“He probably wouldn’t help anyway.” Her heavy exhale is laced with resignation.
“Why don’t they get along anymore?” I ask, wanting to talk about anything so I don’t remember what a shitty, pathetic excuse of a man I am.
“I don’t really know. Both of them clammed up anytime I broached the subject, so I let it go. But it happened after I lost Tillie, and I think Clay blames Chris.”
If he’s as protective as Presley says he is, that makes sense. I rub at the throbbing pain in my head, wishing I had painkillers. I only had two, and I gave those to Presley before we left because she deserved them more than me.
“How bad is this likely to be?” I ask, imagining the type of drug house Chris visits being completely different from the ones I’ve visited in the past.
She takes her eyes off the road for a second, eyeballing me. “Bad.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “The last time he OD’d, it was here.”
Fuck. I sit up straighter, determined to get my shit together so I can support my woman. “Should we call nine-one-one?” I’m wondering why she didn’t do that already.
She shakes her head. “They won’t go there unless someone is there to meet them. The place is a big, old disused hospital, set across several interconnected buildings, and it’s not easy to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
Nausea churns in my gut as I ponder what lies in store. I know it’s not going to be pretty. Maybe seeing this will be another wake-up call. I meant what I said to Presley earlier. I am going to seek help because I can’t lose her, and I know if I don’t fix myself she will leave me, and then I have nothing left to live for.
***
“Jesus Christ,” I murmur, gripping Presley’s hand tight as we step over prone bodies on the floor, making our way into the decrepit main building. The old hospital has clearly been shut down for years. It’s on the outskirts of Mattapan, near the Milton border. It’s set across four different-sized structures, some in better shape than others. Ivy creeps up the sides of the red-bricked buildings, most of the windows are cracked and boarded up, and parts of the roofs are missing in places. The old parking garage is cracked and broken, and debris litters the asphalt.
Inside is worse. Although it’s bright outside, you can’t tell in here. It’s pitch-black with the exception of faint lights that flicker from makeshift fires some of the residents have erected in old trash cans and large steel cans. I purposely scrunch my nose up, blocking my nostrils, to ward off the noxious smells so I don’t lose the contents of my stomach.
It pains me that Presley knows her way around this place. She avoids making eye contact with the people we pass as we stride through the main section, heading toward a hallway at the very back, and I follow her lead, keeping my head down while subtly staying aware of my surroundings. Some people are huddled together in small groups while most are alone, passed out on the cold floor unless they are lucky enough to occupy one of the sparse, filthy mattresses. Evidence of drug use litters the floor amid rusted food cans and the occasional food wrapper and empty bottle.
“Don’t draw their attention,” Presley whispers, dragging me down the hallway. “Don’t assume they are all strung-out junkies. Most of these addicts would gut you in a heartbeat if they thought you had drugs or money. We need to find Chris and get the fuck out of here ASAP.”
“Okay.” There’s no way I’m arguing with her. I’ve never seen anything like this, and it’s the wake-up call I need.
I never want this to be me.
I’ve got to clean all the junk from my system and stop relying on drugs to get me through the hard parts of my life.
Following her up a set of stairs to the next level, I vault over the broken steps when she points them out. The second level is different from the ground level. Up here, there are several smaller rooms, some with doors, most without, and I ignore looking at the people inside as I clutch Presley’s hand.
The gun in my back pocket gives me some peace of mind. She doesn’t know I have it because I store it in the trunk of my car, and I retrieved it without her noticing. There was no way I was coming into a place like this without some way to protect me and my girl.
After today, hell will freeze over before I let Presley return to this place. She can fight me all she wants, but she is not stepping foot in this hellhole ever again. I will fucking chain her to my bed if I have to. This place isn’t safe, and I want to kick Chris’s ass for putting her in danger.
Presley slams to a halt in front of the door at the end of the hallway, turning around and flinging herself into my arms. I hold her trembling body, realizing now how much of a front she’s been putting on. “I’m scared, Kent. What if we’re too late?”
“I’m here for you,” I say, pressing a fierce kiss to her brow. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”
She eases back, staring up at me. “Thank you for being here.”
I hate that she’s thanking my pitiful ass, but I don’t call her out on it. This is for her. It’s not about me. “Let’s get this over and done with.” I link our hands while my free hand goes to my back pocket, ready to grab my gun should I need it.
Presley looks petrified as we step foot in the room. It’s much smaller than the big room downstairs but larger than the individual rooms we passed. I gag at the smell of sweat, piss, shit, and vomit, silently urging my stomach not to rebel. I was already feeling nauseated before stepping foot inside this building.
There are other smells too. A clinical chemical type smell along with a familiar vinegary, acidic smell and the scent of burning plastic. There are about twenty people in this room. All of them on dirty, lumpy mattresses. Some are passed out, needles still in their arms, while others are semi-conscious, half sitting and half lying. They stare vacantly at us as we pass, and their ghastly faces and haunted eyes burn holes in my skull. An icy shiver crawls up my spine, and acid churns in my gut.
This place gives me the creeps, and I want to get my woman out of here stat.
Presley has to lean down to see their faces in the darkened room, and I hate it. I keep one hand in hers and the other on my gun as she makes her way through the room.
“No!” Her shrill cry rings out in the quiet room a few moments later. I keep pace with her as she runs to the corner of the room, making a beeline for the man slumped on his side with a needle poking from a vein in his arm. “Oh my God, Chris!” Her panicked cries bounce off the walls, but no one else seems to register them.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” I extract my cell as she kneels on the floor in front of the mattress where her ex is lying immobile. She moves to take the needle from his arm, and I reach for her. “Should you be touching that?” This place has got to be germ infested, and we don’t have gloves. Besides, the vial is empty. Whatever he shot into his veins is already in his system.
“Chris.” Leaving the needle in his arm, she grabs hold of his face. I watch her as I talk to the operator, giving our location and explaining the circumstances. Presley turns on the flashlight on her phone, propping it against the side of the mattress. The light illuminates Chris’s pale features. His dark hair makes his skin seem even whiter, and his lips are cracked and devoid of color, his green eyes vacant as he stares off into space. He hasn’t moved since we approached, and Presley’s fingers are trembling as she presses them to his neck. “Chris, no!”
I end the call as she looks up at me with anguished eyes. “I can’t find a pulse,” she whispers with tears streaming down her face.
“Let me try.” She scoots back, as if in a daze, watching numbly as I check for a pulse at his wrist and his neck, not finding one either. Although it’s probably futile, I push Chris onto his back, rip his shirt open, and begin compressions, pushing up and down on his chest with my hands.
Presley doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just sitting there, watching as silent tears course down her cheeks.
I’m just about to give up when a strangled sound emerges from his th
roat and his eyes blink.
“Chris!” Presley shrieks, crawling forward and hovering over his face. “Oh my God,” she sobs, crying into his shoulder. “You died!”
I’m still looming over him, and his eyes flit to mine. His pupils enlarge, and his body shakes and jerks, his limbs thrashing about. Presley lifts her head, terror etched upon her face.
“You,” he croaks, staring at me. “No.” He turns his head to Presley, opening his mouth to say something, but no words come out. He makes a last gasp for air, and then all the light extinguishes in his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Kent
“How is she?” Mom asks when we are back in our apartment after the funeral.
“Not good,” I truthfully admit. “But I’m taking care of her.” It’s been ten days since Chris died right in front of us, and Presley has withdrawn into herself. I’m beside myself with worry, doing everything I can to help while not knowing if it’s truly helping at all.
She pats my arm. “If you need me to do anything, you only have to ask.”
“You’ve already helped so much.” Mom helped me to organize the funeral after the morgue released his body. We chose to wait a while before having the service to put some distance between the wedding and the funeral and to give Presley the opportunity to grieve in private and some time to try to track Clay down.
Mom has given Presley more commissions to work on because creating art is the only thing keeping her sane right now. I like to think my arms around her at night are helping too, but she is so quiet, barely saying anything, that I can’t tell. “Just keep the commissions coming because art seems to be her only salvation,” I tell my mom.
My family has been great. I managed to get a few days off work, but I can’t push it because I’m only an intern. I was prepared to say fuck it and let them fire me, but it’s the one thing Presley was vocal about—that I go to work and not lose the internship I’ve worked hard for. I have spoken to Rafe, her boss at Ramshackle, and he was understanding and supportive. Ford has hired another waitress temporarily to help while Presley is on leave, and Rafe has told me she can take all the time she needs.
Mo and Ford have wanted to visit, but Presley hasn’t wanted anyone but me. I’ve been keeping people away, which is hard when I have to go to work and leave her here alone. But she locks herself away in the studio, working on her commissions, sketching, and drawing, and she’s begun working on a mural on one of the walls.
“Hang in there, darling.” Mom kisses me on the cheek. “She’s grieving the loss of her baby all over again, but she knows you are there for her. I’m proud of you, and Presley is lucky to have you.”
She wouldn’t be proud if she knew what I did to my girlfriend, but the bruises on Presley’s neck have faded now, along with the cuts on my forehead, so none of my family is aware of what went down the night of the wedding.
I’m still so ashamed over my actions, and I’ve had renewed nightmares since it happened. I’m careful not to disturb Presley when I wake up shaking, soaked in sweat, feeling like my heart is trying to beat a path out of my chest. The doctor prescribed her some sleeping pills, and she conks out most nights. I’m glad because she doesn’t need to deal with my shit on top of everything else right now.
My family knows who Chris is to Presley and that they lost a child because she gave me permission to tell them. Keeping my brothers, sisters-in-law, and my parents away since this all went down has been challenging because they want to help. Austen and Keats are still on their honeymoon, and Presley made them promise not to return early. Thankfully, they abided by her wishes, staying in Italy and sending flowers instead. Cheryl has been dropping off home-cooked meals some evenings while my other brothers have been sending food and care packages along with flowers because everyone knows how much Presley loves flowers.
Everyone attended the service today, and I’m so fucking grateful for my family and Presley’s friends. Clay was a no-show, along with Gerald and Anna Cates—the foster parents Chris, Clay, and Presley grew up with—and I know that upset and angered Presley. She anticipated the Cateses’ indifference, but she expected Clay to show up for her. He hasn’t returned any of her calls, and it’s as if he has just dropped off the face of the earth. I’m pissed at him for letting her down. She needed her brother, and he wasn’t here for her. If I ever meet him, I will rip him a new one for disappointing the love of my life.
Presley says goodbye to everyone before heading upstairs to take a shower. I reassure my family she will be fine, showing them out before cleaning up the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.
“I’m worried about her,” Imogen says after Kady has gone downstairs to the car with Ford and his girlfriend, Michelle. They stayed to help with the cleanup.
“I am too. I think she needs to speak to her therapist, but I don’t want her going alone, and the only available appointments are during the day when I’m working.”
“I can go with her,” Imogen offers. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
“I’ll mention it to her.” I won’t force Presley to do anything she doesn’t want to, and it’d be super hypocritical of me considering I haven’t done anything about finding a therapist for myself. I want to, but there hasn’t been time. Presley remains my priority.
She squeezes my arm. “I’m happy to help anytime. Presley has been there for me, and we’ve been through a lot of shit together. I’m happy she has you, and you’re being incredibly supportive, but don’t forget I am here too. If you need me for anything, just call.”
“I will. Thanks.” I kiss her cheek and show her out, closing the door after her.
I go upstairs, expecting to find Presley in bed, but she’s not in the bedroom, so she must be in her studio. The door was closed when I passed by, and I didn’t think to check. Stripping out of my monkey suit, I throw some shorts and a training top on. I’ll check on Presley before using my small home gym to alleviate some stress.
I knock on her studio door before opening it and poking my head in. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She turns to look at me, holding a paintbrush in one hand. She’s wearing black yoga pants with one of my old Harvard T-shirts and no shoes on her bare feet. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, and her face is clean of makeup.
She looks beautiful, and my arms ache to hold her.
Though we fall asleep wrapped around one another each night, we haven’t been intimate since the wedding. I miss sex with her, but I can be patient forever if that’s what she needs. I would never put my desires above her needs. However, I really miss feeling close to her, and it seems like with every passing day we grow more distant. The prospect of losing her looms larger, and I’m scared in a way I’ve never been scared before.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, gingerly stepping into the room.
“I’m good.” She graces me with a smile.
It’s the first one I’ve had since everything went down, and I latch on to it like a dehydrated man who finds an oasis in the desert. I think she’s relieved the funeral is behind us now. It’s been a very stressful ten days.
“Thank you for the fridge, the coffee machine, and the kettle,” she adds.
“No problem. I should’ve thought to add them in the first place.” I come to a stop beside her, and my mouth trails the floor as I look at the stunning mural. “This is fucking incredible, Pres. I can’t believe you are nearly finished already.”
A huge tree dominates the mural. Its roots run deep, flowing the length of the wall at the bottom of the drawing. The tree’s branches are wide and far-reaching, like spindly fingers extending toward the heavens. Delicate pink and white blossoms coat the branches and flutter softly to the ground. They look so lifelike my nostrils twitch as if I can smell the floral scent. The branches stretch to a cloud overhead where a little baby angel with fluffy wings rests on her stomach, her chubby fingers reaching out to catch the swirling flowers.
“Do you really like it?”
she asks, tilting her head to the side.
“I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s amazing. You are so talented. It’s nearly a shame to confine yourself to inking people when you’re capable of doing all this.” I wave my hand at the wall, admiring the attention to detail.
She shrugs, looking contemplative as she inspects her work with a critical eye.
“The baby angel is the same one as the one on your shoulder.”
She smiles, nodding. “Yes, this one is Tillie too.” She runs her fingers along the ink that stretches from her shoulder to the top of her chest, and the faraway look she has had in her eyes lately makes a reappearance. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” she asks after a few silent beats.
“I’ve never given it much thought,” I truthfully admit. “I’m not overly religious, but I believe there is something after death.”
“I’m not religious either. I stopped believing in God when he stole my parents from me. But I believe some higher power had a hand in creating us, and I have to believe there is a heaven or someplace our souls go to after we leave this mortal realm. I need to believe Tillie is in a good place and I have a chance to see her again one day.” She swipes at the tears in her eyes, leaning into me as I wrap my arms around her. “Like I need to believe Chris is at peace now.”
I nod, understanding it even though I’ve no personal experiences to relate to.
“Is it silly to believe he is up there now with our daughter and my parents and they are happy and content?” She looks up at me with hope in her big brown eyes.
“If it gives you comfort, then it’s the furthest thing from silly. Billions of people around the world believe it happens like that. They can’t all be wrong.” The truth is, we will never know. I’m skeptical when it comes to God and religion. But if having certain beliefs gives you comfort and relief and helps you sleep easier at night, then fucking grab it and don’t let anyone tell you differently because they don’t know what is or isn’t true either.
Reforming Kent: A Stand-Alone Angsty Bad Boy Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 10) Page 25