by Ella James
His big hand clutches his face. Then he’s shifting onto his side, flexing his legs, arching his back as if he’s in discomfort. His chest pumps as he breathes.
“What can I do?” I whisper, moving so I’m right in front of him.
He holds his fists out, and I wrap my hands around them. He spreads his fingers, and I lace mine through his damp ones. “Slow breaths.”
One of his hands breaks free of mine and covers his eyes. I lean in closer, cradling his hand in my lap, stroking his arm.
“I’m sorry.” It’s half groaned.
“Don’t be sorry.” I swallow as his entire body begins quaking. “Don’t be frightened. I’m here with you.” I feel chill-bumps on his skin, and I rack my brain for what could be the matter. “Have you ever had a seizure?”
I’m startled by the speed with which he’s sitting up and crawling away. And then he’s retching. He’s managed to get off the blankets. He’s there on the cold floor on his hands and knees. I come near and he swats at me, but he’s trembling so forcefully, I’m frightened and I can’t go.
I stick by him, trying to help brace his chill-swept torso. When at last he finishes, he grips my shoulder. “Fuck.”
He crawls back to the blanket, curling on his side. I touch his shoulder. “Let’s take off your shirt…”
My fingers brush his burning skin as I help him get out of it. After that, he simply lies there, pale and shaking, and my heart bleeds for him. I stroke his hair back, then lie on my side so that I’m level with him.
“If I can ease you—anything at all…”
His eyes open, reaching toward mine before closing. “Thanks.”
I settle on my side, curling my body toward his even as he seems to fall into a solid sleep. He moves so little in the next few hours, I’m reminded of a hospice patient.
I repeatedly check his pulse, tuck my sleeping bag around him. When he twitches or shifts fitfully, I smooth my palm over his damp forehead. I’m so puzzled, so horrified and fearful for him, that I want to weep—but I know I don’t have that luxury. I take my fear and frustration out on the cave’s wall.
Perhaps it’s the noise, but soon he’s talking in his sleep. He jolts up, panting, looking terror-stricken. I rush over. When he doesn’t look at me, I stroke his warm, hard-muscled arm and feel the chills that sweep his skin.
“There now. Let’s lie down.”
We lie together, and I wrap an arm around him. When I urge him closer, he leans in, his breaths near enough that I can feel their warmth on my chest.
I stroke his hair until he’s quiet, and that’s all I hear of him for hours. When I realize he should be drinking and attempt to wake him for some water, he shakes his head. Hours slip by as I lie with him, then wield the hammer, and then lie with him again, getting up when my fears mount and drastic notions flitter through my head. What if he needs help urgently? What if it happens again?
At long last, his blue eyes open slightly. They start to shut, but I’m there with a water bottle, guiding it to his lips, which look quite dry and cracked.
His whole upper body heaves, but he avoids retching. He’s shaking again, like nothing that I’ve ever seen. I tuck the blanket around him. “I’m so sorry.”
My fingers move through his hair, gently. His hand reaches up to capture mine. He brings my hand to his chest, folds his other arm around it, and sinks back into sleep.
Declan
2005
“Get her to take care of you, dude. Hot nurse.”
Nate levels a glare at Farhad. His red hair sticks up everywhere behind the gauze around his head as he rolls his eyes. I can’t help grinning as I think about the Texas word he always uses—“ornery.” He looks ornery right now.
“No one’s gonna be in here,” he tells Farhad. “Except the real nurse.”
Mrs. Beecham is a nice lady with pretty blue eyes that actually look a lot like Nate’s. She’s pushing centenarian status, though.
Alfonzo shrugs. “At least she always smells good.”
“Ugh, that’s just disgusting. Ugh.” Nate leans back against a pillow on a couch inside the ski lodge’s great room.
Alf swats at Nate’s pile of blankets. “Just tryin’ to keep it real, brother.”
“Real is taking pain meds when you bash your head open. Real’s Alana’s tits. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m stuck on the stupid couch.”
This morning, Nate tried to kiss a fir tree—while skiing a black diamond. Mr. Laurent and Mr. Berns led a group up there, and since ole boy’s been skiing since he was a kid, he thought he could hang. I tried to tell him he should wait, but brother’s too competitive.
“Shut up.” He sees me looking him over and gives me a glare.
“You look rough, dude.”
“I’ve got thirty stitches in my fucking forehead.”
“Language, boys.” Makis strolls over, his eyes widening as he gets his first look at post-hospital Nathan.
“Man, you’re fucked.”
“See, he gets it.”
While most of our seventh-grade dude posse fusses over Nate, I head back to the kitchen for a new ice pack and something else I think he’ll like. They told him he can’t have pain medicine for a few more hours, until he’s out of the concussion zone, but I know something he could have—if just a little.
Ten minutes and a Benji to one of the nicer cook ladies, and I’ve got the ice pack and a pocket bottle of bourbon. The kitchen here at Pontresina stays stocked up because the staff likes to take those little bottles on the slopes.
I check my phone before I get back close to Nate and Co. It’s been more than twelve hours, and he doesn’t seem like he has a concussion. I don’t think a little Maker’s Mark would kill him. And it might keep the little bitch from being sad about not skiing at the fireworks with Alana.
I wait for Makis and Farhad to clear out—Farhad, especially, is a gossipy motherfucker—before I slip Nate the bottle. I could get busted for this, but his dumb face looking all happy makes it worthwhile.
“Cover it with cologne, man.” I pull a bottle from my pocket, and Alfonzo laughs his ass off like a fucking hyena.
“You’re just jealous because that chick you tried to hit on yesterday turned out to be the new Spanish instructor.”
He shakes his head. “Boy be smelling like some Christian Dior.”
“Shut up.”
“Trying to impress that little—what’s her name, Nathan, the little Finnish chick he likes?”
“Milla.” Nate is smiling as he swallows the bourbon behind his hand.
I feel my neck get warm and want to strangle Alf. “It’s not for Milla.”
“Sure it’s not.”
“I brought it for Nate here.”
Nate winks at me, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, gossip queens. I’m gonna peace out, catch some powder.”
The slopes at night are probably my favorite part of our annual winter mini-mester at Pontresina. I like them almost as much as being home with Dad for Christmas. Even Christmases like this one, where I had to go to SoHo and see Mom and babysit her other kids on Christmas Eve while she went to a party with Rich.
Funny that I’m thinking of her as I ride the lift. My phone vibrates, and I dig it out to find a text from her.
happy new years declan
I frown down at it as snow kisses my forehead and catches in my lashes. Strange. No punctuation. As I squint down at the screen, another message comes up.
when I left when you were five, it wasn’t because of you it was because of me. I wanted to be sure you know.
I stand up at the top of the slope, in the shadow of the lift shelter, and peer down at the little greenish screen for a few minutes.
Happy New Year, Mom. It’s okay.
My breath clouds things up, so I have to hold the phone out as I decide what to add—if anything. I like the sound of what I have, though. It’s short, but it gets the point across.
When I glide out from behind the shelter, there’s Milla.
Her blonde hair glows in the lantern light. Her snowsuit is Caribbean blue. She’s standing with a friend in a pink suit, and when I wave, they both turn and smile.
Thank you, gods of New Year’s.
We ski till almost 3 AM, and I refill Nate one more time just after midnight. By 1 o’clock, Alana is drinking hot cocoa underneath a blanket beside him. When I walk by, on my way to the john, I wink, and they both turn red.
Get it, Nate!
My night ends in the hall to the girls’ rooms, with Milla hugged up to my chest and her friend, Hallie, wearing Alf’s jacket.
Not a bad start to the new year. Not too bad at all.
I’m in bed with a pocket bottle of bourbon under my pillow and a popping fire in the fireplace beside me when someone knocks on my door. I roll over, not bothering to get up for some dumb shit in the hall.
The knock comes again. I look at the skylights, striped between the ceiling’s rafters. It’s still dark.
Again, the knock. It’s more insistent now, so I sit up, thinking that it might be Nate. We share a bathroom back at main Carogue, but here we each have our own.
“Who is it?” I call as I jerk on boxers.
The knock comes harder this time. I forego pants and hurry over to it.
“Nate?”
I open the door, and there is…Mr. Laurent? He’s holding a glass of what smells like liquor. He smiles when he sees me, but the smile is like the first clip of a film reel of an accident. I can almost see it slide off his face in the second right before it does.
“What’s wrong?” The words are barely whispered.
“I apologize for the odd hour.” He looks over my shoulder. “Let’s have a seat.”
I shake my head. I try to get a deep breath, but I can’t.
“What’s wrong?”
“Come.” He takes my arm and leads me over to my room’s couches. “Sit.”
I do, because my legs feel strange and heavy.
“Declan. I’m afraid I’ve got some difficult news…” He leans slightly forward, and something in my chest catches.
“Declan! Please…wake up!” I hear her crying—Siren. Something’s wrong. I can’t remember…but I have to check on her.
I pry open my eyes to find her bending over me. I feel…really fucking shitty. Fuck, dude. I want to reach up for her, but everything hurts…like my joints. I don’t know if I can.
She sees my face and bends down, kinda hugging me against her.
“You smell good.” My voice sounds weird and raspy. I don’t like how bad I’m shaking.
“Oh, Declan.” Her hand feels good on my face. “What were you dreaming?”
“I don’t know.”
She asks me something else, but I can’t track it. I can’t even keep my eyes open.
Seventeen
Finley
For the remainder of that awful day, he barely moves and rarely speaks. When he moves, he’s stiff and shaky. When he speaks, his voice is groaned or tight with pain. His face is pale and slack, his blue eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. He shivers constantly and sweats so much, I fear he’s contagious and we’ll both die with it—underground, here in the darkness.
And yet…I can’t keep away. When his fists are clenched, I stroke his hair and he relaxes. When he’s rubbing at his forehead, I massage his pressure points—which makes him moan with what I pray is pleasure. Whatever feels good, that’s my focus: fingers through his hair, my nails over his goosebumped skin. I swing the hammer in between, and when I need to sleep, I lie beside him, curling near his warm body as if we’re not strangers.
I stroke his trembling, calloused hands and whisper to him. He mumbles in return. It’s all nonsense. Once, he asks me for a napkin. Sometime a bit later, he’s speaking to someone named Nate quite emotionally. His voice cracks, and I wrap my arms around him. He presses me to his chest.
“Siren,” he moans softly. He inhales near my hair.
“I’m here with you.”
When he seems more restful, I hammer the cave’s wall like a madwoman, exposing perhaps another eight inches of our boulder.
I’m smiling at my progress when I glance at the pallet and find it empty. I turn a bit more and find him standing directly behind me, shaking like a blade of grass in a gale. He looks wild-eyed and exhausted, his hair sticking up comically.
My belly tightens. “Hi there,” I murmur, stepping slowly toward him. “You got up quite stealthy.”
“I’ll be back.” His voice is flat and hoarse as he looks past me, toward the scattered rubble pile. I watch as he disappears behind it. When he emerges, dazed about the eyes but still upright, I feel a crest of relief.
“Let me help you to the blankets.”
I take his arm. He doesn’t protest as I help him to the pallet, spread my sleeping bag back over him. I kneel there beside him, and he looks at me with tired eyes.
“How are you, Carnegie?”
His hand closes around my wrist, his fingers caressing my inner arm. “Soft,” he murmurs.
Warmth spreads through me.
“I’ll be better soon. Another day.”
I feel a bite of horror at the notion—even one more day here is too much—but I don’t show him that. “I’m making good progress without you—more and more rock falling.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be better soon, as you said.”
“I just…can’t sleep.” The words are whispered. Hoarse.
“What would help you?” I whisper in return.
He shakes his head, his mouth tight, and I feel near ill with sorrow for him. With my lower lip between my teeth, I lie beside him. Then, making a bit of a gamble, I wrap an arm gently across his chest. I feel his breath hitch, then a tremble.
“I’m not good…at getting off stuff,” he says in a creaky voice.
I snuggle closer. “What do you mean, darling?”
“Subs aren’t that bad. Makes me achy.” He winces, one hand going to his forehead. “It’s the benzos, I think.”
“Is it?”
He nods.
“Two years is too long.” His voice cracks on the words; then his mouth pulls taut, and I can see emotion quiver through his features.
“For what?”
“To be like this.”
I’ve no clue what he’s saying; it’s all nonsense. I lean my head against his shoulder. “Why would you be…that way for two years?” I murmur.
“Because it’s been so long.”
“What’s been long?” I ask, my voice soft and, I hope, hypnotic.
His eyes open, and he regards me strangely for a moment. “What did I just say?” His voice is rough and harder now, his body tensing beneath mine. His tired eyes look a bit delirious.
“You said it’s been so long.”
“What has?” He frowns.
“Benzos.”
At that word, his face goes to stone. When he speaks, his voice is strong and steady, making him sound nearly like his old self. “What did I say about benzos?”
“You said benzos made you messed up for two years.”
The look of shock he gives me is so startling, I look over my shoulder. He sits up. He holds his head and starts to breathe hard again.
Worry spikes through me. “Declan…what are benzos?”
He takes a few breaths—fast and heavy.
“It’s okay.” I rub the blanket. “Lie back down. I’m tired, too. I want to lie beside you.”
“Did you say…I had a seizure?” His brows cinch slightly as his gaze finds mine. I’m startled to find he looks truly confused.
“Yes. But that was yesterday.”
He looks around, and I can tell for sure he is.
“You’ve been poorly since then. How do you feel?”
He shakes his head, his eyes down on the blanket as his fingers tug at his hair. “You should keep on digging, Finley.”
“Why?” My tone is slightly sharp, because there’s something sharp and fearful lodged beneath my throat.
He shakes his head. I lean toward him, wanting just to get my arms around him as I’ve done so often in the last day. As I near him, he leans away. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
He looks skeptical, and I feel like a fool. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t,” I whisper, drawing my knees to my chest.
“Won’t what?” he asks.
“Won’t touch you.”
“Why would you touch me?”
I inhale slowly. Now I’m confused as well. “Because…we’re here together.”
“Did you fuck me?”
The breath leaves me like I’ve been hit in the stomach. “Why would you say such thing?”
He shakes his head and then he’s up, stalking toward the stream. I find him standing by it, trembling wildly. I brush his arm with my fingers, wanting to take his hand but too afraid to.
“Sailor…please come lie beside me. I’m so tired, and tired of being here.” My voice cracks at the sheer truth of it.
He looks at me bleakly. “I don’t think you want me near you.”
“You’re contagious?” I swallow. “Is that it?”
He frowns down at me. I can feel dissatisfaction coming from him, but I don’t know what I did to earn it. Finally, in a hard tone, he says, “Do you know why I’m here?”
My pulse quickens. “Would you like to tell me?”
His hand closes around my arm as his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
“You can and should. So I can take good care of you.”
I step in closer, caress his face with my gaze before I dare to wrap my arms around his waist. I lay my cheek against his warm chest. His arms close around my shoulders. I can feel him take in two breaths—shallow, fast.
“Finley…you can’t get what I have.” All his muscles tighten as he exhales. “I’m an addict.”
Eighteen
Finley
“I don’t understand.” Perhaps I do, a bit, but my mouth runs away with me as I look up at his face. “An addict, meaning—”
“Addict. Junkie. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes, of course.” I flinch at his hard tone, and I feel his body stiffen against mine. I lower my arms to my sides and look up at him.