53. Chapter 38
This Bitter Pill
Rain
The whole world lurches as I blink my eyes open. My stomach roils, my eyelids feel too heavy, and there’s a throbbing pulse over my left eye. I roll over and vomit, though I can’t go too far. One, because my body aches too much and two, because my hands are chained at my back.
The metal of the handcuffs rattles against what I presume is a radiator or something like it, and the acidic stench of vomit, that smells more like vodka than any actual food, is everywhere.
My memory is a hazy fog. All I remember is the phone call.
Dallas’s familiar, broken voice as he begged me to come and let him into the apartment.
Leaving his brother to sleep, I grabbed one of Dutch’s sweaters and headed for the door, sure I would find a strung-out Dax waiting in the hallway.
That was before a final flash of the open door, a waiting shadow and after that, nothing but utter darkness.
I try to look down, to verify that my body still has the small safety offered by clothing.
But between the dull ache and the vomit, it burns.
I try to blink that away too, but it only draws my situation into stark focus.
There’s only been one other time in my life I’ve hurt this much, and at least then I woke up in a hospital bed. No such luck this time around.
A door slams open on the other side of the room and the light that pours in is painfully bright. I wince as my eyes water. The light is followed by heavy footsteps, then a shadow that blocks the light just enough for me to bear to look.
I fucking regret it the second I do.
“You?!” I stare at his figure. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
At the sight of the man filling the doorframe, I realize there’s only one place this could be.
And it’s somewhere I swore I’d never step foot in again.
Then again, I also swore I’d never drink again, yet I’m definitely drunk or hungover, or somewhere in between.
With no idea how it happened. Without ever consenting to a single drink.
Poor, pathetic Rain Gamble. Climbed herself out of rock bottom, again, only to tumble right back down. This time, I think I’ll just stay.
When he walks over, bottle in hand and goads my mouth open with the glass, I don’t protest at all.
“Drink up, baby,” is my only warning before he turns the bottle upright and the liquid pours into my open mouth. I swallow it without a fuss. I savour the alcoholic burn. It’s my penance. So I take it. In fact, it’s almost a relief to stop fighting.
I let him feed me another swig. There are probably seconds before I black out, before I lose myself again to the void. I used to think fame was a bitter pill to swallow, then learned that addiction was worse. Now I know that hope is the bitterest pill of all.