Page 25 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The van walls seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. Morning light leaked around the blackout curtains.

Thirty-two hours since my last hit. The pain was beyond description now, beyond language. My stomach contracted violently, but there was nothing left to throw up except thin strings of bile that burned my throat raw.

The muscle spasms worsened, my left leg bouncing uncontrollably against the bed. Sweat soaked through the sheets. My entire nervous system was revolting, screaming for chemicals I'd denied it.

Jimmy

Got that good shit today. Quality product, fair price. Hit me up.

My thumb hovered over his contact. No, Misha would be back any minute. He promised.

Another spasm twisted my leg, muscle fibers contracting without my permission. I bit through my lip to keep from screaming. The taste of copper filled my mouth, warm and metallic.

Panic became fury.

Misha, if you're ignoring me, just say so.

I can't do this much longer.

Just tell me you're not coming back.

Just fucking tell me.

My phone buzzed again.

Jimmy

You coming or not?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Forced myself to breathe through another spasm that felt like electricity shooting through my bones. The pain wasn't getting worse; it had maxed out hours ago. But my ability to endure it was fading with each passing minute.

Three hours. Nobody takes three hours at Walmart at 4:30 in the morning.

My stomach turned to concrete. Bile crawled up my throat. He wasn't coming back. He'd promised, looked me in the eye, placed those keys in my palm like they meant something, and then he'd walked out that door and kept walking.

Just like everyone else.

"Fuck," I snarled, anger cutting through the fog of misery. The rage felt cleaner than the pain, sharper, something I could use. "FUCK!"

I hurled the phone against the van wall. It bounced off and landed face down on the floor. I didn't even get the satisfaction of seeing it break.

I found myself on the floor, crawling toward where my phone had landed.

7:41 AM. Jimmy would be gone soon. His morning deliveries always wrapped up by 8:00.

I opened his contact information. Stared at the number. Closed it.

Opened it again.

Fuck.

Closed it.

Misha might still come back. Something might have happened. He could be hurt. In trouble. Arrested.

Or he could be gone, like they all were. Everyone always left.

I scrolled to Trent's number.

Later, after what felt like hours more of suffering, I finally typed:

Hey it's Hunter. You holding?

The reply came back almost immediately.

Trent

Got u. When?

I didn't respond. Not yet. The moment I committed, I failed. Failed Misha. Failed myself. Failed whatever small chance at redemption I'd been fighting for over the last thirty-two hours.

Another wave of spasms hit, and curled on the floor, knees to my chest, sweat pooling beneath me as my muscles contracted and released against my will.

This had to stop. I needed relief. I needed to end this torment.

I forced myself upright, crawling into the driver's seat.

Misha's keys were still clutched in my palm, the metal warm from my grip.

My hands shook violently as I tried to insert the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life, almost startling me with its noise after hours of just my ragged breathing and racing heartbeat.

I texted Trent back:

Coming now.

I didn't think about what I was doing. Just put the van in drive and pulled out of the Walmart parking lot, following muscle memory to the address I'd promised myself I'd never visit again.

Trent Ellis operated out of a perfectly ordinary split-level in a middle-class neighborhood on the edge of Athens. The kind of place where no one looked twice at visitors. The kind of place where the neighbors had "Live, Laugh, Love" signs in their kitchens and SUVs in their driveways.

I pulled Misha's van into Trent's driveway, not caring who saw it anymore. My legs nearly gave out as I stumbled up the neatly shoveled walkway. Each step took monumental effort, muscles cramping and releasing without rhythm or reason.

I rang the doorbell. The door opened. Trent stood there in khaki pants and a polo shirt, unremarkable except for the darkness behind his eyes.

"Hunter?" Trent's voice carried surprise. "Didn't think I'd see you again."

"Can I come in?" My voice sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to my vocal cords.

He checked the street before stepping aside. I staggered in, the sudden warmth overwhelming.

"Christ," Trent muttered, looking me over. "You look like walking death, nurse."

The title stung worse than it should have.

"Sit down before you fall down," he said, gesturing toward a leather couch. "You look like you're gonna code right here on my carpet."

I sank onto the couch, trying to control the violent shaking that had started again.

Trent's eyes moved over me, pity and fascination mingling in his expression. "What happened? Trying to kick?"

"Someone left," I said, hating how broken the words sounded. "They all leave eventually."

Trent's eyes widened slightly, then his mouth tightened at the corners.

His shoulders dropped an inch as he nodded.

He knew that truth too well. We'd talked about it once, back when I'd still been pretending I'd get sober someday.

His girlfriend, my career, my parents' expectations.

Everything good eventually walked out the door.

"Need what you've got," I managed between chattering teeth. "Jimmy's not around."

Trent snorted. "Jimmy charges twice what I do for the same shit. Russians have everyone convinced their product is special." He moved toward his home office just off the living room. "My supplier's just as good. Jimmy's just better at marketing."

"Don't care," I said, gripping the couch arm to stay upright. "Just need something. Anything."

I pulled the crumpled bills from my pocket, counting out what I had left. Forty-three dollars. Not even enough for a decent fix.

"All I got," I said, holding out the cash.

Trent looked at the money, then at me. "This ain't even half price, man."

I knew I was getting ripped off. "Please," I whispered, the word scraping my throat raw. "I'm fucking dying here."

He'd been where I was back when his girlfriend died. He knew what it was like when your soul was splitting away from your body, when existence became purely about making the pain stop.

"For the nurse who used to patch up junkies when no one else would," he said, taking the bills. "Lena always said you were the only ER nurse who treated her like a person."

The mention of his dead girlfriend hit like a punch. I'd held her hand once, during an overdose scare. Talked her down from panic while the Narcan kicked in. Before I'd become what she was.

"But don't come back without real cash next time."

He handed me a small baggie containing white powder. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the screaming stop. Enough to erase the betrayal of Misha walking away just like everyone else.

"Got clean gear?" Trent asked, straightening his polo shirt as if we were discussing a business transaction. In a way, we were.

I nodded, already reaching for the black case in my pocket.

"You want to do it here?" he offered, gesturing to the guest bathroom. "In case something goes wrong?"

Yes. No. I didn't know anymore. If something went wrong, did I even want it fixed? Or would it be easier to just let the darkness take me?

"I'll be fine," I said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. "I've done this plenty of times."

Trent's mouth twisted. "Yeah, that's what Lena said too."

"I know what I'm doing," I said, already heading for the door. "I was a nurse, remember?"

"Was," he agreed, voice flat. "Past tense."

The bitter January air hit me as I stumbled back to Misha's van. Every molecule of my being screamed for immediate relief, but something stopped me from shooting up in Trent's driveway. A small voice whispered that I should go back to where Misha had left me. Just in case.

The drive back to Walmart passed in a blur of pain and need. By the time I pulled into the same parking spot as before, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn off the ignition.

Hours had passed since Misha had left. Too many hours.

The parking lot was busier now. The baggie sat heavy in my pocket, calling to me. But instead of reaching for it immediately, I fumbled for my phone, which had slid beneath the passenger seat. One last check. One final attempt.

I can't do this anymore, Misha. I tried. I'm sorry.

No response. Not even "delivered" this time. Battery dead, maybe. Or blocked.

I set the phone on the dash where he'd see it.

I opened the black case and got out everything I needed. Spoon. Lighter. Cotton. Syringe.

I should've waited. Should've started with a test dose. Should've had someone watching me.

But the animal need was stronger than the nurse's caution.

I searched frantically for water, anything to dissolve the powder. The empty bottles around me mocked my desperation. That's why Misha had left in the first place. We'd run out of everything.

With shaking hands, I forced the door open and stumbled out.

The January air cut through my sweat-soaked clothes as I staggered toward a small patch of grass at the edge of the lot.

Even in withdrawal, some fragment of my medical training remained.

Road salt and exhaust would contaminate the parking lot snow.

My legs nearly gave out as I knelt, scooping clean snow from the untouched grass.

Back in the van, I held it over the spoon, warming it until it melted.

I tied off my arm with the rubber tubing, teeth gritting as I pulled it tight.

My veins had mostly collapsed from years of abuse, but the crook of my elbow still offered one reliable option.

It took three tries to find it, the needle digging painfully before I saw that bloom of crimson in the barrel.

For a fraction of a second, I hesitated.

Misha's face flickered through my mind. The way he'd looked at me with respect instead of pity. The way he'd chosen me when everyone else said I was worthless. The way his hands had touched my skin, learning my pulse, counting my heartbeats like they mattered.

But he was gone now. I had no reason left to want to be sober.

I pushed the plunger home.

The fentanyl hit my bloodstream like a nuclear blast. My head slammed back against the headrest as warmth rushed through my veins. The relief was so intense it bordered on spiritual, my entire body releasing at once.

"Fuck," I whispered, eyelids fluttering as the high wrapped around me.

Everything slowed down. Colors deepened, sounds stretched and distorted. The morning sunlight filtering through the windshield became almost tangible, particles dancing in golden beams. For the first time in days, I could breathe without pain.

I'd forgotten how good it could feel. How completely the chemicals erased not just physical agony but the emotional wreckage too. The needle offered absolution that nothing else could match.

Something was different, though.

The warmth spread faster than usual, heavier somehow. My tongue grew thick in my mouth, thoughts drifting at the edges. Breathing slowed to a gentle rhythm, each breath deeper but somehow less satisfying than the last.

Odd. Not like normal. But nothing about the past two days had been normal.

My limbs weighed too much to move, but that was fine. Moving hurt anyway. Better to stay still, to float in this moment where nothing hurt anymore. The darkness wasn't scary. Just peaceful. Quiet.

If I closed my eyes now, maybe the pain wouldn't come back. Maybe this time, I wouldn't have to wake up to the agony waiting on the other side. The thought arrived without panic, just a simple observation.

"M'sorry," I mumbled, the words barely making it past my tongue. "Didn't mean to..."

Who was I talking to? Misha? My parents? The patients I couldn't save? It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except the absence of pain.

My last coherent thought wasn't about the drugs or mistakes or failures. It was about Misha and the look on his face as he'd walked away.

As I faded completely, the only comfort was knowing I wouldn't feel anything when he didn't come back.