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“But he did, and where is he?”
Ethan’s cheeks flush, and I know I’ve got him.
“I thought he’d be here with you.”
“So that’s why you’re here: searching for him.” I shove at his chest in vain. “Let me go!”
“No,” he grits through his teeth. “I came here for you. I don’t want to lose you. You can’t run from this. You can’t run fromhim. He may not be here now, but he will be.”
“How do you know that? Have you talked to him?”
Why am I asking? Why do I even care?
His deep flush spreads, and his ears redden. “I’ve tried.”
I don’t have the energy or strength to worry about where Jackson is; in the end, I’ll only blame myself.
Giving in to the fatigue, I rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, failing to prevent the dread his words provoke.
He brushes away the tears I can’t stop from escaping. When he speaks, his voice is strained. “I’ll find him. I’ll send him to rehab. He loves you?—”
“I. Don’t. Want. Him. Back,” I say with conviction.
Then, guilt and fear take hold, that boyish smile flashes through my mind, and I crumble.
I sob into Ethan’s chest, reliving the nightmare.
He envelops me in his firm embrace and tucks my head under his chin, his touch and gentle tone easing my grief.
“I’m here, baby. You don’t have to bear this pain alone. Let me fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
9
JACKSON
“Stop.”I push at his chest. My hands are small, too small, and panic floods my system. My feet flail, striking a solid wall that descends over me. “Don’t touch me.”
“No one’s here to save you, pretty boy.”
A cruel laugh echoes, bouncing around in my skull until it morphs into a child’s sobs. I press my palms to my ears, but the cries only become louder.
I attempt to scream, to call for help, but it’s trapped in my chest and only emerges as a faint whisper. “It’s not real.”
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
Drenched in sweat and trembling, I gasp for air, my unfocused gaze fixed straight ahead, my mind locked in darkness.
My least favorite demons have come out to play. I must have done a shit ton of coke, drinking, and whatever else, because these withdrawals are kicking my ass—hard.
Detox is the fucking worst.
Cravings, nausea, mood swings, feeling utterly miserable, migraines, and, this time around, terrifying nightmares. I’ve hadthem in the past, which contributed to my addiction. I’d get blackout drunk to avoid them, avoid seeing the monster in my head. The vivid, warped memories intensify during withdrawals, making the vicious cycle nearly impossible to escape.
The only thing standing between me and a bottle of vodka and oxy is Aurora.
But I can’t go to her. If I do and she refuses me, which she most likely will, it’ll be my undoing.