Page 1 of His Secret Betrayal (Cedarwood Valley Duology #2)

Luke

“ W hat did I do to deserve this?” I groan, that all-too-familiar weight blanketing my shoulders, suffocating me as the apartment door slams shut behind me, making the thin walls rattle.

Tossing my keys onto the entryway table, my gaze sweeps across the disaster zone in front of me.

Empty soda cans and beer bottles litter the floor, coffee table, and windowsills.

A bowl of popcorn is turned over, kernels spilling onto the lumpy, stained couch.

One of the cushions is currently on the floor, and…

Is that an empty pill bottle?

“Evelyn?” I call. A heavy, oppressive silence stifles the air, my heart climbing into my throat when I receive no response. As I bolt through the dingy, open-spaced living area, my long strides eating up the distance, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m about to find.

Please, not again.

Passing my own bedroom doorway, I continue toward the last room at the end of the hallway, where a beige-colored door hangs off its hinges.

Too anxious to bother with the formality of knocking, I barge into the room before scrunching my nose at the stench of unwashed body odor. Cold sluices through my stomach.

Evelyn—it’s too painful to think about who she is to me—lies on her stomach. Her dull, blonde, stringy hair is limp against her shoulders, her face buried in a worn-out pillow. A tattered, blue shirt is rucked half-way up her waist, and her legs are tangled within a dark green duvet.

It’s eerie how still she is.

I can’t discern if she’s breathing from here and… Shit.

What if she’s not breathing?

“Evelyn!” My voice comes out all high-pitched and frantic as I rush toward her, blood whooshing in my ears as I flip her small frame onto her back. Her breathing is shallow, face pale, eyelids fluttering at the sound of my voice but never fully opening.

I shake her shoulders as I ride the razor’s edge of panic. “Wake up!”

Not again, not again, not again.

Like last time, I struggle to remember what I’ve been taught. Do I give rescue breaths now or only if she quits breathing? What about CPR? Goddammit, I wish my brother Jax were here. He would know what to do, and he would stay calm. I’m such a useless fucking—

Get your shit together, Luke.

I need to check her airway for possible blockage or obstruction.

The monotone voice of the 911 operator that talked me through this last time filters through my bleating brain, and I pinch her chin before tilting it up.

Her lips part, and I’m relieved to see nothing obvious impending her airway.

She snorts, her next breath coming out in a half-gasp, half-wheeze that makes my heart thump.

Backing out of the room and racing toward our tiny, shared bathroom, I stumble through the doorway.

The door crashes into the wall, my knees nearly knocking together as I throw the medicine cabinet open with trembling fingers.

Pill bottles scatter onto the floor as I fumble through the mess, my hands finally landing on the small, white bottle labeled Naloxone, which I’ve been told is the generic form of Narcan.

The pharmacist called it an opioid antagonist, whatever the hell that means.

It will help reverse an opioid overdose, and that’s good enough for me.

Racing back with the miracle drug clutched in my fist, several ominous worst-case scenarios and what if’s swirl through my mind.

Leaning over her prone form, I ignore the sweat gathering at the base of my neck and place my thumb on the bottom of the plunger with my first and middle finger on either side of the nozzle.

With her head still tilted back, I insert the tip of the nozzle into her left nostril and press the plunger.

The quiet whoosh tells me the lifesaving medicine has been delivered, and I internally cross my fingers it works.

Eve grunts, snorting and grumbling something incoherent as I carefully roll her onto her side.

My heart bangs against my ribcage as I jam my hand into my pants pocket, fumbling the phone and nearly dropping it as my thumb swipes across the lock screen.

My eyes remain glued on her as I dial 911, listening to the tell-tale signs of the call being connected.

What if she has a seizure like last time ?

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My—She…” I never know what to call her. Roommate feels too flippant, and she’s definitely not my friend, but…I’ve never been comfortable calling her anything other than her name.

“Sir? Is there an emergency?”

“Eve…Evelyn, she’s my—fuck! Can someone get over here? She’s overdosed again.”

The voice of the 911 operator floats through the phone speaker, her tone soft but efficient as she instructs me to calm down and explain what’s going on.

I answer question after question, my frustration mounting as I run a hand through my hair.

My fingers get tangled around the hair tie, dark-blonde strands falling out to rest on my shoulder as I ask how long it will be before help arrives.

“Luke?” Evelyn gasps, the medicine finally kicking in as her eyes blink open.

Her expression is dazed, the dark circles underneath her eyes and wrinkles bracketing her mouth making her look older than her fifty-five years.

When she speaks, her voice is scratchy. “What the hell is all that noise for?” She scowls at me before slapping away the gentle hand I’ve placed on her shoulder.

“It’s okay. You’ve had an overdose, but an ambulance is on the way.” Approaching sirens pierce the air outside, the window blinds lighting up in flashing red and blue. Despite the jarring sound, it helps curb some of the panic inside me. It means I’m not alone now.

“What have you done?” Evelyn hisses, her glare turning downright hateful as she slowly pulls herself into a sitting position.

“You had an overdose,” I say lamely, repeating myself like a broken record.

“That’s what the Narcan is for, you damn fool!

You’re not going to be happy until I’m sitting in a jail cell, are you?

” The hard edge of her voice makes me flinch.

I open my mouth to placate her, but a persistent knocking on the front door cuts me off.

Evelyn moans, clutching her stomach and leaning over the side of the bed before retching.

I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh.

How did this become my life, and who decided I was adult enough to handle this shit?

“We’ll keep her a few nights for observation,” the middle-aged doctor in a white lab coat drones on.

His thin, brown hair is tousled, his dull eyes blinking as he speaks in a professional but flat voice.

He sounds like he’s reciting an encyclopedia, as if he’s done this spiel enough times to have it memorized.

“We’ll monitor her vitals and treat her for withdrawal symptoms. I’m going to prescribe her something for nausea and start some fluids to prevent dehydration. ”

I shake my head. “She’ll just sign out against medical advice when she can’t leave the floor for a smoke. Then she’ll go home and get high again. Isn’t there something else we can do?”

His eyes soften, and he gestures towards a chair in the otherwise empty waiting room where I’ve been pacing.

It’s near morning, and we’re the only two people in here.

Reluctantly, I sit, feeling too keyed up to remain still but not wanting to be rude.

Still, I can’t stop the way my knee bounces up and down.

He sits next to me, silently eyeing my restless movements.

“She’s your—”

I nod quickly, stopping him before he can say that word. She hasn’t earned that title, and I’ve come to loathe the word. It doesn’t hold the same meaning it used to. “Yes. ”

“I could have the case manager come by and recommend an inpatient rehab placement. We have some excellent facilities in the area.”

I exhale a shaky breath. “She can’t afford that.

She’s in and out of jobs all the time, and she doesn’t have insurance.

Isn’t there something else you people can do?

” It’s not fair to place the blame on him, but I’ve been through this same song and dance more times than I care to admit.

If I could afford to put her in rehab, I would.

But waiting tables at a sports bar doesn’t bring in a lot of cash flow.

“I could also recommend an outpatient facility. If she’s serious about making a commitment…”

After that, I tune his words out. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.

I’m too disheartened to tell the doctor we’ve tried that already.

Evelyn showed up to a couple of meetings, putting on a good show for everyone before coming home and popping more pills.

Eventually, she quit trying, and no amount of begging on my part could sway her to change her mind.

Once the doctor leaves me to my internal ramblings, the waiting room becomes eerily silent.

Machines beep somewhere nearby, accompanied by the scuff of shoes shuffling down the hallway and the mumbling of voices passing by.

The ever-present disinfectant that seems to permeate most hospitals tickles my nose, the little reminders of where I am and why I’m here revving up my anxiety again.

Jumping up from my chair, I begin biting my fingernails, the black polish chipping off as I pace back and forth.

I want to call my brother and ask him for advice.

I wish he would bulldoze his way in here with that take-charge attitude I sometimes hate and tell me to calm the fuck down.

But that’s not an option because then I would have to fess up and tell him about Evelyn.

She made me promise not to tell him yet .