10. Chapter 10
Chapter ten
MICAH PRESCOTT
I don’t fucking breathe while she’s in there. I tell myself I am. My chest moves, and air seems to go in, then out. But it doesn’t feel like breathing. I'm just waiting to see if anything goes wrong on the other side of that door. Considering he almost just fucking shot himself.
My best friend.
Rafe is standing near the door, gun at the ready, watching our reactions in the event he has to bust back in.
Heather is beside me, arms folded tight across her chest, her eyes locked on the monitor.
She got me a tissue and assessed my lip after Jude nearly knocked me the fuck out.
Now, none of us says anything as Emma approaches Jude.
My gaze flicks between the live feed and the closed door ten feet away, like I can somehow be in both places at once.
Control.
That’s what Rafe said this was about.
Controlled exposure. Controlled contact. Controlled fucking everything.
Yeah. Sure. Fucking hell.
Feels like I’m standing here watching a bomb and hoping it doesn’t decide to go off and kill Emma.
Even if she’s wildly determined to pull Jude back from the edge.
He could snap her fucking neck. I’ve watched him do that before, and I was horrified to know just easy and fast it was to take a life that way.
On the screen, Emma steps closer to the bed, slow and careful as if she’s approaching a wild animal. One that could turn on her in a second.
My jaw tightens.
“He’s watching her,” Heather murmurs under her breath. “Really closely.”
“I see that,” I mutter back, my eyes narrowing.
Jude’s gaze is locked onto Emma, tracking every movement she makes.
There’s something off about it. How the fuck did Alexei manage to break him this badly?
How the hell did he make Jude feel so uncomfortable around the only woman he’s ever loved?
This man used to cry about her to me late at night after our shows, or when Adriana left our hotel after she got what she wanted from him.
I can’t help but anxiously chew my nail. Come on, man. Just…hold onto control.
Emma says something. I can’t hear it from here, but I see that she’s being calm. For a second, nothing happens. Then Jude flinches. And my entire body tenses.
“Fuck,” I breathe, already shifting forward.
Heather’s hand shoots out, gripping my forearm. “Wait.”
I don’t look at her. I don’t take my eyes off the screen. “If he—”
“Wait,” she repeats, firmer this time.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay where I am.
On the monitor, Jude pushes himself up slightly, his movements jerky and weird. His lips move slowly.
Emma steps closer. Too close for my fucking comfort.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
But she doesn’t stop. No. Now, she sits on the edge of the goddamn bed. My heart slams against my ribs so hard that it might actually break out my chest.
What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?
Jude’s eyes drop to the bed when she settles, his shoulders tight and hands clamped shut in his lap. My muscles are coiling, ready to move. Rafe remains as still as a statue, listening through the door. He’s relaxed, for now.
Unless it gets bad. Well, define bad. Because from where I’m standing, this already feels like a nightmare waiting to happen.
He looks like he could pounce any moment and snap her fucking neck.
If he actually did manage to hurt her, we’d never get him back.
Because once he realized what he’d done, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger next time. I know him.
“She’s talking to him,” Heather says quietly.
“I know,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to. I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard through my nose. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she murmurs.
But neither of us relaxes, because on the screen, Jude’s expression shifts again.
It’s subtle and easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.
But I am. Like a hawk. I've watched him so much over the years, making sure his chest didn't stop moving when he injected too much.
Studying his micro-movements is second nature to me.
His brow furrows slightly, and his head tilts just a fraction. He’s still not making direct eye contact with Emma, which is good. It’s shitty, because he can’t trust himself to. But aware enough to know he can't.
I glance back toward the closed door. Toward the room where my best friend is still trapped inside his own head. “When she’s done, I’m going back in.”
“Why?” Heather asks. “I imagine he’s had enough.”
“He’s in worse shape because of the withdrawals.” I point to the screen. “It’s adding to his agitation. Since he’s in a little better of a headspace than the last time I was in there alone with him, I might be able to give him Suboxone.”
She bites her lip. “Okay. I think that’s wise, Micah.”
***
When I walk back in, he’s twisted into himself, one arm wrapped tight around his stomach again. It’s almost like he’s trying to keep something from ripping out of him. He’s shaking with violent tremors that move through his entire body in waves.
“Jesus,” I mutter to myself.
His head snaps toward me.
Wrong move.
His expression shifts instantly, eyes going wild. “Get the fuck out, Micah. I can’t take this anymore. Leave me alone.”
I close the door behind me anyway. “No,” I say, calm. “Not happening, man.”
“I said—” His voice cracks hard, breaking apart mid-sentence as his body jerks. He curls tighter, a strangled sound ripping out of his throat. “Get out.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
His head lifts again, slower this time, his eyes locking onto me like I just said the worst possible thing I could say. “I don’t need you,” he spits, even as his hand claws into the sheets. His body folds in on itself again, a groan dragging out of him that hurts to hear.
I move. Abrupt at first because all I want to do is fucking hold him. But I slow my steps immediately before he can notice. “I brought you water,” I say, setting the bottle down on the edge of the bed within his reach. “And this—” I hold up the Suboxone. “Same as before.”
“I don’t want to take that shit,” he hisses.
The words echo in the room. I know that when someone is addicted to drugs, they can be stubborn and irritable. It’s not them, it’s the drugs.
“I need it,” he says, voice breaking now, the fight draining out of him as fast as it came. “I need it, Micah. Just...just please, give me something. You know more than anyone.”
I force my voice to stay level. “I can’t do that.”
His face twists like I just stabbed him. “Then get out,” he rasps, turning his head away from me like he can’t even stand to look at me anymore. “You’re fucking useless.”
That one hurts. But I let it, because he's right. I’m part of the reason he’s here.
I didn’t stand up to Nolan or Adriana or even Alexei.
I didn’t do anything when he needed me to.
I blame myself, no matter what anyone tries to tell me.
I was too scared of being forced into withdrawals and wanting to die again.
So I cowered, allowing my best friend to get dragged into fucking hell. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, and for a second, there’s just the sound of Jude’s uneven breathing. An image from his overdose flashes across my mind, when his breath just stalled and refused to work. I was so scared.
“I don't,” he mutters.
I glance at him. “Don’t what?”
“I—” His voice fractures again. “I don’t want to be here. Micah, I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”
That one hits harder.
I exhale slowly, lean forward, and brace my forearms on my knees. “You can't give up,” I say quietly. “Because I love you. I always have. You know that. We’ve been together through horrific shit that people could never even begin to fathom.”
Silence.
Then, suddenly, he lunges. The chain snaps taut with a violent crack as his hand catches on my shirt. And he’s right there, in my space, gripping me. His fingers twist into the fabric like he doesn’t know if he wants to shove me away or pull me closer. I can see the hesitation in his dark eyes.
For a split second, I think he’s going to swing on me again. I don’t move. “Go ahead,” I say under my breath. “If that’s what you need to do.”
His hand tightens, his eyes locked onto mine like there’s a war happening behind them and he’s losing. “Stop—” he chokes, but it’s not directed at me.
It’s at himself.
His grip loosens, then tightens again.
I glance up at the camera, holding both of my hands up in surrender to show him that I’m no threat. And to show Heather, Emma, and Rafe that I’m okay and not to interfere. My heart is racing as I look into my best friend’s exhausted and tortured eyes…
His forehead drops against my shoulder, his entire body folding in as a broken sound escapes him. It’s raw and brutal pain, just tearing through his entire body.
“I can’t—” he gasps, clutching onto me now, fingers digging in. “I can’t do this, I can’t, fuck. Micah...”
I don’t hesitate. I pull him in, one arm wrapping tight around his back, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head like I’ve done a hundred times before.
Like we’re twenty-three again, and the world hasn’t destroyed him yet.
The physical and mental toll that withdrawal puts on you is something that most people don’t understand.
It’s the reason why many don’t ever make it out alive.
“I’ve got you,” I say quietly. “Please take it, Jude.”
He stills, thinking.
“It’s helped me so much,” I say. “You know me, okay? Come on.”
He lets out a broken laugh against my shoulder that turns into a sob. “I hate you,” he mutters.
I huff a quiet breath. “Yeah, well, I hate you a little right now.”
“I don’t know.”
My chest is full of pressure, but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.” And I mean it. I’ll never leave his side again. Hell, I’ll buy a house for all of us to live in together so I never have to live my life without him. My soul friend. My fucking everything.