Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Devon
It takes me three days to recover.
I sleep in broken, restless stints, waking up drenched and shaking every time. Either Logan or his boyfriend check on me, feeding me more than I want them to. Christian doesn’t check on me at all.
I just stay on the couch because I’m too exhausted to move—and too ashamed to go anywhere else. Not that I have anywhere else to go. Every time I close my eyes, I see myself in those woods as a kid, heaving all over again.
Fucking embarrassing.
By day two, my body stops trying to kill me.
By day three, I almost trust it again. Even if I still don’t trust myself.
The apartment is quiet when I can finally sit up without the world spinning.
My throat’s raw, stomach hollow, and there’s this awful awareness in my chest—like the fallout settling in.
I'll have to actually face the shitstorm I caused at some point, but for the first time in days, I’m upright.
Sucking in a breath doesn't hurt… at least, not in my lungs. My fucking nostrils, on the other hand…
Wrinkling my nose, I sniff at my underarms and gag. Nearly a week without a shower—plus sweating out all the shit in my system—made me rank.
With a grimace, I stand on shaky legs and shuffle to the sink for a glass of water. Not sure where everyone's at. From what I've gathered over the last few days, Logan works for a big corporate bank now and his boyfriend—Owen—doesn’t work at all. Rich little fuck. His parents pay all his bills.
Must be nice.
Salem’s got a full-time photography gig for the band Symbiotic, and Christian works at a bar with Taylor. The very bar where I now work as well, apparently.
Swallowing down the guilt in my chest with the rest of my water, I set the glass in the sink and head for the bathroom.
Christian’s scent immediately envelops me when I step inside, warm and ambery.
One glance in the small oval mirror has me wishing I hadn’t looked.
Days of patchy stubble cover my jaw, eyes tired and bruised.
I’m pretty sure someone could deep fry a chicken with the amount of grease in my hair.
I peel off my clothes, noting how prominent my ribs are as I step inside the shower and turn it on. Freezing water hits my skin, making me hiss, but I welcome the sting. It heats quickly anyway, and I stand under the stream for a long while, just… processing.
This isn't the first time I've gotten sober. Probably won't be the last, either. Every time I try to pull myself out of that dark pit, it just wraps itself around me again, tighter than before. It’s almost like my downfall is inevitable. No matter what I do, I just can't get clean…
Speaking of clean. My lips twitch slightly when I pour a healthy amount of Christian’s soap onto a washcloth and scrub myself down.
Then I use his shampoo after, massaging it into my unkempt strands.
Definitely time for a haircut, I think. And a shave.
Might as well use his razor while I'm in here, too.
By the time I step out, I've washed all of the sweat and sickness off my body, feeling more like myself and less of… whoever I turn into when I'm using. He’s someone I don't recognize.
It isn't until I've fully dried off with Christian’s towel that I realize I have no fucking clothes, so all I can do is wrap the soft material around my waist before stepping out of the bathroom—
And smash right into Christian’s chest.
“Watch it,” he growls, nostrils flaring as his gaze tracks down my torso. Light flares in his hazel eyes. “Did you use my shit?”
I shrug, skirting by him into the kitchen. “I had nothing else to use and I'm pretty sure my stench was making the paint peel.”
His footsteps follow close behind, the heat of his body warming my back when I open the fridge. A bag of shredded cheese catches my attention, and I rip it open to dump a handful into my mouth.
“Sure, make yourself at home,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
“Thanks, I will.”
Christian scoffs under his breath, but he doesn’t move away.
If anything, he almost steps… closer. I keep my eyes on the cheese bag even though my heart’s hammering in my chest. Without the crutch of booze or coke to lean on, I feel exposed.
Anxious—uncomfortable in my own skin. It's half the reason why I started using in the first place.
“You smell like me,” he accuses.
My fingers freeze mid-cheese-scoop. “Yeah.”
“It’s weird.”
“Hmm. Guess I could have used Logan’s soap instead.”
His eyes narrow into slits. “And you used the razor I shave my asshole with.”
I choke on my next mouthful and slap at my chest, unable to answer. What the fuck?
“Guess you look better,” he continues begrudgingly. “Not good, but less… Skeletor.”
That's probably the nicest thing he’s said to me in over a year.
“Thanks,” I answer dryly, licking cheese dust off my thumb. “You know how to make a guy feel special.”
It was mostly a joke, but Christian braces one hand on the fridge door, effectively boxing me in. “You think you're special?” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth.
Fuck, and this is why I hate being sober. “You used to think so.”
His lashes twitch, but not before I catch the conflict in his eyes. He almost seems pissed, like he hasn’t decided whether or not to punch me. And I’m sick enough, lonely enough, to stand there wishing he would.
The towel hitches slightly when I shift my weight. His gaze zeroes in on the movement like a predator catching prey. “Put some clothes on,” he growls. “We're leaving for work in five.”
A slow breath leaves my lungs when he steps away, taking the warmth with him. “I don't… I don't have any clothes. Clean ones, anyway. And Arnie probably threw out all my shit, so…”
Christian stares at me for a long moment, jaw muscles working. When he doesn't answer right away, I run a hand through my damp hair and shrug. “Guess I can borrow Logan's—”
That has him spinning on his heel toward his bedroom. “Good thing we're about the same size, motherfucker. You can borrow one pair of jeans and a single shirt. That's it.”
He disappears down the hallway, muttering something in Spanish under his breath the whole way.
I lean my head against the fridge briefly and try to calm my heart down.
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? He didn’t even touch me.
He barely came near me. One whole week sober and I've already lost my swagger.
Fucking embarrassing. Maybe if I just do one line to get my confidence back—
My shoulders slump. Arnie was the guy I'd go to for that, even if the shit he gave me last time nearly killed me. And Christian used his hard-earned cash to get me out of that mess.
But if I start off slow this time, get it under control, only do it once in a while. I can be good this time.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Same old lies. The bargaining has already started. And soon the cycle will repeat, over and over until I finally end up on someone's floor with a needle in my arm. It's like a fucking loop I just can't escape from.
Christian stomps back into the kitchen a minute later and throws some clothes at my chest. “Don’t stretch them out.”
“The fuck do you think I’m gonna do in them?”
“Shut up and get dressed,” he snaps, heading for the front door.
I stare down at the jeans in my hands long after his footsteps fade away. They’re dark-wash, worn. Tight-fitting. Kind of like the ones he wore in Ohio when I sucked his dick in the Gravitron.
Great. Now I’m horny and sad. Fantastic combination.
With a sigh, I unwrap the towel and step into the denim right there in the kitchen, tugging them up over my hips.
They fit fine, albeit a little short, hugging all the right places without strangling anything important.
Shaky fingers close the button, and I pause, feeling something tight coil in my chest.
This is dumb. They’re just fucking jeans. Why are they making my heart hurt?
He didn’t have to give me anything. Not after the shit I pulled last year. And now here I am, wearing his clothes, stealing his body wash, eating his cheese.
My hands go still on the T-shirt when a thought runs through my head: I don’t want to hurt him again.
He doesn’t deserve it, not after everything. And I’m the problem.
I’m always the problem.
I want to be better.
But the truth is, I can’t trust myself. Every time I start to feel okay, I find a new way to slip back into old habits, and this time…
Christian will be the first casualty if I do.