15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter fifteen
Carter
Ican’t breathe.
My heart is doing its own version of a staccato beat that the rest of my body doesn’t know the tune to. The chemical smell of vodka, stale smoke, and sweat wraps around my throat.
I open my mouth . . . but nothing. My hands fly to my neck; a desperate gasp rips from my vocal cords. A thread of oxygen finally forces its way in, but it’s not enough. I need more.
Methylated spirits crawls up my nose and makes my stomach pitch.
I shouldn’t have stayed for dinner. Or the night before. I know better.
My stomach aches in a way I only ever feel after eating too much. Liam’s foster mom made roast chicken. Real food. A proper meal. But my body can’t process it. Full hurts more than empty.
The living room is dark, except for the TV screen flickering. The walls used to be white. They’re stained yellow now, nicotine and time sunk into the plaster. The carpet’s worn down to a flattened path where she has stumbled the most.
She’s on the couch.
Too still.
My brain does what it always does. It jumps straight to the worst. Dead. Gone. Finally drank herself out of her body.
My heartbeat spikes.
I take a step closer.
Her mouth hangs open. One arm dangles off the side of the couch. There’s a bottle on the floor, tipped on its side, vodka soaking into the carpet. A dark stain spreads under it, fumes blooming up into the room.
I nearly gag.
My eyes dart around the room.
Is he still here?
His jacket is thrown over the armrest, but his shoes are gone. And there are no keys on the bench.
The back of my neck prickles.
I stand still and listen.
Nothing.
He might be gone. Or he might be in the hallway, waiting for me to walk past so he can get in one more swing. One day, I’ll be old enough and strong enough to take a swing back. He won’t see it coming. But I’ll make it count.
I move toward her anyway. Slow, careful steps, socks protecting my feet from the rough carpet. I kneel by the couch. My hand shakes when I reach for her face.
Her chest rises, falls. A flutter more than a breath.
“Okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.” It’s for me, not her. She doesn’t hear and wouldn’t care if she did.
Her head lolls to the side and I catch it, angling it to keep her airway clear. She groans, a horrible, wet sound, and her next breath hits me in the face. Pure vodka.
The smell goes straight to my gut. I fight down the vomit clawing up my throat.
I tug the ratty blanket over her legs, up to her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even seem connected to the body she’s living in.
I sit back on my heels and stare at her slack face. “Please still be here in the morning,” I whisper.
The house creaks. A click, somewhere near the hallway. I freeze and look up, listening.
Silence.
I push myself to my feet. Breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to taste the vodka in the air. The carpet squishes under my socks where the spill soaked through. The damp spot clings to my foot all the way down the corridor.
The hallway feels too long. The walls seem to bend. Shadows jump in the corners, turning into things I don’t want to see.
My room is a narrow box. Thin mattress with springs that poke into my side and a flat pillow. I crawl under the threadbare blanket anyway.
Please let her be alive when I wake up.
Please let him be gone.
Please let tomorrow not be the same fucking thing.
There’s a sound outside my door. The knob turns, and I squeeze my eyes shut—
I jerk awake with a sound lodged in my throat, somewhere between a breath and a choke. For an instant, the darkness has the same sick yellow tint. The air smells like smoke. My brain grabs the wrong decade and runs with it.
Then the room snaps into focus.
A hotel suite.
Stockholm.
Violet.
Gray morning light sneaks around the border of the blackout curtains, cutting a dull stripe across the floor.
My heart punches against my ribs, trying to break free.
I drag a hand down my face, fingers scraping over stubble, anchoring myself in the feel of now.
I’m thirty, not thirteen. There is no one in the hallway coming to drag me out of bed by my shirt and put me through a wall.
The carpet beneath me is clean, not stained with vodka.
My body doesn’t get the memo. Panic clings, thick and suffocating.
I push myself upright. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My skin’s clammy, hair plastered to my forehead. I blow out a shaky breath and swipe my hair back.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I lurch away, muscles firing before my brain understands what’s happening.
Her hand comes back, gentler this time.
“Carter.” Violet’s voice is thick with sleep. “Hey. Look at me.”
I force myself to turn.
She’s sitting beside me, knees drawn up under the duvet, black hair a mess around her shoulders.
One hand on my shoulder, the other curled around my forearm, where I jerked away.
Her face is soft, eyes still unfocused from being dragged out of sleep too fast, but the concern is clear through the haze.
“You’re okay,” she soothes. “You’re here. It was just a dream.”
My breathing stutters. Too fast. Too shallow. I drag in air, and it gets stuck halfway, my chest feeling overfull and empty at the same time. I can’t seem to get a proper breath in.
“It wasn’t real,” she says.
I shake my head. “But it was,” I manage. “Once.”
She studies me for a long moment, then whispers, “Maeve?”
My throat closes around my mom’s name. I nod.
“Carter.” She shifts closer, onto her knees, and wraps her arms around my back, placing her face next to mine, cheek to cheek. “You know you’re not her, right?” she says. “You’ll never become her.”
I stare at the sheets bunched in my fists. Old instinct curls inside, shame and bone-deep fear knotted together. “Aren’t I, though? I’m drinking myself to death, same as she did.”
“It’s not the same,” she states firmly.
Her hand slides off my arm and presses over my heart. Her palm is warm and steady. Her chest moves against my back, up and down, slow and deliberate. My breath starts to hitch itself to hers, matching her rhythm.
She just sits there and breathes with me.
The panic doesn’t vanish, but it loses its claws.
She gets the fear. She gets me in a way no one else ever has.
The words that want to come out are too big for this moment. So I swallow them down.
“Let me tell Liam,” Violet says.
My head snaps up. “No.”
“Carter.” Her tone sharpens. “He can help. He can make calls, pull in favors, set things up discreetly. Get you tests, scans, whatever you need. You don’t have to drag this worry around on your own.”
I look away.
She hugs me tighter, arms squeezing around my ribs. “He’s your brother,” she says. “He’ll move mountains for you if you let him.”
Silence sits between us.
“I hate this,” I mutter.
“I know.” Her breath brushes my cheek; then her lips do, a light press. “Just say yes. You need answers.”
I shake my head.
Her shoulders drop. “Okay, but I’m not letting this go,” she says.
A sharp pounding rattles the door. We both jump.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. The lock screen flares to life. “Shit.” The time stares back at me along with a stack of missed calls and messages.
We’ve had maybe two hours’ sleep, if that, after fucking like animals for most of the night.
“I’m not getting that,” Vi rushes out, jumping out of the bed and making her way to the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind her.
I climb off the mattress and grab the first thing my hand lands on: a damp towel from one of our many not-so-quick showers. I wrap it around my waist, stalk to the door, and yank it open.
Chris stands there, face already set to fury. Two security guys flank him, arms crossed.
“Thought I’d find you here,” he spits. “You ditched your call time, which means you missed this morning’s media block and the meet-and-greet with the prime minister. What the hell have you been doing?”
I rub a hand over my jaw, feel the roughness under my palm. “Sleeping.”
“Sleeping,” Chris repeats, eyes flicking down my bare chest to the towel knotted at my hips. His expression curdles. “Right.”
I brace a hand on the doorframe.
This morning just went from bad to fucked.