Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97418 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He cocks his head at me. “You scared?”
I puff out some air. “A little.”
He nods and unbuttons his pants, stepping out of them and kicking them into a pile of filth and blood.
“Only a lunatic wouldn’t be. But I’m going to take care of it all.”
I nod, wetting my lips. “What kind of soup?”
His smile is slow and seductive and I blink because I’m fucking losing it. He looks like a magnificent warrior, covered in blood from a mythical battle.
“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you have.”
“Are you going to be puking?” I set my purse down and reach for a sauce pot. “Should I get ahold of some methadone?”
He looks at me, a full-on smile this time. “I think I can kick this with a couple of days of fever, some horrible insomnia, but no methadone. Beautiful, I relapsed a couple of days.” He flexes his arm and it looks awful. “Had I gone a solid week, yeah, you’d have to repaint your bathroom.”
I nod again like a bobblehead. “Wait, what? That sounds awful.”
He walks into the bathroom. “Trust me, it could be worse. It can always be worse.”
He wasn’t kidding. This sucks. David is either pacing, smoking, sweating, or shivering. His skin has goose bumps or his head is wringing wet with sweat.
I open the door to the small balcony and step out with a juice I made full of strawberries, wheatgrass, bananas, and pineapple. David has pretty much stayed out here, sitting on one of the chairs in some sweatpants I got from Target. Smoking, so much smoking.
“Good morning. Are you feeling better?” Our fingers touch as I hand him the glass. His smoky eyes change from a light blue to a deep silver and his dick is trying to pop out of his sweatpants.
“Oh… God.” I swallow. “Is it over already? That wasn’t that bad at all.”
He drinks the juice, meaning he guzzles it. His eyes look tired with black circles underneath. “First thirty-six hours are not fun. Did you do what I told you?” He comes close, his hand touching my cheek.
“I did. Edge just left. I gave him the bag. He said he’d take care of all of it: the drugs and burning the clothes. He also packed you a bag.”
“Are you okay? I know you didn’t get much sleep. Let’s go take a nap.” He takes my hand and draws me into the nice cool bedroom.
“I’m going to rinse off, okay?” he says over his shoulder.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “I need to call my mom and tell her I need a couple more days.” I chew on my lip. Mom has been amazing, but once she knows that he’s not leaving, she might get testy. After all, she thinks he crashed here for a night. I flop back onto the bed. David is right—I’m exhausted. Now that he didn’t die and we got rid of his bloody clothes and drugs, I feel like curling up in his arms and sleeping for days.
I push on my mom’s number. “How is he?”
“He’s getting there. Um, listen, Mom. I have a huge favor to ask. I need the next couple of days off. I feel awful but—”
“Cindy, Joy, and I already changed the schedule. We gave you the next three days off. I want you to rest well and see if this is honestly something you can live with.”
“Did you say you gave me three days off?” I prop myself up on my elbow.
“I did.” There’s silence followed by a long, dramatic sigh. “Charlize, I love you. I think you truly love this man. And as much as I hate it and want so much more for you, I can’t make you stop loving him or wanting him. So, rather than upset you”—she sighs again—“I have decided if this man loves you enough to change for you, meaning getting off drugs…” She whispers the word drugs, and I can’t help but smile at her absurdness. “Then I have no choice but to support your decision.”
My eyes swell with tears. “Thanks, Mom. I know.” I look up at the ceiling. “I know you don’t understand. But he’s it for me. I love him, and he loves me.”
“He told you that? That he loves you and that he’s willing to be what you deserve and need?”
“Mom, he does love me. He needs me. I’m his only light.”
The line is silent, then she speaks. “You know you’re enabling him, right? He needs to go into a rehab. You can’t be the reason he quits.”
I sit up. “This is where I disagree. Is loving someone enabling them? Is helping someone who is good and kind but has had a lot of tragedies enabling? God, Mom, I thought you would have more compassion.” I’m starting to get pissed. I know she’s worried, but this is absurd. We love each other and we’re doing this together.