5' 3"
The first thing to wake up was the pain. It tore through the haze of unconsciousness, sank its claws into Ethan, and dragged him out of the void, forcing him into a slow, agonizing awakening. His head was splitting. Another source of pain throbbed in his left side, burning with every breath. A broken rib? More than one? There was a lump in his throat. A wave of nausea broke over him, leaving him drenched in sweat. A concussion, most likely. His T-shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin. His arms felt stiff and numb. Then he noticed a strange coolness against his face. His mask. It was gone. They'd taken it off.
Ethan tried to move, almost immediately heard a quiet groan, and only then did he realize it had come from his throat. Slowly, he forced his eyes open, and the electric glare of a lamp blinded him. Ethan winced. It took him a moment to adjust. The only thing illuminated by the lamp was the table in front of him. The rest of the room lay submerged in the dim light of evening. Crimson streaks of the setting sun slipped through the gaps in the half-closed blinds. How much time had passed? When had the sky cleared? Was it already evening? How long had he been unconscious?
"You really knocked him out," a voice said somewhere to his left. "Do you think he's gonna wake up?"
"He will! There's no other option for him."
"And what if he doesn't?"
"We'll dump him outside some hospital or…"
"Or what?"
"Bury him?"
"I don't want to be a part of that, Bobby. That's way too much!"
"Oh, relax. I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"
"Pretty shitty joke."
Ethan let his gaze drift across the table and held his breath involuntarily. He saw crumpled small bills. A half-empty pack of cigarettes. An ashtray buried beneath a pile of stale, reeking cigarette ends. Crushed aluminum cans of cheap beer. A gun.
And…
A tone of multicolored pills and white powder sorted into small transparent baggies. The dealer's inventory clearly extended beyond just weed.
Ethan went still. The silent terror lurking deep inside him stirred and began to spread rapidly, swallowing up his thoughts. It wasn't Thomson's situation that terrified him. It wasn't the splitting headache, the pain in his left side, or even his numb hands, pulled behind the back of the chair and—judging by the sharp, raw ache in his wrists—secured with zip ties. None of that frightened Ethan as much as the drugs sitting only a few feet away.
Thomson had been sober for almost four years, suppressing even the briefest urge to use again. But now that shit was right in front of him. And he felt an almost physical, suffocating craving that smothered all common sense. His heart started pounding wildly. His mouth went dry. Ethan unconsciously licked his lips and forced himself to look away. No. You can't. Do you hear me? YOU CAN'T! The problem with an addiction like this was that once you had it, getting rid of it was nearly impossible. No matter how principled Ethan tried to be, the thought of taking just one more—one LAST hit—had crossed his mind more than once during those cursed years of sobriety. Especially during the hard times. Why? Because it was easier than living through everything sober, with your nerves laid bare and every negative emotion cutting straight through you. And Ethan hated that about himself more than anything. He denied it. Rejected it. Fought it. But he knew the cravings would never disappear. The moment he'd chosen recovery, Thomson understood one thing with absolute clarity: the fight would never end. He'd think about drugs ten years from now. Or even twenty. And even on his deathbed, some corner of his brain would still crave this poison, whether he wanted it to or not. That was why the number of people who got clean was so much smaller than the number who eventually died from addiction. This explains why many individuals who managed to get clean ultimately took their own lives; they were worn out from the constant battle against cravings and terrified of the possibility of relapsing, leading them to choose to end their lives on their own terms. Ethan understood why people said there was no such thing as a former addict. Because there indeed wasn't. The battle never stopped. It lasted every day, every hour, every second. It flared up in times of hardship, woke up with Thomson every morning, and lingered in the background all day long, never letting him forget its existence for even a moment...and right now it was becoming unbearably vicious.
As if the stress of what had happened and the terrifying uncertainty of what came next weren't enough, Ethan was staring at something his twisted, addicted mind still considered the perfect solution to any problem.
Fuck!
'Think about how you can get out of here instead,' Ethan snapped at himself and examined his surroundings. Things weren't as bad as they could have seemed. That stinky Bobby was a small fry. An errand boy A lackey. Just a dealer, even if the stuff he sold was illegal. He'd probably never pulled a trigger in his life. The gun sitting so tellingly on the table had probably been used as a stage prop for particularly shady deals, for visible protection only. People often carried weapons because they made them feel safe, even though, in reality, not everyone was capable of using one when it came down to it. At first glance, Bobby seemed like exactly that kind of person. He could wave the gun around and make comments that implied he was perfectly capable of killing someone—just like he'd done a minute ago with his friend—but in reality… Ethan didn't feel threatened by him. And every time Bobby compared Thomson to a chihuahua, Ethan couldn't help thinking that, out of the two of them, the tiny yappy dog was actually the dealer. What the hell had Audrey found in this idiot? If she was so determined to date a moron, she should've picked Hughes instead. At least he was a moron with occasional flashes of intelligence!
Ethan tried moving his wrists, and a sharp pain sliced through the numbness where the zip ties had been cinched too tightly. Yeah, the kid clearly knew nothing about shibari rules.
Thomson was sitting in a room of some ordinary apartment in a shitty part of town. No, wait. It wasn't an apartment. If anyone had been living on the other side of those walls, they would've gagged him by now, worried that too much noise might make the neighbors call the cops. Ethan looked around again, practically forcing himself to think (think about anything but the drugs). Right. It definitely wasn't an apartment. More like an old, rusted trailer in a trailer park.
"Well-well, look who's finally awake!" Bobby drawled cheerfully, walking over to Ethan and flashing him a pathetic imitation of a Hollywood smile. "We were starting to think you died." Despite the theatrical tone, the relief in his voice was unmistakable. So Ethan was right. Bobby wasn't a killer. Not yet.
"In your dreams," Ethan breathed out bitterly, involuntarily tensing his wrists. He knew he couldn't break the zip ties and that trying would only make things worse, but he couldn't help it. The penknife was probably still in the pocket of his hoodie, but there was no way to get to it.
"Damn, you're mouthy," the dealer snorted, hopping up onto the table in front of him and leaning closer. "I don't think you understand the position you're in right now," he said, deliberately lowering his voice. His acting left a lot to be desired. Ethan wasn't impressed. Bobby didn't scare him. The baggies of white powder within arm's reach scared him.
"No," Ethan replied softly. "You're the one who doesn't understand the position you're in now." As much as he despised Bobby, he didn't rule out the possibility that the guy might hurt him. And Ethan really was scared. He wasn't some badass spy who could stay perfectly calm while staring down a man holding a soldering iron. He was screwed. And, as usual, it was entirely because of his recklessness. Still, Thomson kept a tight grip on himself, fully aware that the second he cracked, things would only get worse. Hell, he might've even burst into tears if it would've guaranteed his immediate release. But there was no point hoping for that. Which meant no tears, no begging, and no pleading for mercy.
"Do you really think you're going to get away with this?" Thomson hissed instead of saying, 'Please let me go,' clenching his hands into fists as hard as he could just to feel the pain in his palms. It helped. A little. "Do you need me to remind you who my father is?"
Yeah, Ethan had chosen a different strategy. If begging wasn't an option, he'd hide behind his father's reputation. At the moment, Thomson didn't see any other way out of this.
"I think I'm starting to get why this guy pisses you off so much," said the guy who'd been talking to Bobby earlier. He stayed carefully behind Ethan's back, either worried that Thomson would remember his face or simply too afraid to look him in the eye.
"You rich little asshole," Bobby snapped, flaring up. "Always acting like you're better than everyone else!" Then he smacked Ethan in the face with an open hand. The sharp blow sent another explosion of pain through his already throbbing head, and Thomson bit on his lip instinctively. Black spots danced before his eyes. The nausea worsened. So did the craving.
Ethan didn't think he was better than anyone else. He thought he was worse. But there wasn't much point explaining that to Bobby right now.
"You gonna hide behind your daddy's ass your whole life, huh?"
"If I have to," Ethan uttered. Humiliating circumstances, sure. But Thomson had been in situations far worse than this, and compared to those, admitting his dependence on his father was barely a warm-up.
"Haha!" Bobby was putting on a good show, pretending he didn't give a damn about the consequences. But was that really true? Ethan could see the concern seeping through the mask of triumph. The doubt. Bobby probably hadn't planned the attack in advance. More likely, he'd kidnapped him in a fit of rage. Now his brain was starting to catch up, and with it came the slow realization that his future suddenly looked a whole lot less promising. Of course they'd find him. The Thomsons had enough connections in California to get this case wrapped up fast. And Bobby would go away for good with capital punishment. The situation could still be salvaged if he backed down now. But something was holding the dealer back. Maybe he didn't want to look weak in front of his buddy still standing behind Ethan. Maybe there were other motives. Or maybe he really was just that stupid.
"I told you I'd get to you one day," Bobby continued, as if confirming Ethan's thoughts.
"You did. That's true." Thomson nodded. "Though you took your sweet time. I had to wait four months. Guess it took you a while to work up the courage."
Ethan should've shut up. He had no idea why the hell he kept provoking Bobby. The dealer couldn't come up with a comeback, so he settled for driving his fist into Ethan's already injured left side. The pain was blinding. Ethan choked on air and, for one horrifying second, thought he'd never manage to breathe out again. That this was it. That he was going to die in the most ridiculous way imaginable—in an old trailer on the outskirts of the city at the hands of some guy he'd gotten into a fight with at a party. Then the spasm eased. Ethan exhaled carefully. A bitter taste of bile flooded his mouth. Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do?
"Shut it. Today you're the present," Bobby announced, picking up his phone.
"For who, exactly?" Thomson hissed through clenched teeth.
"You tell me," Bobby smirked and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Wait, hold on! We did all this just to impress your ex-girlfriend?" an outraged voice blurted out from behind Ethan. Ex-girlfriend? Was he talking about Audrey? They'd broken up?
"Shut up," Bobby snapped, glaring at the screen in irritation. The girl wasn't answering. "That bitch! How dare you ignore me?" He kept calling.
"Dude, you're obsessed with her. You never even banged her."
"That's exactly what I'm gonna fix tonight."
"You seriously think she's gonna squeal with happiness when she finds out what you did to her brother?"
"You don't get it, man. She hates him."
Ethan swallowed nervously. Yeah, things with his sister were still strained. But not that strained. There was no way Audrey actually wished something like this on him. Right?
"Finally…" Bobby exhaled in a nasty tone. "Baby, I don't like being ignored. Hey, wait—hold on! I've got a surprise for you. Even if you don't want it, I still need you to—Hey! That bitch hung up on me!" With an enraged grunt, Bobby swung and punched Ethan in the face. "Hell no. She's not getting rid of me that easily."
He immediately dialed again, pacing back and forth across the trailer. A high-pitched ringing filled Ethan's ears. Blood from his nose trickled over his lips and down to his chin, dripping in heavy drops onto his black hoodie.
Shit…
Thomson's thoughts drifted through the haze.
I promised I'd pick Morgan up. He's probably been waiting for me this whole time…
Fragments of Bobby's voice broke through the fog of pain. He was shouting something incoherent into the phone. Or maybe it only sounded that way to Ethan. His head refused to work. Consciousness was slipping away again. Ethan tried to shake himself, refusing to pass out. As badly as he wanted to black out, he couldn't afford that luxury right now. He had to think of something. He had to get out. But then his gaze landed on the baggies of white powder again. And all of his attention drifted back to them.
"There we go!" Bobby's triumphant voice stabbed painfully into Ethan's left ear. "Your sister's on her way to see just how pathetic you are.
"And then what?" came the snort from behind him. "Brilliant plan, by the way. Let's say your girl goes into a state of pure ecstasy. Then what? I seriously doubt she'll convince her daddy not to come after you. Fuck, Bobby! This is officially the dumbest thing you've ever done!"
"No, wait..." A sinister smile spread across the dealer's face. "Nobody can prove he didn't come here on his own. Nobody can prove he wasn't the one who attacked us first. I've got a great idea!"
5'10"
It was the athletes' last practice before Christmas break. Afterwards, Audrey planned to go back to her apartment and get some much-needed sleep. Bobby's call had completely destroyed those rather modest plans. She'd known for a while that he wasn't exactly the best company. But there was something intriguing about the bad-boy act. Even more intriguing was the fact that Ethan absolutely hated Audrey's choice in men. And nothing brought her more satisfaction than getting under her dear brother's skin systematically. As a small act of revenge. For all the years he'd stolen their parents' attention. Audrey had lost her mother long before she lost her in the literal sense. After Ethan's kidnapping and return, their mother had become completely consumed by him. She spent all her time with him, attended all his school events, and sat in his room for hours every evening. As for Audrey… It was as if she didn't exist. She lived her own life, receiving little more than a greeting and a cold breakfast. Their mother ran after Ethan. And until the very end, she thought only about him. Even on the eve of that terrible day when she died, she clutched Audrey's hand with her unnaturally thin fingers and whispered that Audrey needed to take care of her little brother. It never occurred to anyone that Audrey herself might need taking care of.
The truth about her real father, which came out after her mother's death, broke something inside her. The hatred and resentment she'd been carrying toward her parents and her brother for years finally burst free and never stopped screaming inside her head.
It's not fair!
Why does he always get everything?
What about me?!
You'd think tragedy would've brought their family closer together. Instead, Ethan found a way to pull all the attention back to himself again. The little bastard had become a martyr for the second time in his life. First he'd stolen their mother. Then he'd stolen their father too. And Audrey genuinely hated him for it. But… But she didn't want anything that Bobby had done to him! She didn't want it!
With trembling fingers, Audrey dialed Duncan's number, praying he'd answer. The call rang. And rang. Damn it. He was either asleep, hooked up to an IV, or flirting with a nurse. It didn't matter what he was doing. What mattered was that he wasn't answering, and Audrey had no idea who else to ask for help. Panicking, she hurriedly typed out a text message, hoping he'd read it soon instead of, say, tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, she kept frantically searching for a solution. Her father? She didn't have his number. Go home? Too far. And too long! The police? So tomorrow's headlines could scream about yet another tragedy befalling the Thomson family? And worse, one news story might reignite the paparazzi's obsession with their entire family. Audrey had had enough of that already. Her mother's death had nearly been turned into a spectacle. The attempt on her father's life had become a dramatic media production.
But what other choice did she have?
She stood at the entrance to the gym. The lights were still on. Basketball practice was supposed to end right after the volleyball team's. Hughes. Rufus Hughes had been hanging around Ethan a lot lately, hadn't he? They seemed to be friends. In that case…
Audrey burst into the men's locker room and, in response to dozens of bewildered stares from half-dressed players, snapped:
"Where's Hughes?!"
The basketball team froze. One of the guys, finally recovering from the shock, mumbled something about the showers. Audrey didn't stick around to hear the rest. She bolted toward the shower room before anyone could stop her. The air inside was hot and steamy. Under different circumstances, she might've taken the time to appreciate the three naked butts in front of her. But not today.
"Hughes!" she called, trying to figure out which of the naked bodies belonged to him. All three of them turned around. But only Hughes went pale.
"What the fu—?"
"Get dressed and follow me. Now!"
"Wh… what?" Hughes's voice suddenly jumped as he tried to cover himself with his hands.
"Ethan's in serious trouble!"
"Huh?"
"I don't know who else to ask for help!"
"Uhh…?"
"Hughes, don't be an idiot! And for the love of God, put some damn underwear on already!"
5' 3"
"Well... it might actually work," the guy behind Ethan said after hearing the plan. Thomson flinched. No. No! No!! He wasn't going back to that hell!
"You wouldn't dare," Ethan breathed, fully aware of how pathetic he sounded. Of course he would. The story Bobby had come up with sounded perfectly believable. In the worst-case scenario, he'd feed the cops some sob story about a drug addict in withdrawal showing up at his place. The addict attacked Bobby. Fought with them over a dose, then locked himself in a room and hit the poison he was so desperately craving. It wasn't a flawless story, but the police didn't usually pay attention to details when addicts were involved. Even if they were from powerful families. Sure, Bobby could get nailed for possession, but drug laws in the States were some of the vaguest and most complicated around. He had a chance of getting away with it. And even if he didn't, the punishment would be far less severe than for kidnapping.
"Will you fix it up?" Bobby asked his friend instead of answering Ethan, handing him a baggie of white powder.
"Just a moment," he promised.
"You're right," Bobby said, turning back to Thomson. "I wouldn't dare. Actually, I don't have to do anything at all. I'm pretty sure you'll handle it yourself." A broad smile spread across his face.
"Go fuck yourself."
"Oh? And who's panicking now?"
Ethan was.
His pulse refused to slow down. He was breathing with a wheezing sound. His left side was on fire. His throat and lungs were burning. His eyes burned, and it felt as if something was tightening around his skull. He wanted to say something sarcastic, something biting… Instead, he suddenly bent double and threw up at his own feet. Ethan was scared. He didn't know what to do. And he felt a blind, overwhelming terror at the ordeal they were preparing for him.
"Done," the other guy announced, twirling a syringe filled with dubious nectar.
"Awesome," Bobby drawled. "You know, Audrey told me a lot about you," Now he looked far more confident than he had at the start of their conversation. "Is it true you've slept with half of California?"
"Go fuck yourself," Ethan shot back, more out of habit than from any desire to hide his fear.
"And you've done two people at the same time?"
"Go fuck yourself."
"And when it was two at once, did one of them fuck you while the other had your mouth? Or were they both just taking turns?"
"Go... fuck... yourself," Ethan hissed through his teeth clenched so much that his jaw began to ache.
"Why the hell didn't I think of this earlier? I should've found some freak and filmed a video!" Bobby slapped his forehead theatrically. "Ah well. We'll settle for the easy option. You should be grateful for my mercy."
A nervous laugh escaped Ethan. No. He'd rather get fucked on video. He'd rather they broke both his legs. Nothing could be compared to drug addiction roaring back to life after a single dose. Would Ethan survive it a second time? Could he go through all of it again from the beginning? He didn't know. He doubted himself. He didn't have any strength left.
"Audrey also mentioned that you're not exactly a fan of small, enclosed spaces."
Holy shit.
"She said something about a basement where you were kept for a few days."
Okay. Ethan was on the edge. He still remembered that tears and begging wouldn't help him. But he was one step away from both.
Please. Don't do this.
A flood of memories crashed over Ethan, turning his insides out. Right. He'd said those words before. More than once.
Please, don't.
Please, don't do this.
I'm begging you. Please.
And it had never helped him once. Those words had never brought him anything except utter, hopeless despair.
Ethan gave himself a mental slap. Pull yourself together. You're not some helpless fucking teenager anymore. At least hold on to what's left of your dignity.
"Unfortunately, we don't have a basement," Bobby said with a shrug. "But we do have a storage closet. Will that work for you?" he asked with mock politeness.
Ethan swallowed convulsively. He'd never considered his fear of enclosed spaces to be that severe. Like so many other unpleasant things in his life, he'd learned to live with it. Sometimes it got bad after nightmares, when he'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like he was suffocating. If it happened in his own room, he'd step out onto the balcony and stay there until sunrise. If it happened at Morgan's house, Ethan would press himself a little closer to Noah and slowly calm down to the steady rhythm of the other man's breathing, completely unaware of the storm raging beside him. But right now, with everything else falling apart and his body wracked with pain, that fear had every chance of becoming absolutely unbearable.
Bobby punched him in the stomach one more time before finally cutting the zip ties from his wrists. Then he grabbed Ethan by the back of his hoodie and dragged him toward the rear of the trailer, to a narrow door. Ethan barely resisted. He could hardly move his legs. Every inch of his body ached. And that awful wheezing sound wouldn't leave him alone.
His back became yet another source of pain when Bobby casually slammed him into the metal wall of the closet.
"Enjoy your stay," Bobby drawled with a grin, setting the syringe down at Ethan's feet. "Try to hold out until your sister gets here." Then he slammed the door. Darkness swallowed Thomson. The air inside the tiny, windowless closet was stale and suffocating. The space itself was smaller than a restroom stall. And there, in the pitch-black darkness, Ethan was left alone with his pain, his fear, and… heroin.
5'10"
"Bobby, open up!" Audrey pounded on the door of the old trailer with her fist. She'd filled Hughes in on the situation during the drive to the trailer park.
"Jesus, what exactly did you tell him about Ethan?" he asked in disbelief.
"Nothing but the truth," Audrey muttered through clenched teeth, offering no further details. She'd already told Bobby far too much.
Dumbass!
"I've been hanging out with him since August. Yeah, he can be complicated. But..." Rufus needed a moment to find the right word. "Honestly, I think he's... kind of a nice guy." The words stung. A nice guy? Ethan? Yeah, right. Although, right now, her old resentments mattered very little. There was a huge difference between ranting about how much you hated your brother and wished him nothing but misery… and realizing you'd accidentally become an accomplice to an actual crime. The moment Audrey understood what she'd done, all of her behavior over the past months suddenly seemed disgusting. What the hell had she been thinking? Why had she opened her stupid mouth?
Idiot!
God, you're such an idiot, Audrey!
"Well, finally! I was starting to—" Bobby yanked the door open and froze. But he wasn't looking at his long-awaited guest. His eyes were fixed on Rufus. "Who the hell is this?"
"Where's my brother?" Audrey demanded, frowning.
"He's relaxing," Bobby drawled, folding his arms across his chest. Then he nodded toward Hughes. "I didn't agree to this."
"Where is Ethan?" Audrey repeated.
"Watch your tone," Bobby scoffed. And that was exactly why she'd broken up with him. His asshole side had shown itself way too quickly.
"Okay, then we'll find him without your help. The trailer's not exactly huge," Hughes said, stepping forward.
"Who the hell are you? Are you guys fucking or something?"
"I'm Ethan's friend."
Audrey flinched. Ethan had no friends. Or, actually, he couldn't have friends. His Majesty didn't need friends. That's what she thought. Or maybe… Maybe, while Audrey was stuck in her grudge, Ethan was slowly trying to become a better person. That thought made Audrey even angrier. Why does she always fall behind?
"Move," Hughes wanted to get inside.
"Keep dreaming. This is my house, and you have no right to—" Bobby never finished his pompous little speech. Hughes punched him right in the mouth. The guy staggered back, instinctively clapping a hand over his lips, then shot Rufus a murderous glare. "You little bastard," he hissed and lunged at him. Bobby might've been stupid, but he was strong as hell.
"Go find Ethan!" Hughes shouted a second before Bobby's fist smashed into his cheek.
"Thanks!" Audrey threw over her shoulder and rushed into the trailer. She didn't even make it two steps before freezing. A gun was pointed directly at her. Bobby's friend—the one she knew only by reputation—was here too.
Idiot.
God, you're such a fucking idiot, Audrey.
5' 3"
Ethan had no idea how long he'd been sitting in the dark. The only source of light was the thin strip shining beneath the door. Ethan felt sick. His head spun and throbbed. And with every breath, the pain in his left side grew worse. But none of that worried him. His eyes were locked onto the syringe half a step away from him. He couldn't hear anything else. He couldn't see anything else. Only the syringe. The walls pressed in on him from every side. It felt as though they were closing in, and the ceiling—like something out of an Indiana Jones movie—-was slowly descending. Thomson kept waiting for it to touch the top of his head. It never did. The waiting was killing him. The unbearable craving was killing him. His gaze remained fixed on the syringe. Mesmerized, Ethan watched the light glint in the cloudy liquid. He watched the tiny star flare at the tip of the needle every time he shifted his head by the slightest fraction. Thomson sat with his back pressed against the wall, not daring to move. He should get up and stomp on it. Or empty it onto the floor through the needle. But he didn't trust himself. He was terrified that if he picked up the syringe, it wouldn't be for either of those reasons. The walls seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
Ethan wanted to shoot up.
And Ethan was horrified that he wanted to.
Thomson wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to stay as far away from the object of his desire as possible. Without realizing it, he began scratching the back of his right hand with the fingers of his left. The tiny room reeked of blood and vomit. The tiny room was getting smaller. Ethan couldn't breathe. The oxygen was about to run out. He remembered being choked. More than once. He remembered the fights. The violence. He remembered how easily it all had happened because he'd asked for it himself. For a fix, of course. That was the worst part. There were no excuses for that. And then another smell began to mix with the stench of blood and vomit. Ethan shuddered as soon as he caught it. He winced at the thought that he was going to throw up again. He lifted his hands to his face and sniffed them. The smell. The one he'd spent all this time trying to escape. It was coming from his hands, seeping through the gloves. A sharp, caustic stench that seemed to burn his senses.
"Shit," Ethan breathed shakily. And then he realized the smell was in his mouth too. He barely managed to turn aside before he vomited again.
"Is it true you've slept with half of California?"
Go fuck yourself—go fuck yourself—go fuck yourself!
Sounds came from outside the closet. Voices. Ethan turned toward them—but his eyes fell back on the syringe. And once again, his thoughts sank irretrievably into the swamp of unbearable craving.
I can't do this anymore.
I feel awful.
This will make it better.
No.
I'll feel better immediately.
No!
I'm so tired of fighting.
No!
Give up—give up—give up—give up—give up…
"No!" Ethan growled. With trembling hands, he pulled the chain from beneath the collar of his T-shirt. The sobriety coin that had been hanging there all this time glinted in the darkness. He tore it from his neck and clenched it in his left hand as tightly as he could. But the thoughts wouldn't leave. They squirmed inside his head like maggots in a fresh corpse. Nothing was getting easier. That damned syringe was consuming all of his attention. Hypnotizing him. Luring him.
Give up.
Ethan slipped his right hand into the pocket of his hoodie. Idiots. They didn't even bother to frisk him properly. His fingers found the smooth, cold object immediately. He pulled out the pen and, with shaking hands, opened up the thin blade. For a long moment, he stared blankly at the dull metal. Then at the sobriety coin resting in his left palm. He didn't trust himself. This had to stop. With that single thought in mind, Ethan let out a slow breath. Then he drew his arm back—and struck once, with perfect precision.
6'3"- 6'4"
Duncan jumped out of the taxi and headed straight for the trailer he'd managed to locate on the map during the ride over. Audrey's text was vague and confusing. He had no idea what had happened. What he did understand was that it had to be something seriously bad, which was why he'd bolted from the hospital to see for himself that things weren't as terrible as he'd already imagined. Duncan could've called in some of the guys who worked security for Mr. Thomson, but Audrey hated anything that had to do with her father. What if this turned out to be nothing? Then Audrey would decide Duncan was paranoid and stop calling even him. And Smith remained the only thread still connecting Audrey and Michael. Deep down, he still cherished the hope that one day they'd reconcile and finally become a family again.
As it turned out, even if he hadn't found the trailer on the map, he could've located it by the sounds of a fight. Two boys were brawling in the middle of the dusty road, rolling around on the ground. One of them Duncan recognized immediately: it was Rufus Hughes, who'd spent the past month trying to befriend Ethan. The other was Bobby Evans – the worst of the long line of terrible boyfriends Audrey had foolishly dated. Oh, these kids.
Just a couple of weeks before, Audrey had been complaining that Bobby was acting unhinged after the breakup. Apparently, this fight was part of that unhinged behavior. Duncan walked closer, waited for the right moment, and delivered a solid kick to Evans's ribs. Bobby immediately curled into the fetal pose with a whine. Hughes, thoroughly beaten up, with a black eye blooming beneath one eye and a split lip, stared at Smith in mute horror. The bodyguard left him alone. There was no point wasting time figuring out the details. He rushed straight into the trailer. Inside, he found a terrified Audrey and an equally terrified kid who'd had the bright idea of pointing a gun at her. Idiot. The safety wasn't even off. Kids. Duncan let out a weary sigh. And he'd crossed half the city at top speed for this?
"Hey," he said, stepping toward the guy. "Put the gun down." The kid immediately aimed it at him instead. Duncan rolled his eyes. In one smooth motion, he knocked the gun out of his hand, then he twisted the guy's arm behind his back and slammed him onto the table with his face. Only then did Smith notice the scattering of baggies filled with drugs. And for one brief second, he was glad Ethan wasn't here.
"Now," Duncan sighed, making no effort to hide his boredom, "why don't you give me the short version of what the hell is going on?"
"Ethan! They grabbed him and—"
The boredom vanished instantly.
"Where is he?" Duncan didn't need another second to process it. He immediately twisted the kid's arm harder, making him scream.
"In the closet! There! At the back of the trailer! Let go! Let go, for fuck's sake!"
After rewarding him with a backhand that sent him sprawling across the floor, Duncan sprinted toward the rear of the trailer. He grabbed the handle of the narrow door and yanked. Locked. However, the door didn't survive the second pull. Under Duncan's strength, it tore right off its hinges. The smell of vomit hit him immediately. Duncan looked inside the tiny room and froze.
"Oh my God... Ethan."
5' 8"-5' 9"
Noah waited for Ethan in the parking lot for over an hour, trying to reach him and sending both text messages and messages through TalkPanik. Nothing. No answer. No explanation. And it wasn't the first time something like this had happened during their relationship. It was the second time, actually… There was one day when Ethan had simply vanished off the face of the earth and hadn't resurfaced until the following evening. Back then, he'd explained that there had been a major breakthrough in his father's case, and he'd gotten so caught up helping him that he'd forgotten all about their plans. Noah had been furious. He'd even tried to start a fight over it. But Ethan had shown up with several tubs of ice cream from Baskin-Robbins and a sincere apology. He'd promised it would never happen again. But apparently... It happened again!
Eventually, Noah gave up and went home, spending the entire evening staring at his phone, willing it to ring or light up with a message. But Thomson never texted him. Not that evening. Not the next morning. Not even the day after that.