Tymber Dalton (17 page)

There was still over half a bottle of whiskey left. He took a swig right from the bottle.

Holy hell, this dream
is
real!
He tasted the whiskey’s bite and felt its warmth roll all the way down his throat.

He blew the lamp out and forgot the note in his excitement. She would pay, by God. Just like those kids paid, only he’d take it out of her flesh. He wasn’t no pervert, he wouldn’t do that to a kid.

But to a poisoning bitch—who’d blame him?

When he stepped out of the room, a wave of pain hit him, and he screamed in agony.

Steve woke up on the floor next to the couch, the pain subsiding. Sami crouched over him, trying to wake him.

“Steve? Oh my God. Are you okay?”

He sat up, the pain fading, but with a foul taste in his mouth.

She sniffed at him. “Why do you smell like a campfire?”

He barely made it to the downstairs bathroom in time to vomit.

Sami wet a washcloth and pressed it to his forehead. “I’m calling Dr. Smith. You are not waiting until Thursday.”

He didn’t argue with her.

“So you like me so much you make yourself sick to see me?” Dr. Smith studied Steve’s chart as he walked over to the hospital bed.

He looked at Sami. “You must be Mrs. Corey.”

They shook hands. “I suppose I must.”

He laughed. “I bet she keeps you on your toes.”

Steve smiled wanly. “She does. Hey, Doc, will I be able to play the piano after the operation?” At Sami’s urging, they got permission from Dr. Smith to mellow the patient. The nurses put a mild sedative in Steve’s IV. Steve wasn’t a needles kind of person, and he felt sick enough as it was.

Dr. Smith smiled. “Can you play it now?”

Steve shook his head and laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world. Sami looked at the doctor.

“The drugs have kicked in,” she said.

He laughed. “Yes, I see. I guess since you’re the only consenting adult in the room, I need to talk to you.”

Steve laughed again, sounding more than a little drunk. “Consenting adult—that’s a good one, Doc.”

Dr. Smith and Sami both smiled. “Steve, you stay here, I need to borrow your wife for a few minutes, okay?”

Steve waved to them as they stepped outside. “Bring her back in one piece, Doc.” He laughed and turned his attention back to Cartoon Network.

“Well, I gather he was always a happy, mellow drunk?”

“Usually. He was nastier when he tried to stay sober between drunks.”

“That’s what we need to talk about.” He looked around and found a vacant room nearby, closing the door behind them. “I called the hospital after I talked to you and gave them orders. I know he had blood work pulled today, but those labs won’t be accessible to me yet, so they drew new ones.”

Sami didn’t see why this was so important to tell her in private. “And?” He had a point, and she wanted him to hurry up and get to it.

The doctor sighed. “His blood alcohol came back .03.”

Sami felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s not possible.”

From the doctor’s expression, she realized how naive that statement sounded. She grabbed a nearby chair since her knees wouldn’t support her.

“That’s not possible,” she repeated, wanting to say something, but too stunned to form new words. She tried to sort her thoughts. “He’s been sober over five years. We don’t have any alcohol in the house.”

“He got it somewhere. I’m having them rerun the tests to make sure.”

She thought back to what she knew, the early years where she scoured the cabinets for hidden bottles, his desk, his car.

“Wait a minute.” She grasped at hope. “He was asleep on the couch for over an hour before. I could see him from my office, and I know he didn’t move off that couch. Then, he got sick and threw up, and I brought him here. It took them at least a half hour before they drew his blood, and it took me nearly twenty minutes to drive us here. That’s almost two hours. He didn’t have anything to drink in that time. I know, because I was there. To be pulling a .03 he would have had a drink in that time and he didn’t. I’d swear to it.”

There, that solved it. The lab results were wrong. Had to be. He couldn’t have been drinking. She would have known.

Wouldn’t she?

“Where was he before he was on the couch?”

The triumphant smile froze on her face. “He had a meeting this morning, the appointment with Dr. Raymond, then the lab work. After that, home.”

That was a honking big time gap, and she knew it. He may have pulled a .03, but he could have been drinking on the way home and been a lot drunker by the time he arrived.

He had taken his time getting out of the car.

But she didn’t smell anything on his breath, and there were no bottles in the car.

There was the smoky smell. Funny she hadn’t noticed it when he first got home, just when she helped him back onto the couch. He might have stopped at the day-use campground at the park entrance on his way home and dumped the evidence in one of the trash cans—

She held her head in her hands. “I do
not
need this right now. Is there any chance this is a mistake?”

He nodded. “Of course there is. I just wouldn’t count on it.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t go through that again. I won’t. Jesus Christ.” She closed her eyes. So much for getting her hopes up and wishing Steve was trying this time.

Her inner cynic felt vindicated. Her heart, however, was broken.

The doctor placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get him feeling better, then we can schedule an intervention if that’s what you want.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

They returned to Steve’s room and found him asleep. She sat watching him until nine o’clock, wondering what to do.

Calling Matt topped her list. She needed him, needed his help. She couldn’t do an intervention alone.

And maybe she needed him to help her pack and move back to Ohio.

Without Steve.

She couldn’t believe Steve was drinking again. There were no signs.

Well, okay, there was the irritable behavior.

The writer’s block.

The fights.

The lack of sex drive.

She threw her head back. “Oh shit. I’m
such
a moron,” she whispered.

All
the signs were there.

They had Steve on the surgical schedule for eight in the morning. She checked with the charge nurse to make sure she had the time right and headed home. The horses would be hungry, and she couldn’t stop crying.

“Goddammit!”

She sat in the driveway and pounded her fists against the steering wheel.

“I’m a stupid fucking dumb-ass!”

She grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and ransacked the truck. No booze.

She fed the horses, which were obviously annoyed by her tardiness.

Calling Matt still topped her list, but first she ripped all the cushions off the sofa and pulled it away from the wall to look under it.

Nothing.

His office was next. Every drawer, every computer bag and bookshelf, and even the small, empty closet.

Nothing.

She ripped the kitchen apart, already knowing what she wouldn’t find.

Cell phone in hand, she collapsed in the middle of the ugly linoleum floor and called Matt, her composure shattered.

* * * *

“Sam? Honey, you have to calm down.” Matt spent the first five minutes trying to get her to stop sobbing long enough to tell him what happened. First he worried Steve had died. Then, when she cried the story out, he felt so angry he wanted to kill Steve himself.

“Matt, what am I going to do? I can’t believe he lied to me all these years about not drinking!”

“I know, honey. It’s okay.” He closed his eyes and wished he could put his arms around her. She sounded horrible. He wanted to jump on the first flight to Tampa, but Pog curled at his feet meant that wasn’t possible. “Have you checked the rest of the house?”

She sniffled. “Not yet. He started going to AA again. He told me, he
swore
to me he wasn’t drinking.”

He’d seen more of Steve’s addiction than Sami and knew it was entirely possible—if not probable—that Steve had been drinking all these years. Especially when he looked back in hindsight at Steve’s recent behavior. He didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she obviously did. She needed a distraction.

“Sam, sweetie, go search the house. Call me back when you’re done. I don’t care how late. Okay?”

He heard her sniffle again. “Okay.”

He hung up and rubbed his eyes. He could leave by late tomorrow, but sooner than that was out of the question.

Then again, no reason to be rash. She was Steve’s wife. She could handle this.

But she was still the love of his life, and he couldn’t stand hearing her so upset.

Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go down. He was liable to say something to Steve he couldn’t take back, and lose them both as friends in the process.

An hour later she called back, sounding calmer. “Matt, there’s nothing. Nothing at all. I turned this house upside down. There’s not much here to begin with, just the furniture we bought and other stuff we brought with us, which wasn’t much. If he’s got anything stashed, he’s hidden it better than I can find it.”

Matt suspected Steve had gotten better at hiding his stash, and Sami’s searching skills had grown rusty from complacency. “I can leave tomorrow night and come down. Do you want me there?”

She fell silent for a moment. “Part of me wants to say yes, and part of me says maybe it’s not a good idea.”

“Which part of you is winning the argument?”

“I would love for you to come early, you don’t know how much. Maybe it’s better to stick to the original plan.”

You don’t know how much.
She didn’t expound on that comment. He suspected she didn’t realize she’d spoken it out loud.

“Call me as soon as you hear anything, or call me if you need me. You know I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Matt.”

Emotionally drained, he lay down. If Steve was drinking again, it meant bad news—for Steve. Matt knew Sami wouldn’t stay if Steve couldn’t stay sober. She didn’t want any part of that.

And Matt wouldn’t repeat his mistake and give Steve a second chance.

* * * *

Steve looked pale the next morning. He tried to smile when Sami walked in a little before seven.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Like death warmed over.”

“Did you sleep well?”

He shook his head. “I had another horrible dream. They did another CT scan this morning and said my gallbladder looks even worse than it did the other day. They can’t explain it.”

“Well, Dr. Smith said the surgeon doing your operation is good, and this is a pretty routine procedure.”

A nurse walked in with medicine and Steve’s chart. “You’ve got that right.” She checked Steve’s chart and ID wristband before administering a dose of medicine through his IV. “We’ve got the best laparoscopic surgeon in the area. You’ll probably be home tomorrow afternoon. They said you’re trying to grow golf balls. They want to keep an eye on you overnight.” She smiled. Steve tried to return the smile but looked decidedly sick.

Dr. Smith arrived before the surgical orderly. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah,” Steve quipped. “Can you knock me out now?”

Dr. Smith’s face grew serious. “How long has it been since you had anything to drink?”

The question shocked Sami. She swiveled her head to watch Steve’s response.

Steve looked confused. “They’ve had me on IVs since I got in here. They said I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight.”

“No, Steve. I mean alcohol. How long has it been since you had any alcohol to drink?”

He still looked confused. “I don’t—I haven’t. Why?”

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. “You need to be completely honest with me. I’m your doctor. I’m not going to judge you, but I need you to be honest with me so I can treat you properly.”

“What’s going on?” Steve looked from Sami to the doctor, indignation breaking through his sedative haze. “I’m sober. Sami, tell him.” From his reaction, she realized she must have had a dubious look on her face. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Dr. Smith answered. “I told your wife the blood work we drew yesterday here at the hospital when you were admitted, your blood alcohol level came back .03. They drew more blood this morning, and your blood alcohol level was .09.”

Sami gasped. “That’s legally drunk!”

Steve couldn’t comprehend what they said. “I’ve been in this hospital bed since they put me here. I got up once last night to go to the bathroom, and that’s it. Ask the nurses.”