Slate (Breaking the Declan Brothers #2) (7 page)

“Okay,” she says, confusion tightening her cheeks.

“Now, I’m going to lie down for a bit and try to fucking relax.” I settle my beat body onto the sofa and roll over, facing away from her. Every muscle aches, my stomach is in knots, and now, my cock is hard and my chest hurts, but I don’t think that has anything to do with the withdrawals. That ache in my chest might very well be my heart hard at work. The fuckin’ thing is trying to feel again, and my fucking cock wants to react to it.

I open my eyes. Shit. I must’ve fallen asleep. It’s dark, and the only light in the room flickers from the TV. I turn to check on Slate. He’s sitting up on the sofa. Head bent, he’s frantically rubbing his hand and arm. He looks up at me. “I can’t get it off,” he says, before lowering his head and scrubbing harder on his scarred flesh. “I gotta get it off.”

Not sure what to do or say, I get up, walk over, and slide beside him on the sofa.

He lifts his sleeve. “Fuck!” He thrusts his arm out to me. “Look, it’s getting worse.” Confused, I glance down at his scars then to his huge dilated pupils. He leans back on the sofa and pulls up his hoodie. “Shit.” His eyes flash from his stomach to me. He jumps up, yanks his hoodie and t-shirt off, and starts to inspect his scars as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s all over me.” He shoots me a look of confusion. “Help me get it off.”

Oh my God! I stare up at him. He’s hallucinating, and considering that people don’t usually hallucinate with opiate withdrawals, that can only mean one thing. Slate’s high. Obviously, before carrying him down here, Jax and Zeke didn’t do a good job of searching Slate for any drugs. He either had some hidden on him or he had something stashed down here in the den, and he must’ve taken it while I was asleep on the sofa. I should get up and walk away from him right now, but looking at him and seeing how lost he is, I can’t do it. I told myself that I’d see him through this, and dammit, that’s what I’m going to do.

“Okay,” I rise, grabbing his hands. I run my thumbs over his shaking fingers, trying to calm him. I gaze up into his desperate, wide eyes. I need to do something. Think! “Okay,” I say again, “how about we wash it?” I know that if I try to bring him back to reality, it could cause more damage than going along with the hallucination. And, really, I don’t want to explain his scars to him. I wouldn’t know how.

“Yeah, yeah.” He nods. “That’s good. We’ll wash it off.”

I take his scarred and callous hand into mine and I know he’s out of it because he doesn’t pull away as I guide him to the bathroom. I lean over and turn on the shower. God, I hope this works. I hope he calms down enough to snap him back to reality. I come around, and he’s in front of the mirror digging his fingertips into the mangled flesh on his neck.

“Stop!” I grab his hand.

“It won’t come off,” he says, confusion etched into every beautiful line of his strong face.

“I know, baby.” I choke back a tear, drawing a hand along his chin and neck. “Come on.” I pull him toward the shower, and he doesn’t fight me. Still clothed, we both get in, the warm water cascading over us.

“That feels good,” he says, dropping his head back with a long sigh. I sway to the side and grab a washcloth that’s hanging on the shower rail. I lather it up with some soap, take his hand, and begin to wash his arm. I check on him. His eyes are closed. The water runs down his muscular shoulders and chest. I stop, captured by his primal beauty. He might be fucked-up on the inside but, scars and all, my eyes have never seen a more perfect man. I reach up and gently place my palm against his naked chest. Beneath his wet and warm skin, I feel his strong heartbeat.

What happened to him? How did he get so lost to the drugs? With everything that he’s been through—his parents’ death, Grams’ death, the fire, the burns—he deserves better than this. It’s as though he’s struggling just to keep his head above water. If he doesn’t stop, I fear that he’s going to sink so far down that he won’t be able to pull himself back up for air. And this body, this beautiful heart beating beneath my palm—it needs air to survive.

His head lowers. He looks down at my hand and then grabs my wrist. Holding my arm away from his body, he stares at me for a few seconds. The steam rises between us. He turns to the left, then the right, and comes back to me. And when his eyes darken, his lip curls. “Why are you here?”

“Because you needed me,” I say.

“You gotta stop doing this! You gotta stop popping in my fucking head all the time.” He places his warm palm against my cheek and feathers his thumb gently along my cheek as his glossy eyes move all over my face.

“Slate, I’m not in your head. I’m right here with you, and I’m not leaving.”

“Fuck.” He lightly chuckles. “I wish that you were here, monkey. I wish you were real. ‘Cause right about now, I really do think that I need you.” He shakes his head, dropping his hand from me and moving away as if I’m no longer here. He turns to shut the water off and then goes to step out of the shower, stopping to place his hand against the wall. He clutches his stomach. He stands there in nothing but soaked jeans, slightly bent over, breathing heavy. “Fuck!” On unsteady feet, he makes it to the toilet and throws up.

I rush over and start to rub his back. Between each heave, he pounds his fist on the top of the toilet bowl. Standing up, he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyes flash to mine. “What the fuck! Would you just get out of my fucking head,” he says in a loud, harsh tone. I grab a towel and hand it to him. He grabs it, looks at it for a second as if he imagined taking it from me. He wipes his face and chest off. Still scowling at me, he tosses the towel to the floor. “Leave! Get the fuck out of here.”

“I packed you some clothes.” I ignore his sneer and the fact that he believes that I’m a figment of his imagination. Shit. What did he take? It wasn’t an opiate. They normally constrict the pupil, not dilate it. Whatever it was, it must’ve been something bad to cause these kind of hallucinations. “I’ll get you something to change into.”

He’s gone from the bathroom when I come back. I look in the bedroom, and he’s standing in the middle of the room, dripping water all over the rug. I walk over, but he doesn’t say anything. He just glares at me from those dark hooded eyes. He’s still confused, not sure of what’s real and what’s not. “Here.” I thrust the clothes out to him, and he takes them. “I’ll go change in the bathroom. Sorry,” I lift a t-shirt, “but I’m going to have to borrow some of your clothes while we’re down here. It was kind of last-minute.” Before he can respond, I turn around and flee the room.

I hang my clothes on the shower rod to dry. Then, I pull Slate’s soft shirt over my head. I grabbed a bunch of his boxers when I packed his clothes. They’re a tad big, but they’ll get the job done of keeping my pussy covered because that deprived bitch wants nothing more than to take advantage of the broken man in the other room. God. There’s something really wrong with me for just thinking that. I can’t be that desperate for Slate, can I?

After finger combing my damp hair, I take one last look in the mirror and head into the bedroom to check on Slate.

He’s sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of boxers with his arms crossed over his naked chest and a small trashcan positioned between his open legs. I hurry over to him and sit down on the bed. “Did you throw up again?” I touch his shoulder. He’s shivering. He doesn’t respond. “Slate, you’re freezing.” I pull the covers back. “Come on, get in the bed.” I pat the mattress, and without a word, he lays down. I crawl in, pull the covers up over us both, and wrap my body around his shuddering one. I’m convinced that whatever drug he did take, it couldn’t have any opiates in it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be puking and going through withdrawals.

I lay there, stroking him and hushing him. It takes about a half an hour, but he finally relaxes beneath my hold. Lying in the quiet darkness, I remember when he did this very same thing for me. It was the night Jamison died.

I’ll never forget that night. I was at the school. Jamison was supposed to pick me up, and I kept calling him. I did it like five times. After about an hour, my gym teacher offered to give me a ride home, and when Jamison didn’t answer my last three calls, I took it. I came home to a dark house. I tried calling everyone in my family, but when I couldn’t get anyone, I made myself a sandwich and waited on the couch watching TV. My parents came through the door with my older sister, Megan, following behind. I could tell she’d been crying before she went right up to her room. I thought she was in trouble or something. I’ll never forget my mother’s face, never. She tried but couldn’t talk, and she ended up walking away. My dad was the one who explained what happened to Jamison and then he left me, too. In shock, I went up to my room, sat down on my bed, and when reality struck, I began to cry. I couldn’t stop. It went on for an hour. No one checked on me, no one consoled me. That was when I heard a knock on my bedroom window. It was Slate. He opened the window and crawled inside. He must have heard about Jamison. He didn’t say anything. He came right over and wrapped his arms tightly around me. He stayed with me in my bed. He held me all through the night.

The next morning was when he told me the truth about his parents; that they didn’t just die, but that someone murdered them in their bed. After the man shot his parents, he then killed himself. They never discovered why he did it. I think he told me about it to let me know sometimes bad stuff happens, but it was different for me. Jamison’s death was my fault, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.

Just about to drift off to sleep, I hear Slate’s breaths quicken.

“No,” he whispers as his body tenses beneath my hold. “No, Grams!”

Oh, no! Is he hallucinating again? I lean over his trembling body and gently brush my hand against his cool, clammy face. “Slate. It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”

He throws the covers off and gets out of the bed. “No, Grams.” He turns and faces me. “I can’t do it,” he breathlessly says, now looming largely over me, yet still sounding so young and scared.

“Can’t do what?”

“Go to the hospital,” he says. “You go. You tell Joey I’m sorry.” He paces the room. “No, I won’t do it.” He shakes his head as though I’m talking to him. “No!” He comes back over to the bed, kneels down, and leans his body across the mattress. “I can’t do it. Please don’t make me do it.”

I reach up and touch his cheek. He’s so cold. “Shh...” I try to calm him while warming his cool, sweaty face with the touch of my hand.

“Is he gonna be okay?” He gazes at me, anxiously waiting for an answer.

I stare back up at him. Shadows cast all over his distraught face, and even through the darkness, I clearly see the guilt shimmering in his eyes. “Yes.” I swallow down my apprehension. “He’s going to be fine, Slate.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him like that,” he quietly says, lowering his head. “I was mad. He made me so mad.”

“It’s okay.” I stroke his hand, uncertain as to what he’s speaking of. I try hard to think back to our childhood, but I got nothing. He’s never hurt anyone that I can remember, and I don’t recall any Joey, either. But he’s remorseful. I hear the desperation in his voice. See the shame in his eyes.

“I promise if he pulls through this, I’ll never fight again. I will never hurt anyone ever again. You go tell him for me. Tell him that I’m sorry. Please…” He grabs my hand and squeezes tight. “Grams, don’t make me go there. I can’t do it.”

Eyes dark and glossy, his entire body is trembling with fear. This has to be some kind of memory, and I’m not sure what happened. I don’t know if Grams made Slate go and apologize to Joey himself. I don’t even know if Joey made it. But tonight, tonight I’m going to make it all better. Tonight, he doesn’t have to go see Joey. Tonight, Joey is going to be okay. “I’ll go, Slate. I’ll tell Joey that you’re sorry.”

“You will?”

“Yes, I will.” I smile at him, watching the stress gradually dissipate from his face. “Now, it’s late. Lie down and try to get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he says, settling back into the bed with his back to me. “Grams?” He pulls the sheet over himself. “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”