Heaven or Sin (The Wreck Me Duet #2)

OZZY

Every day, I wake up wondering if today is the day I’ll receive the phone call. My efforts will have been for nothing, and she’ll be dead. That’s the pressure mounting on my shoulders – keeping the peace so he’ll spare her life.

It’s been exactly ninety-four days since I left Fallon Mariano in North Carolina, inside a car dealership while she was asleep, doing the only thing I could to save her life.

Leave.

Now, me and my crew are hired middlemen, doing the dirty work for the man who orchestrated the events of our separation, and we’re no closer to learning his identity.

We’re always on the move, never staying in the same place for long, as our boss likes us to take jobs all over the states we occupy, rather than staying put in one place.

It’s another way he exerts control over us, knowing that we have no choice but to obey his orders.

Currently, we’re residing in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Alabama, living out of a dirt-cheap motel that makes my skin crawl whenever I step inside.

The carpet smells like cat pee, the shower has black mold growing on the walls, and the bed is a combination of wood and springs, making sleep nearly impossible.

I don’t think I’ve slept more than two hours at a time since winter. My nights are an endless pit of overthinking, dwelling on the past, and breaking down, begging the universe to give me back the one thing that’s made this life worth living.

Nothing is okay without my girl, and I’ve suffered every single day for the last three months.

I’ve beaten myself up every time the silence takes over, knowing how badly I lied, deceived, and tormented her.

If it were up to me, Fallon would be here right now, smiling at me with those captivating doe-like eyes, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, and proving how smart she is with every word that comes out of her mouth.

If it were up to me, we’d be far away from this life, settling down in the suburbs somewhere and working hard, practicing for all those kids we plan on having.

I think of Fallon in the present tense because one day, she’ll be in my arms again. I don’t have faith in anything in this world – except her.

I can only imagine what my leaving did to her, to her mind, but I’m still the most confident man in the world, knowing our one day will come true.

One night turned into one day , and every fucking thing I do is still for her .

This client will make a mistake, loosen his grip on us, or hopefully, fixate on some other crew, and in his weakest moments, that’s when I’ll find my girl.

Places where the light hasn’t yet been found.

Her words echo through my mind on a loop like an evil, non-stop replay of the most magical things I’ve ever heard, and I lean into it, keeping the only connection I have to my Bambi alive.

When I’m not staring at the ceiling, the walls, or the endless roads ahead, the jobs come in relentlessly.

We’re almost always struggling to meet deadlines before it’s time to pack up and move again. We’re underpaid lackeys, unable to make our own choices or bank enough cash to plan an inkling of a counter-attack.

Oftentimes, the guys and I are at each other’s throats, nothing coming easily since we left home.

Everyone wants a vote, and some sense of democracy, but I’m focused on getting the job done and moving onto the next.

We’re not in charge of our own destiny, and we’re not taking jobs to better our future, so I see no point in discussing anything unless it has to do with the plans I devise.

It’s exactly what I didn’t want, a dictatorship, but without freedom – or the people we love – we’re nothing but five people stuck together in an unfortunate fate, working in an endless cycle.

“Oz?”

A knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts, and I only open it because it’s Oliver. He’s my trusted number two, and the only one who sees a side of me that doesn’t have to do with work.

“What do you need?” I ask, leaning against the door, the chain still in place.

“We’re heading out for dinner, are you joining us?”

“No, I’m fine. Anything else?” I say, rubbing my beard and giving him an annoyed eye roll.

“You sure?”

“I’m fucking positive.”

There’s nothing more that bothers me than someone who can’t catch a hint, and right now, Oliver’s grinding my last nerve.

The guys know I’m not interested in socializing, shooting the shit, or winding down with a beer or two, yet it never stops them from asking anyway, invading my space until I have to be the asshole. Ever since I left Fallon, I have had no interest in anything except work, the very thing that could one day lead me back to her.

I hear them all chattering outside my door, figuring out their plans for the night, each of them drowning the sadness on their own terms.

Oliver will never admit it, but he’s a lost puppy without Camila. He’s lonely, but hasn’t had the nerve to bring a girl home since we left.

Lex buries himself in work, and when there isn’t any, he spends all his time researching Mr. A., coping with the loss of Pepper in the one way that’ll get him back to her.

We’re grieving in our own ways, but in a similar fashion. If it’s not about work, or Mr. A., it’s just not important.

I’ve spent many nights pouring over the data and trying to connect the dots, but we’re no closer than we were months ago. Everything is a dead end, a rabbit hole, or a waste of resources.

Tomorrow, we’re wrapping up a series of jobs we’ve been on, intercepting trucks hauling across state lines, and dropping them at various warehouses. It’s none of my business what’s in the trucks; we go where they’re supposed to be, and drop them off to the location provided.

It’s tedious as fuck, but none of us are getting shot at or stealing from people directly, and when I’m alone on the open road, the silence is freeing.

Nobody asks me questions, tries to make small talk, or gives orders. It’s me, myself, and the overwhelming regret that consumes me like a fucking disease.

If there’s anything I can take pride in, it’s that we’ve been on a roll, closing out jobs in three different states in the last three months.

We’ve established a pipeline, and with only two more swaps on the schedule in the next week, we’ll most likely be moving again, starting over somewhere new to continue the same cycle.

The evening hours are the worst, the struggle to find a reason to wake up in the morning is always front and center in my mind.

Tonight, my gourmet meal consists of shitty Chinese takeout from the sketchy place down the street, prescription antidepressants that are supposed to lift my moods, and a bottle of cheap vodka to wash it all down.

I promised them I’d get better, and put in the effort to work on myself, but it doesn’t matter. None of it does.

I’m only here – doing these jobs – to keep Fallon alive.

The exchange was her life for mine, and I’m living proof that you can make a deal with a devil, and he won’t let you go back on it, no matter what you do.

* * *

Twelve agonizing, tortuous, exhausting days.

I thought it’d get easier, maybe hurt a little less the further away we drove, but it’s only gotten worse.

The memories of the girl I love haunt me in the daylight, the nighttime, on the days it rains, or when the sun is shining down, beating on me like a broken drum.

We’ve been in Tennessee for nearly two weeks, and none of us dare to speak about anything other than the job. We’ve hopped from one cheap motel to the next, and once the discussion is done, we retreat to our rooms, not even bothering to pretend we’re alright.

Each of us misses the home we created in North Carolina.

We’ve lived in places and had to leave them behind, but it’s never cut this deep.

The hopelessness that has invaded my mind is worse than when Masha died, or when I thought I was facing a stretch of jail time. This is something so dark and twisted that it preys on my weakness, the one person I want, but can’t have anymore.

She’s like a film reel stuck on repeat, flashbacks of her smile or her laugh echoing through my mind in the silence, and I’m nothing but an open wound, unable to stop the blood from spilling out.

Nothing can stitch a hole left in the heart, but I can try to cover it up as best I can.

The recipe to treat my barely beating vessel is a fifth of cheap vodka, a pack of cigarettes, and a game I like to call: drink every time I think about Fallon.

All my habits have come back around, and I’m sure I’ll figure it out, but not tonight.

I haven’t smoked since Masha died, but when I light one up, during those five minutes something else is killing me, and I like the relief that brings.

Forgoing the inconvenience of a shot glass, I lay on the bed and sip straight from the bottle in my left hand, drag the cigarette from my right, and stare at the ceiling waiting to feel something.

After a while, everything blurs together, and the tears don’t stop, no matter how many drinks I take.

The sounds, the smells, the memories are weighing me down, and I can’t breathe. I want the pain to stop, to feel anything other than pure, unfiltered fucking misery, but it has me in such a chokehold, I don’t think I’ll ever escape.

I’m drunk, somehow wandering around the parking lot, but the only thing I could possibly find comfort in is what I can’t see.

Where is the fucking North Star?

It’s supposed to shine brighter than all the rest, but I can’t find it.

I chug from the bottle until it’s empty, smashing it on the ground and watching as it shatters into a million tiny shards.

I follow the sidewalk to the opposite side of the building, staring up until I find the stupid fucking star I’m looking for as I dig in my pockets for a lighter, but it’s gone. I lost it, just like everything else good I’ve had in my life.

I laugh out loud at that thought, knowing the things I’ve held closest to me, and loved the most, are no longer with me, like some powerful motherfucker in the universe decided I deserve the most brutal form of punishment.

Suddenly, everything goes black, and I’m finally rewarded with the luxury of feeling something other than sadness.

Wherever I am, it’s a hell of a lot better than where I’ve been, and I embrace the nothingness I’m granted.

Bright lights and loud noises slowly creep in, but I fight them off as long as possible, begging to stay in the calm, quiet place where nothing hurts, and I’m not haunted by things I cannot change.

“Mr. Adams, do you know where you are? Can you hear me?”

I can, but I’d rather not.

Instead of coming to, I stay silent, hoping this woman goes the hell away.

I’m poked, prodded, and examined, but finally, I’m left alone again.

I can’t find that safe place anymore, and slowly, I realize I’m in a hospital. I peek one eye open, confirming my suspicions, but the second I do, the pain floods me like an overflowing river, and it’s not heartache this time.

It’s a throbbing, unrelenting amount of pressure in my head, and I can’t stop myself from puking all over the side of the bed I’m in.

“Mr. Adams, don’t try to sit up, you took a nasty spill, and we need to rule out the possibility of a concussion,” the woman says, lowering me back onto the bed. “Your brother is in the hall, would you like me to let him in?”

I have no idea why I’m in a hospital or what happened to me, and admittedly, I’m afraid to find out.

The last thing I remember was taking a walk, and now, I’m here.

“Jesus Christ, Ozzy, what the hell man?”

Of course, it’s Oliver.

He runs his hands through his dark hair, shaking his head at me like a disappointed parent. His white shirt is covered in blood, but he doesn’t have a scratch on him.

That’s my blood.

Oliver must know what happened, why I’m banged up in a hospital bed, still drunk and thriving off whatever they gave me for the pain.

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve felt worse than this,” I say, turning slowly to face him.

“You can’t live like this. You’re going to kill yourself next time,” he tells me, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

“It’ll probably hurt less.”

“I know, okay, I know. I can’t breathe without Cami, but I’m not getting drunk and falling down a flight of concrete stairs. We need you, ya know,” he says, and I shake my head.

“Don’t worry about me, Olly. I was just trying to find the star,” I slur, still feeling a little of the vodka coursing through me.

“I told them you’re depressed. I said you need medication, something to help you get right. You’re either crying about Fallon, angry at the world, or too fucked up to see straight. You’re not dealing with this, Oz, and you need help,” he tells me, a certain seriousness on his face that I rarely see.

I know why he’s on me so hard, and what emotions my behavior is bringing up for him. Drunk and depressed are two things Oliver knows all too well from watching his father battle with survivor’s guilt for years.

Instead of getting pissed, fighting back, or lying to him, I choose to take his advice. He’s right, I’m not dealing with losing Fallon well at all, and if anyone can see through me, it’s him.

“Okay. Tell them to hook me up with the good stuff.”

I roll onto my side, the lights making my eyes heavy, but Oliver sits me up, shaking his head.

“You have a huge gash on your forehead, dude. They need to rule out a concussion before you pass the hell out.” He sounds far away, and my brain can’t quite keep up with what he’s saying.

Everything’s fuzzy, like the static on an old TV, and I feed into it, tuning into the frequency of the nothingness I experienced earlier.

It’s nice here, I’d like to stay a while.

* * *

I touch the scar on my forehead, a harsh reminder of why I take these pills, and if almost dying isn’t enough motivation to take them, they aren’t doing their job.

I’m not supposed to drink with them, but a few shots aren’t going to kill me, and if a severe concussion won’t, then nothing will.

What should’ve been a scary wake-up call was nothing but a blip on the map of my fucked up life, just another series of unfortunate events.

I don’t remember much, but according to Oliver and the lovely medical staff in Tennessee, I seemed drunk, when in reality I was suffering from a serious concussion.

Oliver had no idea how long I was unconscious, only finding me passed out at the bottom of the outdoor stairwell at the motel.

He rushed me to the nearest hospital and stayed with me for the three days I was admitted.

I survived, and while most days the medication keeps the scarier thoughts away, they don’t eliminate the pain I cope with daily.

Admittedly, they barely numb it, but I don’t let anyone know that. I keep to myself, get the work done, and try to fight the demons off enough to catch a few hours of sleep.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

I’ve managed to convince the crew I don’t need a babysitter, but that doesn’t stop them from trying. They’re all moving on, finding the silver linings in the places we end up in, but I can’t.

I’m still mentally stuck in the place I was the day we left.

Luckily, the vodka and the pills mix like a perfect cocktail tonight, and I shut out the lights, optimistic that I may grab more than a few hours of sleep.

My mind drifts, darting from memory to flashback and everything in between. Sometimes, it helps when I think of the nights I spent with Fallon asleep in my arms, and if I try hard enough, I can picture her here with me.

Just as I’m about to slip under, I hear her whispers, begging me to come here, and I follow the sound of her voice until we’re reunited in a different realm of the universe.

In my dreams, I can see her face but never get close enough to touch, but tonight, I’m alright with it.

We’re reunited, even if only in my subconscious.