Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series (52 page)

THIRTEEN

Everything is going so well. So well. We’re getting married, and we’re having a baby. Two things I never thought I would be able to say. Two things that I’d never seen in my future, and that I probably don’t deserve.

My demise is pathetic, really.

I’m holding the bottle of methadone in one hand, my little measuring cup in the other, when the door to the bathroom bursts open. I jump ten feet in the air, reflexively dropping the bottle into the sink. “Fuck!” I curse, horrified.

“Crap, sorry,” Jase says, closing the door again as I watch the last of the precious fluid glug down the drain.

I swipe up the bottle in my hand, but I’m too late. Everything but a few drops is gone, gone, fucking
gone.

I stare into the basin, hearing a glug and a gurgle, and I freak the fuck out.

Every last drop,
gone.

I try to call Luis on the burner phone Elliot left me. No answer. I even get so desperate as to cut the plastic methadone bottle in half with a pair of scissors and lick every last bit of sticky fluid from the inside of the bottle.

It doesn’t do anything. Not even a mild buzz.
Nothing.

After pacing in the small bathroom for a few minutes, I begin to shake. I’m panicking, freaking the fuck out. I have nothing left. Not even some fucking codeine for when shit gets really bad. Which it will. Really fucking soon.

It’s better this way, I finally reason with myself. Get clean, detox—hell, I’m already halfway through, with the way I’ve been dropping my dose steadily each week, and all in plenty of time before the baby’s born. By the time they need to stick an IV in me during labor—because I’ve decided I’m definitely having as many drugs as they’ll let me have—the track marks in my elbow will be gone entirely, and this day will be nothing but a murky memory, a lesson in the fragility of things.

Jase knocks on the door again about fifteen minutes later. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” I call out. “Just morning sickness.”

I’m almost five months along. My morning sickness dried up weeks ago, but he doesn’t know that.

The worst part is, because I grew up watching my mother go cold turkey so many times, I know exactly what awaits me. A fine film of sweat breaks out on my forehead as I remember the way she would clutch her stomach and scream when she ran out of smack and had no way of replenishing her supply. How she would puke for days, and cry and cry and cry.

I wish I didn’t know what was about to happen.

I go through the motions. Eat a good breakfast, knowing it will probably be my last good meal in a couple days. Jase must notice how quiet I am.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I think I’m just getting a flu or something,” I lie.

He looks concerned. “You need to see a doctor?”

I shake my head emphatically. “Nope.”
You cannot know what I’ve done.
“I’ll just get some rest.”

I dump my bowl in the sink and move stiffly to the bedroom, laying myself under the thick duvet.

It doesn’t take long to hit. First, the headache that feels like a vice squeezing my skull until it explodes. Then, pain spreads to all of my joints. My stomach churns for a couple hours, and then I start puking. I’ve got the sweats. It’s all stuff I know much too well from days spent nursing my mother as she suffered through the same.

The clock does nothing to help my plight. I think three hours must have passed, roll over to the clock, only to see two fucking minutes have crawled by. I am dying. I want to die.

This is the worst pain I’ve ever experienced; the shame of knowing why I’m sick only adds to the writhing pain and panic that runs through my veins. Simultaneous fire and ice, hunger and thirst, empty and full. I am a mess.

I sweat and twist, knotting myself in damp sheets, until Jase is there with a cold compress and a glass of water.

“You think you have the flu?” he asks me, helping me up and holding the water to my lips. I take a sip, the cold water refreshing as it hits my tongue and throat. He’s frowning. He looks concerned.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asks me. “Is the baby—”

The baby seems completely fine.
She
continues to pummel me, seemingly unaware than mama is sick as a fucking dog and would really appreciate some stillness for a little while. Every well-directed jab of tiny arms and legs kicks my hideous nausea into overdrive, the only thing stopping me from puking more the fact that I have already emptied my stomach. But in a strange way, I’m also welcoming of the movements. My fellow fighter, my mini warrior, my daughter—I still find it incredibly strange to say that,
daughter
—letting me know she’s still in there, still as feisty as ever. A survivor, just like me.

I take another sip of water and it’s one sip too much. Violent nausea grabs hold of me again, bitter bile rears its way up my throat, and I’m lucky I have a bucket beside me to grab and hurl into. I’ve never been a delicate vomiter—I almost always get tears in my eyes and feel like I’m being suffocated—but this is even worse than the standard morning sickness fare. I look in the bucket, half-expecting to see I’ve finally hurled up my own stomach.

Nope, just the water. I take the glass back from Jase and suck out one small sip, swishing it around my mouth before spitting it back in the bucket. The logical side of me says I’ll be dehydrated very soon if I can’t keep fluids down.

“I don’t need a doctor,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’ll be fine.”

Jase presses his hand to my forehead, his hand freezing, and he raises his eyebrows.

“Jesus,” he says. “You’re like a furnace.” He takes the bucket from my hands and leaves the room. I let myself flop back on the pillows, frustrated. I’ve never been good at letting other people take care of me when I’m down and out, and this time is no different. But Jase is a natural.

He’s going to be such a good father. He’s showing me he’ll be an excellent husband, but I already knew that. Someone who risks his life on an almost hourly basis to protect me deserves a fucking medal, especially when they also hold my hair back while I vomit and clean up the bucket afterward. I am truly the luckiest girl alive. I went back to L.A. to kill every single motherfucker who did me wrong that afternoon six years ago, and not only did I get to revel in their sweet suffering, but I’ve also managed to score a fiancé and a baby out of the deal. It’s all too good to be true.

Which is why I just have to push through this. Get past my body’s desire for the smack, get past my dependence on the bottle of cherry-flavored liquid that was keeping me from going completely insane.

“You wanna try and eat something?” Jase asks, as he returns with the empty bucket. He places it beside the bed as I kick the blankets off again.
HotColdHotColdHotColdHOTHOTHOT
.

My body’s doing a lousy fucking job of making its mind up. Blankets on, blankets off. Repeat.

I shake my head. “Maybe later.”

Jase nods, taking a stand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger and tucking it gently behind my ear. “Try and get some sleep,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss my forehead. My skin burns where his lips have touched, but it’s a nice burn.

It’s raining outside again. I drift off, thinking that when I wake up, the worst will be over, and I can finally be free.

FOURTEEN

I’m screaming. Screaming and thrashing about, my nightmares full of blood and terror and his face.

“Hey,” Jase yells in my face. His voice cuts through the greasy haze, and I force my heavy eyelids open, peering up at him.

“Wake up,” he urges. “Are you awake?”

I hear fumbling and the lamp next to me switches on, blinding me. “Ahhhhh!” I protest, throwing my hands over my tender eyes. Everything hurts. Everything hurts
so fucking bad.

Jase grabs one of the shirts I’ve hung next to the bed and drapes it over the lampshade, dulling its intensity. Thank crap for that. I slowly take my hands away, looking up at Jase.

He looks mad.

“
What
is going on?” he asks, and I see anger flash in his eyes.

I struggle to sit up, but it hurts, everything hurts. I try to catch my breath.

“What do you mean?” I ask weakly, my teeth feeling like they’re about to burst out of my gums. The pressure, the pounding is fucking intense, and it’s everywhere, all over my body. My skull. My skull feels like it is going to explode.

“You’ve been crying for almost an hour,” Jase says gravely, running a hand through his hair. “Saying
I need it
, saying
help me
. What the fuck is going on, Juliette?”

His eyes are dark with emotion. He looks like he’ll wrap his fingers around my throat and throttle me if I give him the wrong answer.

“I have the flu,” I say. I lie. To the man I love.

I am a terrible person. We promised no more lies, and straight away they’re coming out of my mouth faster than I can draw breath. There is something seriously wrong with me.

His jaw clenches; I see his fists are balled up as well.

“Last chance,” he says. “Don’t fucking lie to me. I deserve the truth.”

My heart rate picks up considerably, my mouth suddenly very dry.

“What is this?” Jase asks, holding up the two pieces of the methadone bottle I’d buried in the bottom of the trash.
Fuck.

I don’t answer. He’s seething; I can see it in the way he’s watching me with those eyes, those dark, haunted eyes of his.

He stares up at the ceiling, clearly disgusted.

“Can we talk about this later?” I ask, swinging my legs out and letting my feet hit the floor. I stand, wincing as the sudden change from laying down to standing up makes me dizzy momentarily. Sharp pain shoots up my spine, and I gasp.

“Fucking heroin,” Jase says with an air of resignation. “Really? I didn’t pick you for a junkie, Julz.”

Images rush at me as Jase’s cruel words hit home. Dornan’s face, those identical eyes of his boring into mine, taking his twisted pleasure as he got me high again and again, as he took me to the brink of death, only to bring me back to life. That fucker did this to me.

“Fuck you,” I spit, narrowing my eyes at him. “I didn’t do this.
He
did this to me. I’m just trying to get better.” That month of lazy sex and morning beach walks and a goddamn marriage proposal are all but forgotten, a lie, a mistruth because I am a liar and an addict.

“How could you keep this from me?” he asks. “From the doctors?”

My head is pounding, my mouth dry. I can’t focus. I can’t do this.

He looks at me now, and the look of betrayal in his eyes is enough to make me want to die. I have failed him. I will always fail him, because I am a liar and a cheat and I have become my mother.

“You would have left me,” I say, a small sob coming from my throat as my eyes fill with tears. “I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone what he did to me. Who he made me.” I whisper the final words.

Jase looks like he wants to kill me. “What is wrong with you?” He roars, pounding his fist into the wall.

Everything is wrong with me
, I think sadly.

I’m sweating so much from the comedown (will it ever fucking end?) and I need to get clean, to rinse off my skin and let warm water ease my cramps and aches. I go to push past Jase, to make it to the shower, but as I pass him he reaches out a hand and locks it around my upper arm, spinning me around to face him. At the same time, he switches on the main light of the room, casting us both in a bright amber glow.

He opens his mouth again, the look on his face clearly saying attack, but his scowl fades rapidly as he looks down at something.

I follow his stare, seeing nothing.

“What?” I ask. The sweat is pouring off me now, and I think I’m going to be sick again. I swallow thickly, fighting the nausea, deeply alarmed by the look on Jase’s face.

“Juliette,” Jase croaks, pointing at my legs. No—pointing at my panties. I’m not wearing pants, just a thin tank top and white cotton panties. 

“You’re bleeding,” he says, horrified. “Why are you bleeding?”

I’m bleeding? Why am I bleeding?

I’m so drenched in sweat, I didn’t even notice. But Jase is right; beyond the slight swell of my stomach, when I tilt my head to the side and down, I can see sticky red fluid coating the insides of my thighs.

Oh, God.
I immediately put my hand between my thighs and bring it back to my face; red. Bright red and the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

“Juliette,” Jase repeats, and this time it sounds more like he’s begging me to give him an answer that doesn’t spell tragedy.

A whisper. “
Why are you bleeding?
”

Too good to be true. Too good to be true. I always knew this was
too good to be true.

I start screaming.

Jase takes over because I’m screaming and bleeding and I don’t know what to do.

The baby.
The baby
.

Is she okay? Is she even alive? When was the last time I felt her move?

Before I know what’s happening, I’m being gathered up in strong arms and then, I’m in the passenger seat of the pick-up truck Luis left for us. There’s a thick towel between my legs and I watch in horror as the beige cotton turns red.

It hurts. It hurts everywhere, sticky and clammy, but mostly it hurts in my chest. In my throat.
I did this
. This is my fault. And although we’re hurtling away from the house at illegal speeds, I can already see there’s too much blood for this to end well.

A sharp pain stabs my back, gripping me and staying there, like a razor blade, for several seconds. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as it builds to a fiery peak. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. I’m biting my cheek hard enough to draw blood as the inferno finally lets up a little, but it doesn’t go away completely.

I draw in a breath, looking at Jase as I clutch our baby through my scarred skin.

When was the last time she moved? I need to know, but for the life of me, I can’t remember. Did I do this? Did the drugs make me bleed? I can’t even entertain the possibility of what that could mean.

The possibility I’ve killed our baby.

I would cry, but I’m too shocked. Five minutes ago, we were screaming the house down, and now, everything is melting away, fading, taking the last bit of my hopes and dreams along with it.

The only good thing to come out of this clusterfuck—and now I’m going to lose this, too?