Chapter 13: Drummer Boys Steal

Bodie

The Vicodin I took isn't touching the pain in my hand while I beat the snares during sound check.

Or maybe the verbal and physical assault I took from Arabella when I arrived killed my high.

The girl has a decent punch, I'll give her that. Not anything like Mac's, but powerful enough to sting. Adam pulled her off me, or I might have ended up with a busted lip, which would have been annoying.

I have to admit, Adam has a way with her. As much as she exasperates the hell out of him, he has no idea that she really looks up to him. He treats her better than the rest of us—even me. He never loses his temper with her.

Adam is going to make a great fucking dad.

Sweat pours from my face as I pound the skins and watch Mac, bouncing to my beat on her keys. I examine her belly, perfectly visible in a tight t-shirt and yoga pants. She's about six months now, with a high, round bulge. She looks real cute, but I don't feel happy, staring at her.

I think about Marley, pregnant like that in prison.

Prison in not a place where you want to be vulnerable in any way. I don't imagine it's all that different in a women's prison. A baby in her belly probably made her a target for all kinds of attention in there. Jesus, what the fuck did she go through, trying to protect herself and an unborn child?

Maybe my unborn child?

Am I the one that put her through that?

Am I the one that left her to raise a child alone, just like my own mother struggled to raise me?

Did I create the very situation I swore I would never cause to happen?

Pain shoots up my forearm and I drop my drumstick. The song falls apart as I throw my other one in frustration.

"Motherfuck!" I yell, hurling over a cymbal stand.

The cymbal crash dies away to a silent stage.

"Take...ten," Trace says mildly to Andy at the soundboard. Andy rises, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

The whole band circles around my kit.

"Talk to me, brother," Trace says. "If you can't play..."

"I'm fine," I grin. "Mac's belly is scaring the shit out of me, that's all."

She laughs and comes to sit on my lap, drawing my good hand on her belly. "Liar, you are completely in love with my daughter already."

I smile, rubbing the kid. She's right, that was a weak lie. I'm pretty well known for being good with babies.

While she has me distracted, she snatches my other hand and pulls the drummers glove and the bandage off with one tug.

"Fuck, Bodie." She forces my hand up for the others to inspect.

"Looks worse than it feels," I protest, but the truth is, it's red and swollen. My fingers are about twice their normal size and the skin on my palm is painfully tight.

"Off the kit, now," Trace barks. He swings around to the roadies roaming sidestage. "Somebody call Chili and tell her to get ready to pull another double."

"Naw, man. Let's finish sound check and I'll ice it down."

"I think you need a doctor, man. What if it's infected?" Leed muses. "Or shit, what if you have tetanus from that damn dog?" Leed's eyes goes round with horror. His hands go to his jaw, imagining what it would feel like to have it lock up in pain from the disease.

"You get rabies from a dog, not tetanus," Mac argues.

"No, you can get rabies or tetanus from a dog bite," Leed objects.

"Tetanus is from rusty nails, dumbass," Mac says. "Don't worry, you can't have tetanus, Butters. We got tetanus boosters with our first Colossal physicals. There are good for ten years."

She throws an arm around me and snuggles my head against her chest, stroking my braids.

I grin up at Adam from the pillow of his wife's tits.

"Mac, Bodie is enjoying your boobs way too much," Adam says wryly.

"Oh Jesus, Adam, I'm just consoling Butters. He's hurt." She grabs my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes. "What happened to you?" she murmurs. "Something more than a dog bite..."

I sigh and wrap her in my arms briefly, then give her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Just a...rough day. You better get up before your husband punches me."

She giggles and smiles sympathetically at me, still soothing my head. "My poor Butters. I feel so bad for you. Hurt, and your girlfriend is making it worse instead of better—pouting on the bus when you need TLC..."

I close my eyes and groan. "Can we just be grateful that Papa Preacher somehow has the capacity to send She Who Must Not Be Named to timeout?"

"Ha!" Leed says. "Now who's the hater? And you shoved me for that shit!"

"I said I was sorry about that, man."

"Bygones," he agrees. "Especially since, you know...you're dying. Of tetanus."

"Shut up, Leed," Mac spits, as she hugs me tight again.

"Mac, will you please stop giving Bodie a lap dance?" Adam sighs.

I snicker. Payback's a bitch. He likes to watch my girl in a bikini? No worries. His wife likes to lay my poor pitiful aching head upon her boobs.

I mean, not that Marley is my girl. She was my girl—I think—for one brief moment in time. Long ago, I had convinced myself that she never meant any of the things she said, the night she made me a man. But last night...the way she touched me in the shower—it was like an echo of our true feelings from that night.

I think Jasmine meant it, when she loved me that night, all those years ago. It's only, I think she knew we were allowed just the one moment to be in love. So she gave it all she had. She loved fast and she loved me the best she could, for that one brief moment.

And I loved her so much it burned my heart to ashes.

"I'm not giving him a lapdance, it's just Babycakes, trying to hug her godfather." Mac stands up and pushes her belly in my face.

I kiss her belly and feel the urge to bawl.

Jesus, I am going fucking crazy.

I push my stool back roughly, spinning around on it and rising quickly, so I don't lose it all over Mac's belly, just from the thought that I have maybe missed my whole son's life.

"Hey! Somebody get me a liquor drink!" I yell at the mass of crew at sidestage. Penelope lays her Ipad down and starts to move away.

"Hold up, Penelope!" Trace is yelling. "Where the hell is Riley?"

"At Strut's interview," she calls.

"Of course," he mutters, "Will you find the in-house stage manager and tell him we need a medical person to look at Bodie's hand again?" Trace asks her.

"No worries, there's a doctor in the house," a voice calls from the back of the crowd of roadies. They part like the Red Sea and Kade strolls on the stage, looking nothing like a doctor in a lot of hair gel, ripped up jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his pecs.

Shit. Has the dude been working out twenty-four-seven since Labor Day or something?

Mac runs over to hug him and Adam is right behind, clapping it out with him.

The rest of us trail more casually.

"Hey man. Problem?" Kade gives me the chin tip. He looks at my hand with curiosity.

"Dog bite," I tell him, putting my hand down by my side. "Saw a specialist this morning. It's fine...just tender."

"He says the doc said he can play. I want a second opinion," Trace says bluntly. "No sense in causing more damage...we only have two gigs left on the tour. Chili can handle it, if he's better off healing."

"Well, I'm not a hand specialist, but I'll be happy to take a look for infection, pulled stitches, that kind of thing..." Kade smiles at me and gestures at a folding chair.

We sit. He slings his backpack medical bag onto the floor and unzips, donning a pair of gloves. He examines my hand, moving my thumb and fingers gingerly. Everyone stands over us, like it's a damn group effort. Kade looks from my hand to me, his face unreadable. He glances briefly at Trace, then returns to examining my hand.

"There's no sign of infection but there's a shit ton of swelling. There doesn't seem to be any muscle involvement, just tissue damage. Did the doctor offer you a corticosteroid injection?"

"Yeah, he recommended it, actually. I declined. I don't like needles. Thought I could push through."

"He went over the pros and cons?"

"Yeah."

"Then I won't repeat them. I will say, I think you should probably sit tonight out. In general, I think healing time is a better way to treat injury than using steroids, but I understand the performance needs of people that work with their hands," he holds his own up and winks at me. "So, if you need to push through, and since your specialist already recommended it, I could give you a steroid injection, if you want. It would give you the swelling and pain relief to get through these next two gigs, without causing any significant damage to your cartilage."

I look around at the group, my gaze lingering on Trace. He gives me a wry smile. "Your call, man."

I nod at Kade. "Do it."

He gives me an unreadable look. "It's a little tedious. A series of injections between the knuckles. Maybe we should go somewhere...private?"

I nod tersely, grabbing that drink Penelope has waiting for me on the way back to the dressing room. I drink while Kade prepares the shot. Once he has his syringe loaded, he recaps it and turns it over in his gloved hands.

"That's not a dog bite. You know I know that, right?"

"Yeah." I say, taking another long swallow of my drink.

"And the swelling is not just from the bite site. You layed on a couple of good punches. And I have no idea what the blisters are about. Those aren't from drumming, I can see your drumming callouses..."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Okay." Kade has a very kind face. He gives me a tucked back smile. "I get how shitty it must be for you guys, always guarding your business. I'm only asking in case you are hurt somewhere else that I need to check. If a man took a chunk of flesh out of your hand—that's some serious rage. If you took more blows from somebody that crazed, there could be internal injuries."

I laugh. Internal injuries. You could say that. I take another swallow.

"I'm good."

"You're on some serious opiates, Bodie. I can clearly see that."

"Kade, you're a cool doctor, and we like to hang with you. If you become our vice cop, we might not feel you so much."

He sighs. "I'm not trying to pass judgment. Weed, X—even speed to get me through a few all-nighters in med school—I've done my share. I still recreate, occasionally, when I'm on vacation. You know that. I'd be a big fucking hypocrite, to lecture you when I've partied in your house, partaken of your weed."

"Exactly my point, man." I say casually.

"Then let me make mine. My concern is you may taken injuries that you aren't registering as pain, because you've taken too much pain medicine."

"I took two Vicodin. For the hand," I lift it. "That's it."

"Okay, I get that," he nods. He rummages in his kit, pulls out a stethoscope. "Can I just take a quick listen to your lungs, your heart? Make sure I don't detect any signs of stress that could indicate thoracic injury?"

I finish my drink and slam it down. "Look, Kade. I never even took a punch in the...incident. It was a random thing with a crazed...fan. I don't want to talk about it, with you, or with the guys. You don't know what it's like when something like this happens. I know the guy was too...far gone...for this to come back on me. But if I say "altercation with an unstable" to Riley, I'll be in meetings for weeks—with the police, with the lawyers, with the label. It's a pain in my ass, and the guy...I already dealt with it, okay? I just want to forget about it."

Kade gives me a long assessing look. "You mean like, you bought him off?"

Yeah. He bought four slugs to the chest, Dr. Call Me Kade.

"Something like that."

"Just out of curiosity, how did you get the blisters, Bodie?"

"In a very unrockstar kind of way. Went by my mama's yesterday. I spread some mulch for her."

We eye each other. Kade is cool as fuck, but he's no match for my stare-down. I've been a thug, I've been to jail, I've been in more rock star escapades than anybody could ever imagine could packed into the last four years.

He looks down to his gloved hands and syringe. "Okay, it's my job to treat the whole patient. That's why I asked this stuff. To make sure I give you the best care."

"I appreciate your concern."

He nods and gestures for my hand. For some reason, I watch, and the needles don't bother me like they did when I was a kid. The relief is already starting to take effect as he clears away his small amount of medical detritus.

I flex my hand, grinning at the lack of pain. "That's fucking great, man. I appreciate that."

"You're welcome," Kade smiles at me, zipping up his bag. "Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Yeah," I say, a little guardedly.

"Marley Watkins."

My gut clenches. I catch a sigh before it leaves my lips. I give him a false grin instead. "I don't kiss and tell, man."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I kinda got the feeling you were staking a claim there. Adam mentioned her earlier...giving me a subtle shove toward her. I never called her after Labor Day, because I didn't want to step on any toes, but I uhhh...well...I didn't exactly forget about her, either."

I shrug. "Call her, if you want. I got no claim, man. That night on the beach I only stepped in because she was pretty drunk, and so were you. I was just looking out for her. But I can't say I'm not down with Adam's thinking. You may know medicine, but rock stars know women. Marley's a hot ticket. That's a professional opinion."

"That both scares and intrigues me, Bodie," Kade with a little laugh as we stroll back to sidestage.

I realize Kade thinks that Adam and I have both had Marley and think she's good in bed. I make a sound of disgust. "You're taking it wrong, man. I'm serious when I say she ain't no fangirl we pass around. We just know, she's the keeper-kind of girl. That's why we are trying to set her up. We're musicians. Dreamers. Romantics. We believe in happy ever afters."

"Happy ever after, huh?" Kade swipes a beer from the hospitality station. "I thought you believed in sex, drugs, and rocknroll."

"Yeah, that's like the first five years of being a rock star," I say dryly. "You watch," I point at Trace, Adam, and Leed. "They are already falling victim to the fairy tale. One by one."

He grins at me. "And you are gonna be the last rock star standing?"

"Yeah. I ain't cut from the same cloth as my pretty boy peers," I tell him.

He chuckles. "Okay, then. So...any advice, about Marley? What kind of date I should invite her on?"

"She likes books. Mysteries. Suspense. Shit like that. Hey, Penelope," I call her over. "See if there are any book clubs or author signings in Nashville or Atlanta coming up."

Penelope does her magic with her Ipad. She flips her screen around. There's a book lovers convention at the Opryland Convention Center coming up in a few weeks. I swipe Kade's beer and point at the screen. "There's your first date. On me," I tell Penelope, and stroll away, guzzling, filling my belly full of beer. It does nothing to fill the hole inside me.

—————

Two hours of getting lost in the beat is exactly what I needed. It's the first time in several days I've felt at all like myself. Behind my kit, laying down the foundation for the magic we make...that's where I am truly home.

Unfortunately, my sense of home is short-lived. Arabella kicks off Round 2 of our latest fight as soon as the encore is over. Shit gets so hostile I tell Penelope to get me a separate room for the night, and I head back to the hotel early.

Not before I do something I feel really shitty about. I snag a few pain killers from Dr. Call Me Kade's medical kit while he's distracted, doing shots with Adam.

I feel bad, but then again? Dude. You're a doctor. Aren't you aware of the opioid crisis in America? You got no business bringing oxy to rock concert. You are begging for some junkie like me to lift it off you.

I pop a couple. Before I drift off, I shoot the guys a text and ask them to watch out for Bells, who's still at the backstage after party.

A few minutes later, Leed texts back to the group chat:

We drew straws.

Adam's on the job.

Adam:

Leed is a lucky SOB.

No question about that.

But Trace?

He cheats at straws.

Trace:

You cut the straws, man.

You held them.

How could I cheat?

Adam:

I don't know how.

I just know you do.

Me:

Adam, please.

I'm fucking begging you.

Make sure she gets back to the hotel safe.

That's all I'm asking.

Adam:

Don't worry.

I'll bring her home safe.

But you know this is gonna start a fight with Mac, right?

She's already super pissed I want her to sit out the last two shows.

Trace:

We voted you down on that idea, Adam.

Mac is not an invalid.

Case closed.

Me:

Thank you, brother for the babysitting.

Adam:

YW.

I drift off.

Sometime later, I finally comprehend how shitty of a deal I've put on Adam these last few weeks, always asking him to handle Arabella when I can't. Because I wake to screams in the hallway and find Adam in boxers, yelling at a naked Arabella wrapped in a quilt.

"She did fucking what?" Mac is screeching.

"She...she stealth-sucked me," Adam hisses down at Bells, standing well away, like she's a leper. "I was asleep. I woke up with her...on me."

I stare down at her. "Are you fucking serious?"

I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or her.

To be honest, I'm not hurt or enraged by the betrayal. I slept in a bed with another woman last night—a woman I feel exponentially more for than this girl on the floor.

I can't explain the connection I have with Marley, but now that the lust has faded for Bells, I'm pretty sure all that's left is pity.

Bells gives me a hateful glare in return. Then her face crumples as she stares up at Adam.

"Oh my god, stop lying, Adam," Bells whimpers with tears in her eyes. "You know the truth. You took me to bed. You wanted it."

Uhhh, yeah, her lies are rapidly lighting my anger, burning away my pity.

Adam looks like he's thisclose to stroking out. He runs a hand through his long undercut.

"Mac, I swear, I would never..."

"Oh I know, Preacher," she says with confidence. She sneers at Arabella. "You're a stupid bitch if you think I would ever believe Adam would cheat on me with you just because we had a fight. That dog don't hunt, you lying cunt."

"I'm so sorry, Mac, but it's true. I was drunk, and made a mistake, but Adam...well he's been hitting on me for weeks. He's so...needy, and he won't come to you, because he thinks he might hurt the baby. I've been turning him down for weeks now."

"Holy fuck," Trace mutters, moving at once toward Mac who is standing in the doorway of Leed's suite.

Leed moves smoothly blocks Trace, keeping him from getting hold of Mac's arms. "Naw, brother. Let her get in one good lick." Leed gives Mac a sweeping gesture. "Go 'head, Macaroni. Just one good slap. Then Imma have to pull you off, for Babycakes sake."

"She's not worth it," Mac says haughtily.

Adam jerks Arabella up roughly by the arm. "You little lying bitch. I took you to my suite because you are drunk as fuck and you lost your fucking key card!" He looks between the rest of us, desperately. "There's a line a fucking mile long at the desk—some convention or some shit came in on a shuttle from a delayed flight, and I didn't want to stop and get another card, and get swamped."

Of course not. Pictures of Adam and Arabella getting a room card might give the gossip rags fodder.

Adam is still explaining to Mac. "Andy finally made it with Penelope so I wasn't gonna interrupt that and make her stand in line to get a new card, and Riley is god knows where—" he trails off as he casts around, looking for our manager.

We all stop and look around.

It's not like Riley to be late to a crisis.

"He's got to be with Row," Leed interjects wickedly.

"No way," Trace snorts in disgust.

"You don't have to explain, baby," Mac says calmly to Adam. "I know we had a fight and we were both pissed, but about this, I believe you."

Adam lets go of Arabella and takes two long strides to Mac. He grabs her head, pressing his forehead down to hers. "I swear on all that is holy to me, I love you. I love our family," he brushes a hand down her stomach. "I would never, will never, cheat on you."

She smiles up at him. "I know, Adam. I know. But I'm fucking done with her, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," he turns and says to Trace. "Hell, Colossus and the fucking promoter's lawsuits can rain down on us, but I am not writing and producing her album. I don't give a fuck what the consequences are."

"We don't even need a fucking vote for this, do we?" Trace glares at me.

I sigh. I guess it's my turn to weigh in.

"No." I say wearily.

"Bodie," Bells cries. "I'm so fucking high, and I swear he took advantage...I swear...it's not my fault...you believe me, don't you?"

I look down at Arabella. She's a crossed a line here. The last lingering bit of my affection for her hangs like old shredded ties.

"Bells, the truth is...I maybe wanted to make something more with you, but you've turned out to be nothing more than a piece of ass that's a giant pain in the ass for this band. Just..."

Goddamn. Images of Cain Priestly dead on the ground flash through my mind. I feel like I can't breathe. I caused a man's life to end for this girl—this girl who has turned on me like this. Maybe he was fucking right. Maybe she's the evil one.

I don't fucking know. I slam the door before I freak the fuck out. I cross the room, grab one of her suitcases and an armful of shit I can hurriedly collect. I toss it out. "Just...go...somewhere...else. Tonight."

"I fucking hate you," she yells. "You're such a pussy for not standing up for me. You talk like a pussy and you party like a pussy and you even fuck like limp-dick pussy—"

I jerk her to me, just to shut her up, because there's a family peering out the door of their suite at the ruckus. A horrified mother is trying to push her two school aged kids back inside the door while they watch my naked "girlfriend" scream obscenities at me.

"Shut up, Arabella" I hiss at her. That's when I see...she's fucking flying. Her face is twitching. Her eyes are black holes. She's jacked up, crazed. This ain't pills. It's not even coke. It's something more. I jerk her arm toward me.

There are several puncture marks in her arm. Its not any kind of downers she's shooting. She'd be too far down to perpetrate this bullshit.

"Jesus fucking Christ. Are you shooting meth?"

Holy fuck. That's probably exactly what her insane stepfather Cain Priestly was doing, too. Did she learn how from him?

She jerks her arm back. "I'm tired of your weak ass party. Always trying to hold me back from living."

I shake her. "Living? You ain't gonna be living long, like this. Shooting up is a fast way to die. Between that and the liters of alcohol you pour down your throat on top? You'll slip away without even meaning to. Like Amy Winehouse. Young, beautiful, alone, and fucking dead," I tell her. "Is that what you want, baby? Go fucking think about that shit!" I toss her away from me and stalk back into my room, slamming the door.

I pace around my suite. There's still some shouting going on in the hall, between Trace and Leed and Arabella. Then I hear Riley's distinctive British voice in the mix and order is restored in less than a minute.

The night is quiet, but my head is still loud.

I'm trying to work it out. Why would she choose to inject one of the most dangerous drugs on the planet? I know I got a real taste for pills, but this? This is next level.

Shit. How long has this been going on? From what I've heard, shooting meth is a very short high, so from the very few marks in her arm, maybe she just started tonight.

Realization dawns on me.

Bells is like...a wounded animal. When she gets hurt, she lashes out.

She thought I left her. Maybe she even picked up on the fact that I saw Marley. Adam is not particularly discreet with his phone calls, and I did have a phone conversation about Marley with him while he was backstage here before sound check.

Goddamn. This is all my fault. I pushed Bells to this. The pills, the coke...she's a baby and I opened the gates to all this for her. She's a child that's going to overdose and it's going to be my fault.

I'm going to kill her, just like I killed Cain Priestly.

With good intentions.

I sit on the balcony of my room, shivering, ignoring the cold, chain-smoking cigarettes, trying to figure out where I went wrong again.

Every damn time I fuck up like this, I promise myself...it's the last big fuck-up of my life. When I got out of juvi, I swore, never again would I cross the line to the shady side of life. When I got out from under pills that first year in LA, after seven torturous days of Leed detoxing me, I swore, never again would I get dependent.

When I no longer went to sleep dreaming of Jasmine's cinnamon eyes, I swore never again would I try to recall them.

But all my vows were in vain.

Now, I've broken them all.

I am worse off than I ever been.

But because things can always get worse, suddenly Leed is calling me, telling me to get my ass down to Bell's room because she's unconscious in her own vomit with an empty liquor bottle and an empty prescription bottle of oxy beside her.

When I hit the room, I recognize the pill bottle at once.

Apparently I wasn't the only one that stole from Kade tonight.

Thank god for him, though. He's right behind me, into her room. At first when he sees the bottle, he's frantic.

"Call 911," he tells Riley immediately. "There twelve pills in this bottle. This is a lethal overdose."

"Hold on," I tell Riley. I grab the bottle, making sure it's the same one I dipped into.

"She didn't take that many. I...stole most of them earlier, at the show. There were only four left."

He turns to stare at me. "Goddamn. Really? You both stole drugs from me?"

"Help her," I plead with him.

"Four were all that were left? You're sure?" he says.

"Yeah."

"You're fucking sure, Bodie?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure!"

He looks at Riley. "How long has she been alone in here?"

"Not more than half an hour," Riley assures him.

"Okay. We can manage this here. I'm going to insert a feeding tube down her throat and give her activated charcoal. The charcoal will absorb the drugs. Leed, open my kit and bring my stethoscope and the big plastic bag with the long tube and the giant ass syringe in it."

Apparently the dude has been expecting one of us to overdose, because his medical kit is packed with everything he needs to handle this situation.

I pace and curse, while he issues calm instructions to Leed and Riley to open the charcoal pouch and fill the syringe with it. Kade completely disregards the vomit and sits beside Bells, expertly threading a tube down her throat. He connects the largest syringe I've ever seen, filled with thick black sludge. He hands it to Leed casually, telling him to push very slowly, and then he opens an IV kit. He curses as he sees Arabella's track marks.

"These are fresh. Fuck." He hesitates, and jerkily checks her vitals again, and I can tell, he's debating whether he's chosen the wrong course of action, to treat her here.

"I'm not positive, but I have a feeling she was shooting meth, earlier." I tell him. "Maybe while the show was going on. She's been too alert all night for it to be heroin."

Riley flits about, opening drawers, checking the bathroom. "She's hasn't been shooting anything up here. Nothing in Adam's suite either. "So that means...it's been at least several hours."

"You didn't think to tell me she was shooting up, Bodie!?! Goddamit," Kade shakes his head. "Give me the fucking phone. I need to call this in."

Before he can dial, Arabella moans and begins to paw at the tube in her nose. Kade hands back the phone and sighs, "Thank fuck."

He grabs both her hands, forcing them away from the tube. "Arabella, you have to relax, Sweetheart. It's Kade. I put a tube down your nose to absorb the drugs. You took too much, but you are going to be okay. I've got you. Just relax. It's okay," he soothes as she comes more awake and chokes against the unnatural feeling of the tube.

"Don't fight. You can breath. It's okay." He coaches. To Leed he says. "Keep pushing the charcoal. Bodie, get the trashcan from the bathroom. Some of the charcoal is probably going to come back up. Arabella, you're doing fine," he coos. "Lie still, darlin'. I'm going to start an IV and that's going to help you feel much better, okay? Riley, hold this IV bag with one hand and call for a luggage cart, with the other."

"A luggage cart?" Riley says blankly.

"Unless you want to hold her IV all night," Kade says, tying a latex tourniquet around Bells arm and popping at her veins.

"Right, of course. Very smart," Riley says as he digs in his pocket for his phone.

I sit the trashcan by the bed and ease down beside Arabella, smoothing her hair away from her sweaty forehead. She looks at me with frantic eyes. "You're okay, baby. I'm sorry. So fucking sorry."

She nods and tries to slow her breathing. Tears stream silently down her face as Kade bends over her veins and inserts the butterfly needle.

I stroke her head, thanking god my stupid hateful words about her dying fast didn't actually come true.

I fucked up again.

She took those pills because I was cruel to her. I feel so fucking torn apart. She's just an out of control child with serious problems, and I'm not the guy to fix her, but somehow, I have to do it anyway.

Because no one else will.

A couple of hours and few nasty rounds of vomiting later, Arabella is sleeping and Kade is standing on the balcony, staring into the night as he smokes a cigarette, seemingly impervious to the frigid cold.

I step outside and fight not to shiver as I light up a cigarette of my own, "Thank you for what you did. You are amazing. You're like a fucking general or something, aren't you? Completely in control, issuing medical orders, marshaling your troops. A general surgeon, that's what you are."

I smile at him, thinking how right I was about him being a good guy for Marley. Not only does the dude have a kind soul...if the kid had some kind of medical emergency, Kade would be all over that.

He doesn't smile back. He takes another draw.

"I didn't know you smoked." I say lightly.

He looks down at his in disgust and drops it, crushing it beneath his Doc Marten. "I don't. I don't what the fuck I'm doing, hanging with you guys. It's like I become a different person. Caught up in being cool. Dr. Call Me Kade," He laughs bitterly. "I thought you guys had a handle on your shit. I actually fucking believed Adam this summer, when he swore in my ER that he didn't have a coke habit."

"He doesn't," I promise. "None of the rest of them, either. It's just me. And her. We're the only ones. Look, it was a shitty thing I did, swiping your stash."

"You're sorry?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry enough to give them back?"

It shocks me, how fucking reluctant my hand is as it draws the little baggie from my pocket. I hand it over. He reaches for his medical kit and tucks them in the pocket. He hoists it to his shoulder, "This is not my stash. This is a trauma kit, with controlled substances that I have to fucking account for. Don't ever steal prescriptions from me again. I will report you to the police," he says.

"Yeah. Okay," I say solemnly. "I'm sorry. And I can't thank you enough—"

"Don't thank me," he cuts me off. "I didn't do it for you. Or even for her. I save people because...I can. I have the skill and I have the nerve. It's not my job to judge who's deserving. Only my job to save lives. But tonight...you made it really fucking hard not to judge, man."

I nod silently. He takes a deep breath and stares at the sleeping beauty on the bed. "She's fine. Completely stable. You can take her IV out when she wakes. But...she needs to go to rehab. So do you."

"I know." I say quietly.

He leaves. I immediately pop the two Oxy that I didn't give back to him, washing them down with beer in the mini bar.

A few hours later, when Arabella wakes up, we have perhaps the softest argument we've ever had. I hold her close. I beg her to go to rehab with me. She wants to go to Thailand for a vacation first.

"Let me think about it," I tell her.

"I'm going to take a bath," she says wearily. "Can you order breakfast—and the plane tickets to Thailand?"

I order her breakfast, then walk down to my suite.

With shaking hands, I dial Marley's number.

She answers at once.

"Bodie," she breathes. I wince at how wonderful her voice is—not too deep, but a little deeper than most women's. The kind of voice you really...hear. The kind of voice you trust.

"Marley, what you would say if I told you I knew I had a drug problem, but that Arabella's is worse, and I don't know what to do? She won't go to rehab, and I don't know how to help her?"

"I would say...you can't help her, unless you get clean yourself. Her drug problem is not your responsibility."

"No, it really is," I object.

"Have you ever forced a pill in her mouth?"

"No."

"A straw in nose?"

"No."

"A needle in her arm?"

"No, of course not."

"Then it really isn't, Bodie."

I groan. That's easy for Marley to say. But it's not how I feel.

"Bodie, do you want to get clean?"

I don't answer. I think about how sick I feel over the dead man. How desperate I feel over the kid.

"I don't know," I say. "That's the fucking truth. I don't know if I can...cope with the shit in my life right now...without a little chemical help. But here's another truth. You make me...maybe want to try. Because I want you."

There's a long silence. Finally she says, "Every bit of my training goes against what I'm about to say, but I don't fucking care. Because I can't stop thinking about the way it felt, when you kissed me at Martha's Vineyard. I can't stop thinking about the way we were, when we were kids. I want you, too. Will you promise to get clean—for me? Will you swear?"

"Fuck," I groan. "I'm not gonna lie to you like that, Marley.  I can say yes, but...the truth is...I'm high right now. How am I supposed to promise you that from where I am right now?"

"I can't be with an addict, Bodie. I have a son. I can't expose him to that."

Something about that hits me all wrong.

"I'm a good guy with a problem, Marley. You can't deal with my problems, but you will open the door to the man that gave me first taste of drugs? A man that's abused you? A man I've seen kill in cold blood?"

"That's not fair. It's different. I don't have a choice about him. Daemon is Darius' father."

It takes everything in me not to say, What if he's not?

That's when I know, I can't do this anymore. I can't reach out for Marley like a lifeline. I'm going to pull her and the boy under with me.

I summon all the strength I can muster to put the wall back up between us. "Fuck that, Marley. You're a just a hypocrite. The truth is...you're scared. You're scared to live this big life with me. You're scared and you're weak and you want what you know and all you know is Daemon telling you what to do. You're going to be back under his control and back in his bed before the year is out."

"You're just lashing out. I know you're angry with me, because I won't tell you what you want to hear. I won't tell you no matter what, I'll be with you. I won't enable your drug habit."

"Stop with the analysis. You were fucked in the head way before I ever was," I remind her.

She lets out a long deep breath. "This conversation isn't going anywhere good. Don't call me again when you are altered. But if you want real help...when you are ready for addiction treatment...Bodie...then I will do everything I can to help you."

"Yeah, I hear ya. But I can't square with your logic. I have to help Bells, before I worry about my problems. She's worse off. That's basic. That's decent."

"That's an addict, denying his own problem."

"Yeah, well. We'll have to agree to disagree."

She's silent for a very long time. "Bodie. Please. Come to Atlanta. I'll help you get in treatment. I'll be there, every step of the way."

"Bells won't do it."

"Then fucking leave her where she is. Just...just get on plane, Bodie. Come home."

"I...I can't do that, Marley."

"Then...there's nothing else to say, right now."

"Except good-bye."

"Yeah. Good-bye, Bodie."

She's the one that hangs up, because she's stronger than me.

I smoke another cigarette and watch the sunrise. Then I buy the plane tickets to Thailand.

Oh wow. Well, now we see Bodie's breaking point in real time. No wonder he gave up hope and went to Thailand. There's a lot of shame and guilt here. He reached out to Marley, but he is not ready for her tough love...