Razor's Edge (Afflictions) (19 page)

   
Twenty-one

Morgan

My
phone goes off. Fuck it. I head to my garage, pot and cigars in hand. Every nerve buzzes, wanting me to roll a blunt. For a second the thought crosses my mind.
She will never come back now that she knows I’m a pothead.
Everything went so great last night, and my fucking drug problem robbed me of it this morning.

I set the bag of ganja and ten loose cigars down on my workbench. Reaching under it, I grab all my bowls and bongs. I’m to blame for this, but this is my motivator. I grab a hammer, then set The Caterpillar, my blue glass hookah, in front of me.

Don’t do it!
 

Mary Jane has been my biggest supporter. She chases away the bad memories with laughter. She gives me courage to speak my mind with every hit. She soothes my nerves with her calming smoke. She has been there in my times of struggle, lifting me up and giving me strength to face every problem life has thrown at me. Her sweet chemical is more than a dear old friend.

What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m talking like I’m in love with an inanimate object.

THC is a jealous bitch. It made me a liar so I could have her. I knew Shay’s views on drugs. I’m no better than douche bag. I’m worse—at least he didn’t hide his drug addiction from her.

Anger burns hot in my gut. The fumes of my rage are rising. I raise the hammer. I fucking hate myself.

"I hate you!" I slam down the hammer. Pieces of blue glass shatter across my rickety old workbench. I raise it again. "You’re a fucking bitch!" Another blast and tubing goes flying.

My chest pounds. I raise and bring down the hammer in rapid succession. When The Caterpillar is nothing more than shards of glass and dangling rubber tubes, I move on to my pipes and bongs, continuing the massacre of my paraphernalia.

Hammer swinging wildly, I miss a few times and put a baseball-sized hole in the thin plywood of my piece-of-shit workbench. I’m still not satisfied. Fury takes over every swing, my control gone with the woman who walked out my door. I blast Moby, my water bong, into a million pieces. "I hate you!"

Adrenalin surges. Fury pounds.

The only woman who’s better than anyone I know, better than me, is gone. The only one who gave a
shit. Who’s selfless and kind. Who makes me feel like I need to be better. Stronger. She’s been through so much; she shouldn’t have to go through more. I shouldn’t have put her through more. I was selfish, greedy for her love, and kept quiet about my addiction because I was afraid I’d lose her. I betrayed her and she hates me.

"I fucking love you, Shay!" I whip the hammer at my locker that houses my pot supply. It bounces back. I duck. In less than a second, glass shatters. My Hummer’s car alarm goes off.

"Shit, Morg!"

Slowly I stand up and peer through the passenger side’s busted window.

Wiley grabs my key fob off the hook on the wall and hits a button, silencing the wailing. He cocks a brow. "What the hell is going on with you, man?"

Taking a deep breath I run a hand through my hair and eye the destruction. My temper has never gotten a hold
of me like that. One glance at the bag Shay whipped at my face and the answer slams back into me. But my fury is gone with the regret for something I’ve lost. Whether it’s Shay, my control, my addiction, or my mind, is yet to be determined.

My breath saws in and out as my heart tries to slow down.

Wiley rounds my bumper and whistles. "Damn, I’ve never seen you wig like this before, bro."

"I wasn’t wigging out." Crunching glass, I go over to my workbench and grab the push broom.

"Uh-huh." Wiley inspects the huge hole. "So you thought you’d put a trap door in your workbench?"

The damn thing was so old and rickety I was going to scrap it anyway.

"I don’t want to talk about it." I begin sweeping up the glass, hoping Wiley will ignore my flip-out.

He sucks in a breath and shakes his head. He assesses me for a minute then he grabs a hand broom and starts sweeping up the glass covering the bench.

A couple of minutes go by in silence. I finish sweeping the glass into a dustpan, and Wiley throws the last of The Caterpillar’s tubing in the garbage. He eyes it. "Sure am going to miss the bugger. It was a nice hookah."

I ignore him and begin picking long shards off my passenger seat.

Wiley comes over with a garbage bag and duct tape. "Do you want me to call the guys and tell them that practice is off?"

We need to practice. Tomorrow night we have a recording session scheduled with Emily at her studio, and we need to be up to par. I shake my head. "Nah. I’m good now."

"Are you sure?" Wiley tears off a strand of duct tape and begins securing a garbage bag to my window. "Because that was a mighty big declaration I heard as I entered your house."

"Fuck you, man." Does he want to see me flip out again?

"I’m just saying. I’ve never seen you like this. But I saw this coming from the ski slopes."

What?
"I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about."

"You and Shay."

My blood burns. I fight to suppress the words I have for the guy who wants to see me lose my cool again. Fuck him.
Need the vacuum.
No way will I be able to pick up all the glass on the seat. I busted it into a gazillion pieces.

"She got to you. I never thought I’d see you wrapped up in some chick."

"Like you and Renna?" I snap. The look on Wiley’s face extinguishes my temper.

A vein in Wiley’s neck bulges. His nostrils flare. "What the fuck does that—"

"Forget it." It was a low blow on my part. But if anyone can understand what I’m going through, it would be Wiley. I head into the house.

My body gets plowed into my fridge.

"I was with Renna for three years. You were with Shay for a couple of weeks." Wiley’s pushing my face into the cool stainless steel.

"Get off me!" I try to push off the fridge, and he slams me back into it.

"It’s not the same thing." Wiley’s voice is a low growl. "Asshole."

"I’m sorry." And I am. I didn’t mean to provoke him, to make his head go there. It’s been almost eighteen years since it happened. Judging by the cool steel smashed up against my face, Wiley never got over it. I’m such a dick. "I’m sorry, dude. Truce?"

His grip on me loosens, then he backs away.

Cautiously, I turn.

Wiley runs a hand through his tawny-colored hair. "Look, I didn’t mean to flip."

"It’s all right. I deserved it. I should have never brought up—"

"Forget it." He smiles and shakes his head. "You murdered the crap out of your bongs because you love Shay." He laughs.

"I never said I loved Shay."

Wiley laughs harder and grips the counter as he bends down. "Yeah." More laughter. "You did."

Did I?
Do I?
Images of last night roll through my mind: her smiles and laughter, us in bed, her face while I was above her, in her. The emotions I felt, and then her running this morning. She sounded so sure that she is done. My chest aches and I rub my sternum. My wig-out in the garage. Everything I said while I was smacking the hammer around. Shit. I’m in trouble. My jaw drops.

Wiley’s hand lands on my shoulder. He’s still laughing like a hyena. This is Wiley’s way of coping with the memories I brought up, his way of de-stressing—laughing at something that really isn’t that funny. "Sweet fucking torture, isn’t it?"

I swallow a lump in my throat and nod.

Wiley grabs my vacuum out of my pantry. "Come on, I’ll help you clean up before the guys get here."

I love Shay.
How in the hell can I love her? How did that happen? I follow Wiley out into the garage and pick up the bag of weed. It wasn’t my love for pot that tripped me out. It was the thought of losing the one I love. And this bag, my addiction, was the cause of it. I chuck it in the garbage.

"
Morg?" Wiley looks up from plugging in the vacuum. "What the hell are you doing? That was—"

"The thing that made me lose Shay. I don’t want it anymore." I take a deep breath, feeling liberated. I’ll get her back. I don’t need the drug to give me strength and courage. Shay’s my new drug. "In fact, I fucking hate it."

Wiley eyes the garbage can. "Then do you mind if I have your stash? Your medical shit’s grade A. Seems like a waste to throw it away."

"Have at it. Take the whole supply in the locker, if you want. I quit for a week last time. I can do it again. It will be easier with it out of the house."

Wiley dives for the weed, and I pick up the vacuum to begin cleaning up the mess on the Hummer’s passenger seat, hoping that I can clean up the shards of my love life just as easily.

Shay

Outside
Tryst’s door, I take a deep breath and smooth my hair. After I tore out of Morgan’s, I had to drive around for a while. I couldn’t go over to Tryst’s all worked up with a bright red, slobbery face. He’d want to know what’s up, and I don’t need the I-told-you-sos. Ben doesn’t need to know that something’s wrong, either.

Morgan lied to me, just like Gary. He may not
be
him, but he still hid the pot from me. I can’t be with a pothead. Not when I have a son and a baby on the way.

I can’t stay out here all day freezing my butt off. Pulling myself together, I go inside.

The smell of pancakes hits my nose. My stomach growls.

"We’re in the kitchen." His voice sounds a little harsh. I’m two hours late and it’s time to face the music.

Tryst is at the sink doing dishes.

"Smells good. I’m starving."

Tryst pauses with a glass in his hand, mid-rinse. His back is stiff and after a second he goes back to his task. Odd. He shouldn’t be that mad at me. I’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

"Mom!" Ben hops up from the kitchen table and almost knocks me over. "How’s the baby?"

I freeze.
Shit.
I never told Tryst and forgot to tell Ben that I wanted to be the one to tell him. I sneak a peek at Tryst.

He grabs a towel and wipes his hands, then turns and scowls at me. "Ben, go pack your stuff."

Ben smiles up at me. "Uncle Tryst took me to Gamerz last night. We had so much fun, and I got a lot of stuff."

"That’s great,
Duders." I pat his head. "Take your time packing it all up, and make sure you remember to grab everything."

"I will." He smiles and darts off to the room.

My skin tingles as though there’s an army of ants marching under it. Tryst glares at me. For a moment I’m anticipating a lecture, but he shakes his head and goes to grab Ben’s plate from the table.

I play with the hem of my black pea coat.

Tryst silently goes about cleaning his kitchen. I watch him the whole time. He wants to yell at me—I can feel it. It’s like a charge in the air readying to ignite. He says nothing. He’s treating me like he treats everyone else. Cold. And that hurts almost as bad as finding the pot in Morgan’s drawer.

"Thanks for watching Ben so I could talk to Morgan last night."

He nods. Still with the silent treatment.

"I was going to tell you." I place a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off.

He presses the buttons on the dishwasher, then grabs a wet rag.

"Please, talk to me?"

He glances up from the counter he’s wiping that already looks immaculate, and stares out the window. "There’s nothing to talk about."

"But–"

"Ben!" He leaves me and stalks toward his guest bedroom. "Do you need any help?"

Okay, so I ticked him off. Tryst will get past it. He could never stay mad at me for long. This is just going to take some time.

Tryst comes out of the guest room with a huge husky stuffed animal about the size of my son. "Ben’s almost finished packing up his drawing equipment. Follow me to your car."

Oh good. I sigh. He’s not too mad at me.

Outside I open my hatch back. "I’m sorry."

Tryst tosses the stuffed animal and Ben’s backpack inside. "Whatever."

"Tryst, come on.” My shoulders droop. “Don’t be like that."

He finally looks at me although he won’t meet my eyes. "Be like what?"

"You’re acting weird."

"Don’t know
whatcha talking about."

"You–"

"You’re pregnant. So what? Nothing I have to say will change that.” He slams the hatch down. “You don’t listen to me anyway.”

"I do list–"

"No. You don’t. Otherwise wouldn’t be pregnant." He runs a hand over his shaved head and scratches the back of his neck. Then his brown eyes meet mine and his soften. "God, Shay. You almost had it. You’re just on the cusp of getting you and Ben away from that douche bag. Babies cost money. You’re struggling enough as it is. Why the hell didn’t you use protection?"