Page 46 of Bitter When He Begs

The line rings twice before his voice comes through, flat and unimpressed. “Figured you’d call eventually.”

I don’t answer right away, my jaw tight, my throat working as I swallow down the lump lodged there. He doesn’t push, he just waits, and fuck, I hate that he’s not shoving this in my face, not telling me he told me so, not mocking me for this. I almost wish he would.

It’d be easier if he did.

I wet my lips, forcing my voice to stay steady, but it cracks like a bitch when I whisper, “I need help.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“Yeah,” Damon says quietly. “I know.”

Damon

Withdrawalisn’tglamorous.Itisn’t soft-focus and cinematic. It’s ugly. It’s real. It’s sweat-soaked sheets and vomit in the sink. It’s shaking hands, feverish skin, and the sound of someone begging without even realizing they’re doing it.

The first thing I need to do when I get to Luca’s room is look for and flush the pills. I won’t give him a heads-up. I won’t warn him and I won’t try to sugarcoat it or wait for some perfect moment because there isn’t one.

He doesn’t say much when I get there. He just looks battered—eyes sunken, skin pale and clammy, like he’s already halfway into hell and too stubborn to admit it.

I tell him to sit on the bed, then I start searching.

The first bottle’s under his mattress. The second is in his desk drawer. Then there’s one in his backpack, another taped to the underside of the top shelf in his closet. Some of them are half-empty, some are full, and all of them make my fucking blood run cold.

When I open the bathroom cabinet and find one stuffed into a box of cotton swabs, I shout, “How long have you been doing this, Luca?”

He’s sitting there with his elbows on his knees, hands laced together like he’s praying to a god he doesn’t believe in. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me, either; he just stares at the floor like it has something better to say.

By the time I’m done, there’s enough junk piled up on his desk to prove one thing—Luca didn’t just dabble. He was all in.

Even when he tries to take a swing at me, I get rid of it all, and I stay.

“I haven’t had any in two days,” he admits. “But I really fucking wanted to after seeing my father earlier.”

I sit down next to him. “Shitty father too, huh?”

He gives a bitter snort, one that barely sounds human, more like a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl. His voice is low, frayed at the edges, raw in a way I haven’t heard from him before. “You could say that. He thinks football is the only thing I’m good for, and even then, I’m still not good enough.”

I don’t say anything right away. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I know what it means when someone finally admits the weight of their disappointment. It’s a wound that’s still bleeding, even when you think it’s scarred over. I watch him pick at his fingernails like the silence makes him itch.

“You ever try to be perfect just so someone might finally fucking look at you?” he asks, not even looking at me.

I nod, even if he can’t see it. “I tried for years. Nearly died from it.”

That gets his attention. His head turns, his eyes—bloodshot, puffy, ringed with bruises from nights without sleep—narrow on me. “What did you use?”

“Anything that burned going down,” I say honestly. “Mostly oxy. Later, morphine. There was this stretch I don’t even remember—three weeks where my mother thought I was on spring break and I was actually in some clinic upstate trying not to puke my fucking organs out.”

Luca doesn’t speak, but something in his expression softens. It’s not sympathy. It’s understanding. Real, bone-deep understanding that only comes from knowing what it’s like to want something so badly, it claws under your skin.

The first night with him is the hardest, but I know better than to say it out loud.

Luca’s sprawled out on his mattress, shirtless, sweat-drenched, and swearing under his breath like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

He’s curled on his side with one arm slung over his eyes, his breathing shallow and uneven, skin flushed and clammy. Every few minutes, he lets out this low, strangled groan that sounds like it’s being dragged up from somewhere too deep for anyone to reach.

I don’t say anything, I just stay seated beside the bed, elbows resting on my knees, watching the second hand on his clock tick away another useless hour. He hasn’t slept. Not really. He dozes for maybe five or ten minutes before the pain kicks in again, then he’s right back to cursing the world or trying to convince me that he can handle this alone.