Guarded

by L. A. Witt

  He stopped playing and looked up at me, eyes red and glazed, and I couldn’t for the life of me decide if it was booze, tears, or exhaustion. Maybe all three. He shook out his hands as if they were getting stiff. Though he’d been a guitarist long enough to have developed thick calluses, his fingertips were red and raw. Much more of this, they’d probably start bleeding.

  “Hey.” I leaned against the doorframe, not sure how far I wanted to venture into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit.”

  “That’s to be expected.”

  He nodded. “Uh, thanks for coming back. Getting me from the hospital.”

  “I wasn’t going to leave you there.”

  Searching my eyes, he swallowed hard. “Would you have come back otherwise?”

  I straightened a little. “That’s not why you put the car into the jersey barrier, is it?”

  Jordan laughed dryly, but lowered his gaze.

  Lowered it straight to that bottle of tequila.

  I gritted my teeth as he picked up the bottle and took a swig. Not a huge gulp, but far too much for this side of noon, especially for someone who’d given himself a concussion.

  “You, uh, want to go easy on that stuff?”

  He glared up at me with much clearer eyes. “Get off my back.”

  “Jordan.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. I didn’t even have the energy to get angry. “Cut me some slack here, all right?” I dropped my hand and looked down at him. “You scared the hell out of me yesterday. I’m just watching out for you.”

  “I’m fine.” His voice sounded as raw as his fingers looked. He cleared his throat and looked down at the guitar, strumming it so weakly it barely made a sound. “I kind of lost my head yesterday, but I’m fine now.”

  A heavy feeling of déjà vu pressed down on my shoulders. How many times had I heard that from Eric? How many times had Jordan heard it from Daniel?

  I exhaled. “Why don’t I cook us some breakfast?”

  He managed a slight smile. “Sure.”

  “Okay. I’m going to grab a shower first.”

  He nodded and kept playing, eyes unfocused and fingers as precise as a kid picking up a guitar for the first time ever.

  I didn’t like leaving him there with the tequila, but at least it got me out of Daniel’s bedroom, and now I could get some food in him. Maybe that would help sober him up. Then we could talk. Because God knew we needed to talk.

  I went back upstairs to the master bedroom, and into the bathroom to grab a shower. Before I even started to undress, though, the orange and white prescription bottle beside the sink caught my eye. Hadn’t I put that in the medicine cabinet last night? After I didn’t let him take one?

  I picked up the bottle. My stomach twisted and knotted. I still didn’t know if I should feel guilty, or if this was the right thing to do.

  At the end of the day, you’re here to protect him.

  I took a deep breath, glanced over my shoulder to make sure he hadn’t come into the bedroom, and then took the top off the pills. I poured them into my palm and quickly counted them.

  Eighteen.

  I counted again.

  Eighteen.

  The prescription label said twenty total. I hadn’t let him take any last night, and figured he wouldn’t take more than one this morning, but... there were still two pills missing.

  Okay, so he’d probably been okay to take one this morning. The doc wouldn’t have given them to him if not. And maybe he’d dropped one on the floor or down the drain. I wanted to believe that so bad, just like I wanted to believe the pharmacist had fucked up and miscounted while doling out heavily regulated narcotics.

  Goddammit.

  But the tequila, and that glazed look in his eyes…

  Fuck. Fuck!

  If there was one person I couldn’t watch go down the rabbit hole…

  Without a second thought, I went dropped the entire handful of pills—all eighteen of them—into the toilet. I flushed them down, my heart pounding as the white tablets circled the bowl, and when they were gone, I didn’t feel even a little bit better. I tossed the empty orange bottle into the sink, that motion taking every bit of energy I had.

  And what good did it do? So he couldn’t drug himself. If he didn’t have the pills, he’d still have that bottle of tequila in his hand. He still had the keys to his own car. There was plenty of booze in the house and gas in that car.

  Short of physically restraining him, there was nothing I could do.

  Nothing.

  Not a fucking thing.

  I’d been brought into his world to protect him, and it was becoming painfully clear that I couldn’t. Because I couldn’t hold onto him forever. I’d have to let go eventually. Turn my back. Sleep. Leave the room. And then what? I’d been gone less than twenty minutes between my conversation with Daniel and the moment I’d found him on the floor.

  I hadn’t been able to save Daniel.

  I hadn’t been able to save Eric.

  And if Jordan was really going down this road, I couldn’t save him.

  Fuck this.

  I left the pill bottle in the sink and gathered up everything in the room that was mine. My shaving kit, my car keys, a few clothes I’d been keeping here. I shoved it all into my overnight bag and headed for the door.

  Standing at the foot of the bed, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the collar the nurse had discreetly given me in the ER last night.

  “The EMTs took it off because they were concerned about his airway,” she’d said. “I’m assuming he’ll want it back.”

  Concerned about his airway? If they only knew.

  Wishing I was a hell of a lot closer to numb than I was, I tossed the collar into the middle of the bed and turned to go before it landed.

  My hand was on the doorknob when I heard the soft music from downstairs. I closed my eyes and listened for a moment. The notes were shaky, the tempo uneven. I couldn’t put my finger on the melody, but this wasn’t what he sounded like when he was trying to pull a new song from the ether. When he experimented and plucked and strummed until the piece came together. I’d heard him do that countless times now, and it was awe-inspiring.

  What he was doing now lacked any kind of direction or precision. Like he was just playing and didn’t give a damn what came of it. The apathy was palpable in the music, and stabbed me right in the gut.

  Grief? Guilt? Alcohol? Pain pills? I had no idea what was driving him right then, but the alcohol and the pain pills couldn’t have been doing him any good. I’d already taken care of the latter, but I couldn’t leave with a clear conscience knowing there was so much booze left at his fingertips.

  I dropped my bag by the door and went into the kitchen.

  Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I found every bottle I remembered seeing in the house, from the half-gone vodka in the freezer to the Budweiser longnecks stacked in the back of the fridge. Everything from the liquor cabinet. Even the bottle of wine he’d been saving for God knew what. The red wine and clear liquors and colorful liqueurs and expensive amber Grand Marnier swirled around the stainless steel drain, and I told myself it was the alcohol fumes that stung my eyes.

  When every drop was gone, I left each bottle where it stood on the counter, and my God, there were a shitload of them. And it felt so useless. What good was emptying every gun in the house when he still had a loaded one beside him?

  I rubbed a hand over my face. What more could I do? Hadn’t I learned that if someone was going to self-destruct, he was going to do it no matter how hard anyone tried to stop him?

  “Hey, Jase,” Jordan’s slurred voice came from the hallway a second before his shuffling footsteps came into the kitchen. “You think we could—what the hell?”

  I turned around and face him.

  He didn’t look at me. He stared at the army of empty bottles surrounding the sink. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “By the looks of you?” I set the empty bottle on the counter
. “Taking the bullets out of a gun.”

  He blinked. “That’s got to be a thousand dollars worth of liquor.”

  “Put it on my tab.” I nodded past him in the general direction of his bedroom. “Along with your pain pills.”

  Jordan’s mouth fell open. “You… are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. This isn’t you, Jordan. You’re drowning yourself in… in all of this”—I gestured at the bottles—“and I’m not going to let you keep—”

  “Let me?” he snarled. “You’re not going to let me?”

  I hesitated, weighing my responses to keep from throwing too much gas on the fire. “No. No, I’m not. I’m not going to let you do yourself in like Daniel did.”

  His eyes widened. Immediately, I knew I’d gone too far, but I didn’t take it back. He was raw and fragile, but I couldn’t afford to mince words. He needed the verbal slap in the face before he was too far gone to feel it.

  I took a breath. “Jordan, I love you. I know you’re going through hell right now. I’ve been there.”

  “And I’ll bet no one took away your ability to cope, did they?”

  “This isn’t coping. This is just numbing it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that I want to be numb, did it?”

  “Of course it did. But you’re—” My voice almost cracked, and I quickly cleared my throat. “Look, I’m scared to death for you, Jordan. I know you’re hurting, but I’m terrified you’re going to get hurt.”

  He held my gaze, his face unreadable.

  “I can’t keep doing this,” I said softly. “The thing is, I came here to protect you, Jordan, but I can’t protect you from yourself.” I sniffed sharply, cursing my inability to keep my emotions in check. “And I won’t watch you go the way Eric and Daniel both did. I... fuck, Jordan, I can’t watch you do that to yourself.”

  “Then don’t.” He gestured sharply at the kitchen doorway. “Get out.”

  “Jordan, we—”

  “Get out or I will fucking call the cops.”

  I stepped toward him, reaching for him. “Jordan, just listen to—”

  “Violet.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He folded his arms across his chest and locked eyes with me. “Violet.”

  A safeword had never cut quite so deep. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Then get out.”

  I swallowed hard. “What are you going to do when I go?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business.” He pulled out his cell phone and tapped a few keys. When he showed me the screen, the numbers 9-1-1 were lit up along with the green “Call” button. One tap. That was all he needed. “Safeword. Cops. What more do you want?”

  I want you to be safe.

  But what else could I do?

  I brushed past him, fighting to maintain what was left of my composure. He had to have seen the tears in my eyes, but I wasn’t about to let him see them fall. Not this time.

  I stopped just long enough to snatch my overnight bag up off the floor, and then for the second time in as many days, I walked out of Jordan’s house and didn’t look back. I was afraid to look back because God only knew what I’d see.

  Last time he’d been alone, he’d wrapped a car around a jersey barrier before my own car had even cooled from the drive home. Maybe this time I’d taken away enough opportunities for him to hurt himself. If he was really determined, he’d find a way, but if he was that determined, nothing I could do would stop him anyway.

  I’d done all I could. The only thing he wanted me to do now was leave.

  I didn’t even feel guilty for tossing his pain pills. He had, after all, been in a serious car crash just hours ago. He was lucky he was walking. Hell, he was lucky he was breathing.

  But I told myself if he was in enough pain to genuinely need them, then maybe that would be a fucking wakeup call.

  God, I hoped it was.

  * * *

  I couldn’t think of anything but Jordan. Twice on the way home, I’d damn near done to my SUV what Jordan had done to Daniel’s Ferrari because my brain was elsewhere.

  Eventually, though, I made it to my apartment.

  I spent the next three days trying not to lose my mind, but I was going stir crazy in my apartment. I couldn’t touch my guitar because my fingers kept trying to play that damned melody. I couldn’t drink because I was too afraid I’d get a call saying Jordan needed me.

  And I couldn’t call him because I was angry. And guilty. And angrier. And guiltier. One minute, just the thought of him would have me on the verge of putting a fist through the wall. The next, I wanted to break down in tears because I missed him, and I was worried about him, and I needed to know he was okay.

  At least I knew he was alive. There’d been no news on TV or the internet, though there was still a lot of speculation that he’d been drunk when he’d wrecked the Ferrari. Martin had carefully fed the media a line about exhaustion and falling asleep at the wheel, and they seemed to be buying that for the most part.

  Every time my text tone beeped or the ringtone went off, I almost jumped out of my skin. Sometimes I lunged for it, knocking shit over in the process. Other times, I eyed the thing warily from as far away as I could get. I struggled between grabbing the phone and calling him, or just throwing the motherfucking thing against the wall. I’d have put it on silent, but I was terrified to because the next call could be the ER.

  I desperately wanted to believe he would get his shit together the way Eric and Daniel had never been able to, but I was scared to death to be there when he finally lost it. Watching Eric deteriorate had been painful enough. I couldn’t even handle watching Jordan with a migraine. Witnessing the drug-induced downward spiral? I’d be dead before he would.

  But was staying away from him the answer? When he was grieving, drinking, getting high? What the fuck was I supposed to do?

  What choice did I have, anyway? He’d kicked me out.

  Finally, I did the only thing I could think of.

  I texted Robert.

  Need to talk to someone. You free?

  * * *

  Sitting at Robert and Renee’s kitchen table, I cradled my coffee cup between my hands and couldn’t figure out where to start.

  Robert sat beside me and sipped his coffee. “This must be about you and Jordan.”

  I nodded slowly, still mute.

  “And the recent death of his friend?”

  I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, wondering when the muscles had gotten so damned stiff. “Yeah. He’s taking it hard and he’s... let’s just say he’s not handling it well.”

  “I see. And it’s taken its toll on your relationship?”

  “If by ‘taken its toll’ you mean ‘killed it,’ yes.”

  Robert exhaled. “I’m sorry to hear it.” He put a big, gentle hand on my forearm and squeezed. “He’s probably not thinking straight. Grief does that to people. Give him time. He’ll come around.”

  “But what about in the meantime?” I forced back the lump in my throat. “He damn near killed himself after I left the first time, and then he kicked me out. I… I don’t know what to do, but—”

  “Jase, Jase. Take it easy.” Robert stroked my arm gently. “Take a few deep breaths.”

  Part of me wanted to tell him that wouldn’t solve a goddamned thing. The part of me that had once been his submissive took it easy and took a few deep breaths. “What do I do?”

  “Is he someplace safe?”

  “Well…” I lowered my gaze. “He doesn’t have any booze or painkillers now. I, uh, made sure of that.”

  “Good.”

  “Not really.” I met his eyes through my lashes. “I dumped them out. That’s what pissed him off and why he threw me out.”

  Robert patted my arm. “Oh, I don’t doubt he was unhappy about it, but I think you did the right thing.”

  I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face. “Maybe. B
ut I feel terrible. I mean, he’s been a mess since Daniel died. And I... I can’t really blame him, you know? They were always so close, ever since they were teenagers, and…” I stared into my coffee. “I get why he’s falling apart, but I can’t just sit there and watch him self-destruct. I can’t go through that again.”

  Shaking his head, Robert blew out a breath. “No, after the wringer Eric put you through, I wouldn’t expect you to want to go through it again.”

  I flinched at the mention of my ex’s name. “But Jordan isn’t Eric. And he’s not Daniel. I don’t know what the hell to make of what’s going on right now. I mean, maybe this is just a binge because he’s grieving. He’s been clean all this time, but now…” I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. “I just feel so fucking helpless.”

  “Of course you do.” Robert ran his hand along my arm again. “You’re his Dom and you’re his bodyguard. You want to protect him.”

  “I do.” I swallowed hard and met Robert’s eyes. “And I don’t want to lose him.” My own words hit me hard, and I shifted my gaze back to my cooling coffee. “Hell, maybe I already have. Maybe I should have talked to him about the drinking instead of pouring everything out and—”

  “Jason.” Robert’s sharp Dom voice sent a shiver through me. When I turned to him, I wasn’t at all surprised to see his stern—but not remotely unkind—expression. His hand felt heavier on my arm. “You cannot blame yourself for what’s going on.”

  I sniffed sharply and wiped at my eyes. “There has to be something else I can do, though. I feel like I’m just sitting at home waiting for someone to call and tell me he’s done the same thing Eric and Daniel did.”

  Robert was quiet for a long moment, his hand resting on my arm and his eyes unfocused. “How long has it been since he threw you out?”

  “A few days.”

  “Maybe you need to call him.”

  “Would you think less of me if I said I was afraid to?”

  Robert shook his head slowly. “No. Not at all.” He lifted his hand off my arm, and I was about to protest, but then he whispered, “C’mere,” and pulled me into a tight embrace.

  I released a breath and closed my eyes. I’d been holed up in my apartment, completely alone, since the day Jordan had kicked me out, and hadn’t even realized how much I’d missed human contact. I wrapped my arms around Robert.