Page 144 of Bitter When He Begs

I’ve spent months—fucking months—suffering through withdrawal, fighting the cravings, doing everything right, and for what?

For some bullshit test to tell me I’m still a junkie?

No.

No.

Something isn’t right. There has to be a mistake.

I need to talk to someone.

I grab my phone, my hands still shaking as I scroll through my contacts, and before I can second-guess myself, I hit Sage’s name.

The phone rings once.

“Sage,” I breathe the second he picks up.

“Luca?” His voice is alert, like he can hear the panic in mine. “What’s wrong?”

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. “I need to see you.”

“Where are you?”

“Heading to my place now.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

And just like that, I can breathe again.

I can’t stop moving.

I’m pacing so hard I’ve worn a line into the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal trying to outwalk the panic still grinding under my skin. My jaw’s locked, my fists won’t unclench, and my chest feels like it’s got a concrete slab sitting right on top of it.

I can’t sit. I can’t breathe. I feel dirty, even though I haven’t touched a damn thing.

The worst part is that a tiny voice in my head—the old one, the cruel one—keeps whispering:maybe you deserve this.

I’m in the middle of another lap across the room when the door creaks open, and there he is.

Sage.

He doesn’t even say anything before I’m across the room and grabbing him, wrapping both arms around him, and burying my face in his shoulder like it’s the only safe place left on the planet. I hit him harder than I mean to, and he stumbles back half a step, catching us both against the door with a grunt.

“Luca—Jesus—hey,” he breathes, arms coming up instinctively to wrap around me. “I got you. It’s okay. I’m here.”

I cling to him like if I let go, I’ll shatter. My entire body’s shaking now, not from withdrawal but from fear, from rage, from the helplessness that’s been chewing through my insides since Coach told me I was benched.

“I didn’t do it,” I choke out, not bothering to pull back. “I swear to God, Sage, I didn’t touch anything. I haven’t even thought about it since that night in the hotel. I’ve been clean—eight fucking months and counting. This test is wrong. I need you to believe me. Please, youhaveto believe me.”

“Okay, baby, back up,” he says, pulling back and taking my face in his hands. “Start from the top. What’s going on?”

I suck in a breath that doesn’t feel like it goes anywhere. My throat’s closing around the words before they can even leave, but I force them out anyway. Because it’s Sage, and if I don’t tell him, I might explode right here in the middle of my fucking bedroom.

“I had a routine test. Just the standard one we all have to take.” My voice is cracking, my hands are still shaking where they’ve curled into fists at my sides. “Coach called me into his office this morning. Said it came back dirty.”

His eyes widen and fill with anger. “That’s bullshit!”

“I know, I didn’t touch anything,” I say again, barely able to get the words out. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything right. I’veworked my ass off to stay clean. I haven’t slipped again. I haven’t even let myself get close.”