
I stumble farther down the road, feet dragging. There are people around me—I can hear them, feel the movement—but they all blend together.
I press my fingers to my brow and swipe at the sweat dripping down my face. God. I’m gonna be sick. Nausea whips through me, sudden and sharp. It knocks a groan out of me as I clutch my stomach and double over, crouching low until it eases just enough to breathe.
“Just get home, you piece of shit!” I yell, voice echoing down the street.
Fuck. What did Seth give me?
This feels different.
Was it the benzo? Was it the smoking?
Alley.
“Get to Alley.”
If I can just get to her…
“If I can just—”
Home.
I just need to get home.