Chapter Eight
Paul was determined to relax tonight.
After his unfortunate conversation with Vanessa, he’d spent an hour hunkered down by his front window, surveilling the trees.
Vanessa and her brother left without another word.
Then night had fallen, and there was nothing more to see.
Paul didn’t know what he’d been looking for, anyway.
The Navas posed no threat to him. Vanessa would probably never speak to him again.
With any luck, he wouldn’t see her in passing.
He needed to keep his distance and stop worrying about things he couldn’t control.
He took a long shower, letting the spray drum against the ache in his shoulder.
When that didn’t put a dent in his tension, he stomped into the bedroom and rifled through his medications.
He’d promised to try Kyle’s natural remedy.
The small package of colorful gummy squares sat in the back of the drawer.
There was no time like the present, was there?
Paul popped one of the gummies into his mouth before he could overthink it.
He paced around the cabin, restless. He felt nothing.
An hour passed by without any discernible difference, so he chewed another square.
Grumbling, he sat down on the couch and used his phone to browse for local fishing tips.
Little by little, a mild fog settled over him.
He kept reading the same thing and forgetting what it said.
The fog mutated into a heavier sensation, a smothering blanket rather than a pleasant buzz.
His mind drifted, then jerked back to focus, and then drifted again.
It reminded him of dreams of falling, or worse—dreams of dying.
With a grimace, he set his phone aside and glanced around the room.
A strange energy pulsed in the air. He didn’t like it.
His hands were clammy, his mouth dry. Maybe he needed a cool drink to soothe his nerves.
He took cautious steps toward the kitchen, as if the floor might turn into lava on his way there.
No demonic creatures awaited inside the fridge.
Locating a chilled bottle was easy enough.
The bottle opener was in the drawer, as expected.
He popped the cap and took a fortifying swig.
The familiar taste failed to reassure him.
Bubbles fizzed in his throat, which felt unnaturally tight.
He cursed Kyle, and Vanessa Nava, and her cop brother.
Then he cursed himself, because he should have known better.
He wasn’t in the right mindset to relax.
He felt twice as anxious as he’d been before, and he had no control over his racing thoughts.
He realized, with some alarm, that his lips had gone numb.
He raised his fingertips to touch them. They were still on his face, right where they should be.
Was he allergic to edible THC? Or was he just really high?
Paul made a feeble attempt to get a grip on himself.
He focused on breathing, because that seemed basic enough.
He needed to calm down. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears, amplified and distorted.
He considered venturing outside for a change of scenery, but he didn’t move.
He was reluctant to leave the safety of the cabin.
Then his shoulder muscle twitched in a sudden, painful spasm.
He inhaled sharply, trying not to panic. His chest tightened like a vice around his heart. He needed air. Outside air. Lurching forward, he pushed through the screen door. He clutched at the front of his T-shirt and gasped for oxygen.
Vanessa Nava appeared in front of him. “Are you okay?”
Paul felt like a teenager coming home after a night of partying. His first instinct was to try to play it off and act cool. He didn’t like admitting to weakness, or asking for help from strangers. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop hyperventilating, so he choked out an honest response. “No. I’m not.”
Vanessa took the beer bottle out of his hand. He hadn’t realized he was still holding it. She placed a palm on his shoulder and guided him back inside. They walked up the porch steps and through the cabin door together.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the couch.
Paul sat.
“Are you having chest pain?”
“Yes.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
Her brows knit together with concern. “Have you experienced these symptoms before?”
“Not really. No.”
“I’m an ER nurse,” she said in a calm voice. “I can check your vital signs.”
He wheezed his consent. She plucked a children’s book off his shelf and handed it to her daughter, who’d tagged along behind her.
“Sit over there and read a story to Penelope,” Vanessa said.
The little girl sat in the beanbag chair with her doll. He didn’t think she was old enough to read. She opened the book and started reciting a fairy tale in a tone that reminded Paul of whispered prayers during an exorcism.
His mind flashed back to the bloodstained face of another child, her mouth open in a silent scream.
He closed his eyes to dispel the image.
“Look at me,” Vanessa said to him. “Breathe.”
Paul focused his attention on her, with some difficulty, and dragged air into his lungs.
She had the no-nonsense, detached vibe of a professional.
She left for a moment and returned with a medical bag.
She removed a cuff from the bag and wrapped it around his left bicep.
He felt the urge to flex, which was ridiculous.
His muscles weren’t going to impress her while he was dying.
She squeezed the bulb to expand the cuff.
He stared at her pretty face while the cuff tightened.
His vision was clear enough. She looked angelic, like a beacon of peace.
This didn’t make sense to him. Her personality was more tempestuous than calm, judging by their short acquaintance.
Paul wondered vaguely if the drugs had enhanced her beauty.
He studied the other details of her appearance.
She was wearing the same outfit he’d seen her in earlier: a green tank top with striped pants and leather sandals.
Her skin was honey-smooth, her body lush and inviting.
He could see the tan lines, faint but discernible, from the strings that had held her bikini top together.
His attention drifted lower, to her breasts, and stayed there.
He’d been trying to avoid staring at her chest, because it wasn’t polite, but her forward-leaning position gave him an excellent view of her cleavage.
The sight offered a pleasant distraction from his respiratory distress.
“Breathe,” she said again, ripping off the cuff. She modeled deep breaths, her chest rising and falling spectacularly.
Paul attempted to follow her lead.
She attached a device to his finger and used a stethoscope to listen to his heart.
He struggled to inhale and exhale in ragged puffs.
Thoughts raced around in his brain, untethered, and he couldn’t expand his lungs without a hitch of pain.
She continued to model proper breathing, and he gave it his best shot.
The pressure in his chest eased a little.
“Your pulse rate is slightly elevated,” she said. “Blood oxygen level is normal. Heartbeat strong and steady.”
Paul blinked in confusion. He didn’t feel normal. “I’m not dying?”
She patted his knee. “You’re not dying.”
“Are you sure?”
“Your vital signs are normal,” she repeated in a soothing tone. “Did you eat food you might be allergic to?”
“No.”
“Did you take any drugs or medications?”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Hmm.”
“Drugs?” When he didn’t answer, she offered a dazzling smile. “I’ve seen it all, Paul. You’d be amazed by what people put in their bodies.”
Her words floated in his mind like puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. It was a chore to process simple statements. Had she asked him if he’d taken drugs? “My brother gave me something. Some kind of gummy.”
“Edible marijuana?”
“Yeah. He said it would help me relax.”
“How many milligrams of THC?”
“I have no idea, but I’m going to kill him.”
She rose to her feet and entered the kitchen. “Have you taken edibles before?”
“No,” he said shortly. His throat was parched, so he reached for his beer and gulped it. He glanced at Emily, who’d apparently become bored with Paul’s fight for life. She’d fallen asleep on the beanbag chair.
“Don’t drink that,” she said. “It has a magnifying effect.”
“Fuck,” he said, putting the bottle down.
She opened his fridge. “Soda or water?”
“Water.”
She brought him a cold water. “Take small sips.”
Paul did.
“Have you smoked pot before?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what it was like?”
“It wasn’t like this!”
She nodded her understanding. “Edible THC can be very strong, and reactions vary. Some people experience anxiety and disorientation. The important thing to remember is that the high doesn’t last forever. The feeling goes away.”
“Right,” he said, wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.
“This is temporary.”
“It’s temporary.”
“Breathe.”
He breathed, and massaged his sore shoulder.
“Why did you have surgery?”
“I had a … torn tendon.” The bullet had done some damage as it passed through, but he’d been lucky with the minor complication. A few inches lower, and it would have nicked an arterial valve. Or, you know, his heart.
“Are you taking pain meds?”
“Mostly over-the-counter stuff.”
She rotated her left arm with a thoughtful nod. “Tendons and muscles in the shoulder are connected to chest muscles. As you heal, the soreness can feel like increased pressure and lead to shortness of breath.”
This reasonable explanation eased some of the tension inside him. Maybe the surgeon had explained this to him, and he hadn’t listened. Post-op, he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness in the recovery room.