I'm too damaged, and she can't fix me. I have too many broken pieces to put back together. I'm nothing but a jagged reflection in a mirror cracked right down the middle, never to be whole again.
Chapter Six
Eva
The next morning, I barge through Drake's door, ready to get to work.
"Rise and shine," I greet him, throwing the blinds open.
The sheet is dipping tantalizingly low on his waist. It looks like he fell asleep in the buff, because I spy his clothes neatly draped across the back of a chair.
But he's not getting up. I should've known he'd be stubborn as hell. He watches me, his eyes like slits as I go through the pockets of his pants until I find what I'm after.
"What do you want my keys for?" he asks groggily, not even bothering to lift his head off the pillow.
"That's up to you," I reply, jingling them loudly in front of his face.
He glares at me, and I eye him warily, wondering if he's going to jump out of bed to try to take them away from me.
So I get right to the point. "Do you have any drugs hidden in your apartment? Yes or no?"
He blinks but doesn't say anything.
"If you don't tell me in the next five seconds, I intend to search it from top to bottom. It's up to you." I take a deep, cleansing breath to let him know I'm serious. "I know I'd much rather conduct an introductory session with you this morning so we can get to know each other a little better, but if you're going to be uncooperative, I'll have to go in search of the answers you refuse to give me. One…"
I'm being as supportive as I can.
"Two…"
I'm giving him the chance to be honest with me before having to resort to snooping through his personal belongings.
"Three…"
I hate that he's making me act like an angry parent instead of a therapist.
"Four…"
But I can tell he's going to require a firm hand.
"Five."
I groan inwardly when he closes his eyes like the only thing he wants to do is drift back to sleep.
I stomp out of the room, emboldened by his show of no confidence in me. He doesn't think I'll find whatever he's hiding, but I've been in the minds of hundreds of addicts. I know how they think. He can't fool me.
My head is still flooded with images of how the sunlight was hitting the tiny freckles on Drake's back—so it's no surprise when I trip over a pair of long legs that are blocking the door.
"Are you okay, Ms. Sloane?" Chase Whitfield's deep voice rumbles overhead as he scrambles to help me up.
I nod, feeling like a complete idiot for face-planting at his feet.
"Diane asked me to keep an eye on things until the Kings' security firm sends their guy over."
"Thank you. That was very nice of you," I say, regaining my voice and my balance.
"But where's the fire?" Chase's turquoise eyes twinkle down at me. "You ran out of there so fast I didn't even have time to get out of the way."
"I just didn't want Drake following me," I admit.
Chase's eyes darken. "Do you need me to go in there?"
"No, it's okay." I tuck my hair behind my ears. "He's still in bed. I was just worried that he'd try to stop me from going over to his place."
Chase quirks up the side of his mouth. "And you think one of those keys will get you in?"
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Because rich people are weird," he chuckles, confusing me even further. "Here." He pulls a tiny plastic card out of his pocket and hands it to me. "Diane thought you might need this."
I hold it up to get a better look. "What is it? A fingerprint? Is Drake in more trouble? Is he under arrest? Is that why you're here waiting for security to arrive?"
"No, nothing like that." He shakes his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "It's a scan of his thumb, which you'll need to access his penthouse at Logan Tower."
"Oh…" I examine it anew. "You're right. Rich people are weird."
He laughs full out, and I give him a rueful grin.
"You're taking a lot on with him, and don't think for a second that Diane doesn't appreciate it. She's ready to go above and beyond to give you whatever you need." Chase rubs his hand across his chin. "She's sick of putting up with his shit, and frankly, so am I."
"But if you didn't care, you wouldn't be here." I study him closely when he drops his head only to stare down at his feet.
"I only care about what's best for the team." He shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. "And as long as Drake's a part of it, I want him to straighten himself out."
"He's going to need a lot more than having you stand outside his door." I don't mince words, and Chase's eyes fly up to meet mine. "He needs his friend back."
He clenches his jaw. "We're not friends."
"You used to be." I shrug. "Would it be so hard to put the past aside and start over again?"
"Yeah, since you know absolutely nothing about it." He sighs, leaning back against the wall.
"You're right. I don't." I move to stand in front of him. "But from what I can gather, his problems run a whole lot deeper than his PED use."
"Once a cheater, always a cheater," he mumbles almost to himself.
"But you know him better than anyone," I argue. "There has to be a reason why he acts the way he does."
"I made a bargain with myself that I would stop letting his negativity influence my life," Chase states plainly. "He always manages to stir up trouble wherever he goes. When we were kids on different teams, I didn't think much of it. I always gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking other guys were just jealous of him. Until he opened his big mouth and took a swipe at me."
"But that was almost a decade ago." I frown at him. "Can't you just let it go?"
"No, because he knew what he was doing, Ms. Sloane," Chase replies crisply. "He questioned my ability, my talent, my dedication—in the press. He lobbed everything my critics were saying about me then spouted it from his own lips. He was so peeved I won the World Series for the third year in a row that he threw whatever loyalty he had left for me right out the window. That reporter was going to give him some serious ink and he ate up all the attention. He didn't care what it did to our friendship."
"But this isn't about some jock code of yours. It's about the rest of his life," I plead with Chase.
"It is what it is, Ms. Sloane." He levels me with a look. "Drake destroys everything in his path. He betrayed me. He betrayed his ex-wife. The list goes on and on, and he has no intention of making amends. He's not the type to say, 'I'm sorry,' and mean it."
"That's what I'm going to help him with." I place my hand on Chase's arm to let him know just how serious I am. "He's going to have to go through all the necessary steps to make a full recovery."
"What steps?" He wrinkles his forehead at me. "You don't mean—?"
"That's what I'm about to find out." I pat his arm and start backing away. "Either way, wish me luck."
"Jesus," he groans, running a hand through his hair. "It's that bad?"
"I hope not," I say, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "But even if it is, I'm here to get him back on track."
Chase gives me a sad, little nod, a tortured look in his eyes. "I just want to see him clean, you know? Be careful, Ms. Sloane. His personality is as much an issue as his drug use. He's not exactly a nice guy, but you're not in this alone. I don't know what good I'll be, but I'm here if you need me."
"If he needs you," I correct him gently.
Chase grunts, reluctantly tipping his head. "Make sure you call Noah for a ride."
I reward Chase with a smile before turning around and marching toward the elevator. Right now, I'll take any victory, no matter how small. Getting Chase to reach out to Drake is huge, and it could be a major step forward in righting so many wrongs.
It's clear that Drake views Chase as an adversary, but it appears that's not the case. Chase parked his butt out here in order to prevent Drake from storming out on the whole thing.
At this stage, I wouldn't necessarily lock the two of them in the suite together to hash things out. It's too early in the process, but it's comforting to know that, in some respect, Chase has Drake's back.
But it's a double-edged sword. With Chase stationed outside the door, the Kings are sending the message that they can't afford for Drake to slip up. He has contractual obligations he needs to fulfill. They brought him to the team to win ball games for them, not go through detox while serving a mandatory suspension. He has to submit to my being here. He doesn't have a choice. If he reneges, he stands to lose a fortune—not just this year's salary, but also through a wide assortment of penalty clauses he signed off on when he came to New York. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, trying not to crumple under the weight of the huge responsibility Diane's putting on my shoulders.
Because he's not the kind of client I usually deal with.
And I think that's what's bothering me the most. No one ever cared this much about my mother. She had to make it on her own. Nobody was around to look out for her to see that she remained clean throughout her pregnancy. She was just like the addicts I work with now, the ones no one thinks twice about. If not for the tireless efforts of people like Dad, they'd have nowhere to turn. I often think about what would've happened to me if my birth mom hadn't wandered into Harbor House when she did. Would I be alive today if she hadn't?
The elevator door opens, and I finger Noah's card in my pocket. I should listen to Chase and have him drive me over to Drake's apartment. It'll save time, and I don't want to leave Drake alone for too long, especially when he gets a load of who's watching the door. The last thing I need is for the two of them to start fighting again. But when I hit the lobby and see what a beautiful day it is, I decide to walk. Stretching my legs will get my blood flowing and sharpen my mind for the scavenger hunt ahead.
Like Chase mentioned, Drake lives in Logan Tower, the competing upscale apartment complex situated on the opposite side of Central Park. It should only take me about thirty minutes to go from the Upper East Side to the Upper West Side. The green grass and budding trees are just what I need right now. A sign of rebirth, of never-ending hope.
I enter the park and pass a caravan of strollers lined up in front of a play area. The nanny brigade is out in full force today. The little tykes are laughing and shouting, having a great time. Being around such playful exuberance should make me happy, but it doesn't. Usually, every time I come across a scene like this, I can't help thinking about how dark the world of addiction can be and how it always snatches the ones I love away.
Jared was great with children. He'd twist balloon animals outside the zoo just for kicks, giving any kid who walked by whatever helium-filled creature they requested. He liked to see them smile because he was so unhappy. Nothing could make him feel good, no matter how hard he tried to stay sober. In the end, the crack always won out, wearing him down until he was so strung out that he was just a raggedy shadow of himself, all skin and bones, his face sunken in and distorted, his eyes wild and scarily bright.
His parents kicked him out of their house when they found out he was gay. He was only fifteen years old, living on the streets of New York after purchasing a one-way bus ticket out of St. Paul, Minnesota. I met him a few years after that, when his addiction was the only relationship he had left in his life. When he wasn't using, he was the sweetest, most caring guy around, but when he was in need of a hit, he thought everyone was getting in the way of his next high. He'd become resentful, combative, spiteful. The lies would roll off his tongue one after the other until, somehow, he got what he wanted. He'd tell me that he was going out to sketch or take photos or something when he was really out selling his body to older men who were trolling for sex, giving himself to the first one who'd spot him a twenty.
And it's why I can't get too emotionally attached to Drake, because his lies have already begun. Anything to protect his habit. This morning, he led me to believe he has nothing in his apartment, but he probably has an entire stash hidden away somewhere inside. Right now, I trust him about as far as I can throw him.
Which isn't far.
Because Drake Schultz is solid muscle. Seeing him without his shirt on proved that. I ran away from him not because I was embarrassed, but because it felt like he was trying to reassert his authority over the situation by making me feel uncomfortable. But it's a tactic that's not going to work, not with me, because all I saw was a hurting man unsure of how to deal with all the pain buried deep inside him.
And that's what I have to help him figure out—how to cope, how to live again.
It's not long before I find myself once again on the noisy city streets. When I glance up, Logan Tower is glistening before me. I'm not used to doing my job in such affluent settings. In fact, I'd take combing through the roughest, grittiest areas of the five boroughs over entering Drake's intimidating digs any day.
The doorman comes toward me. "Ms. Sloane?"
"Yes," I respond, a tad unsettled.
How does he even know my name, much less what I look like? That's freaky in and of itself. Chase must've called Diane and told her what I was up to, but seeing firsthand the influence the Kings wield is kind of frightening.
"You can go right up, if you'd like," he says jovially.
I smile at him as he holds the door open for me. I tamp down my nerves and stroll through the bustling lobby, quickly discovering that the penthouse floor has an elevator all to itself. I hesitantly place Drake's thumbprint on the scanner, crossing my fingers that I'm doing it right. It works like a charm, so the door slides open in front of me. I'm not a fan of high rises. I don't like being in buildings I can't easily walk out of, and the tippy top of this one is somewhere in the clouds. I'm not a fan of heights.
I still my heart as the elevator starts to rise up the fifty-five floors. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. When it finally comes to a stop, I'm granted immediate access to Drake's apartment. I pause for a second, unsure of what to do. Should I just walk in? Am I allowed? I gingerly step forward, and there must be a motion sensor on the door, because it automatically closes behind me. I feel trapped—claustrophobic, even—although I'm in an insane amount of square footage I didn't think existed anywhere in Manhattan. To put it in perspective, it's about ten times bigger than our suite at the Roosevelt Building.
But luxurious it's not. I'm amazed by how sparse the furnishings are. There are no pictures on the walls, not even of his two daughters, who should be around six and ten by now. There's only a flat-screen plugged in to the wall, a computer sitting atop a massive desk, and a glass-top table with a huge crack down the middle. I reach the kitchen and open the fridge, but all that's in there is case upon case of Vitaminwater.
It's like the place hasn't been lived in, and that's not a good sign.
I explore room after room and continue to find only the bare minimum. A bathroom counter with an electric razor and a toothbrush. A shower with an expensive brand of shampoo sitting next to a bar of plain old Ivory soap. A linen closet with a stack of neatly folded towels and white cotton sheets. Gosh, it feels more like a hotel than home sweet home.
There's one oddity though. There's hand sanitizer everywhere. A large pump on the table near the door, smaller bottles scattered throughout, one on the coffee table, another within reach of the intercom button in the foyer. He must be a total germaphobe.
And it begs the question: Why would he ever poison his body by willingly contaminating it with harmful substances? It doesn't make sense. But the truth of the matter is that addiction isn't based on logical choices. As a professional, I'm well aware of that.
I enter his bedroom and survey the setup. The entire apartment is practically empty, and I still haven't come across any type of drug paraphernalia. He's going to give me a run for my money, but I'm not leaving here defeated. Not until I find what he's hiding.
But he's going to need me to bring some clothes back for him. He was unprepared for the sudden change in his livi
ng arrangements, and he's probably going out of his mind since he's obviously a Type-A control freak.
There's a wheelie bag at the foot of the bed. I grab the handle and start packing some things. His closet is loaded with plenty of options to choose from, everything organized by color and style. The matching pants to his suit jackets are all perfectly creased, while his button-down shirts are still in plastic bags from the dry cleaner. I begin taking some off the hangers and start folding them.
But he's going to need more comfortable clothes to lounge around in. Sweats, tees, things like that. I head toward the dresser and start rooting through it. I hit the socks first and toss a few pairs in before moving on to the underwear drawer.
My cheeks flare when I think about the ones he had on last night and the slightest hint of a bulge that was starting to jut out beneath them. He was getting excited, and I was the one making him excited. Drake Schultz was hot…for me. But I quickly dismiss the notion. I shouldn't flatter myself. He's probably used to getting laid after a game, and his body was just telling him that it was ready for its regularly scheduled sex romp. I just happened to be the one standing before him.
But I wish I hadn't given myself away like that. He knew I was feeling him—I could tell by the glint in his eyes. But seeing him start to get naked in front of me… I couldn't help but react. His body is pure perfection: hard, taut, and ripped in all the right places. I felt that aching, desperate need deep inside me. But that was his ploy, trying to get me to respond to him, make me lose my head. And once I realized what he was up to, I backed away.
I'm not that type of girl. He can make me want him, but I'm not going to play ball, even though he was practically begging me to. And that disturbed me even more. He's used to having women use him because he doesn't think he's worthy of anything more, anything deeper. He tries to come off like he's unaffected by it, but based on what I've read in the tabloids, it seems like a lot of these casual encounters usually come back to burn him in the end.
Inside Game Page 4