by Ally Blue
“Watch your language.”
Nat sucked his cheeks in and reminded himself how much his mom had loved her big brother Jeff. For her sake—for the sake of her memory—he’d keep it polite. “Why didn’t you wait for me? You know my schedule can be unpredictable, but I always show up. And I’m never, ever more than a few minutes late.”
“Yeah, well, I got a business to run here, and if I want to keep my good reputation, I need to sail on time. I can’t keep paying clients waiting because you got stars in your eyes all of a sudden.”
Nat raked his free hand through his hair. This conversation was going downhill fast. “Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, okay?”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts.” A deep sigh came through the phone. “You ain’t a bad kid. You work hard when you’re here. But if I can’t count on you to show up on time, then I can’t keep you on. Sorry, kiddo.”
The call cut off before Nat could say anything else. He stuck his phone back in his pocket and stood there staring out over the water while the reality of what had just happened sank in.
He’d been fired. By his own uncle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This was going to mean, what, two hundred dollars less a month? Three hundred, maybe? Not good, either way he looked at it. He was really going to have to nail this speaking part. If he understood the rules right—and he wasn’t at all sure he did; the union manual Anna had given him was a fucking monster—the pay increase could change everything for him and his dad. He needed that money, because he didn’t have the skill set to do anything but fishing and pretending to be a werewolf.
No pressure or anything.
Finally, when the dockworkers started giving him weird looks, he turned and went back to his truck. Might as well head on home and face whatever passive-aggressive shit his father would throw at him for getting fired from the “real job.”
Except, as it turned out, his dad wasn’t home.
He wasn’t on the sofa where he usually fell asleep—or, more accurately, passed out—watching TV. He wasn’t in the bedroom he rarely used anymore. He wasn’t in the bathroom, either. Or the kitchen. Or, when Nat went out to look, in the tiny, weed-ridden backyard.
Puzzled, annoyed, and scared all at the same time, Nat stood in the kitchen and wondered where in the hell his frail, pain-ridden father could’ve gone. He had a hard enough time walking from the couch to the toilet, how far could he possibly have gotten?
The mental image of his dad tottering off into the brambly bushes behind the house had Nat’s heart in his throat. What if he’d fallen down the short but steep bank into the creek running through the trees? What if he’d broken a hip or something?
“Shit.” Nat ran outside, flipping on the porch light on his way out, and headed for the strip of trees and undergrowth separating their not-so-nice neighborhood from the higher-end homes on the other side. “Dad? You out here?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, switched on the flashlight app, and pointed it into the tangled greenery. It didn’t illuminate more than a couple of feet, but he didn’t have a real flashlight, so this was it. “Dad? Dad!”
“Nat? That you?”
It was his neighbor, Mrs. Hawk. He turned and trotted to the fence where she stood clutching an oversized sweater around herself. “I’m looking for Dad. He’s not in the house. I can’t find him, and I was worried he might’ve gotten into the woods there and fallen into the creek.”
She covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh no, I can’t believe nobody called you.”
White-bright terror froze Nat’s body in place. “What happened?” His voice was a bare whisper.
Mrs. Hawk’s worn features softened with sympathy. “An ambulance came and picked him up about an hour and a half ago.”
“Oh.” Nat stared at the ground, feeling sick. Why had his father needed an ambulance? “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Hawk brushed her stumpy, work-hardened fingers over Nat’s arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I’d’ve called you myself if I’d realized Jerome hadn’t done it. He was awake and talking to the paramedics, so I figured he would’ve called you.”
Relief left Nat weak in the knees. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but Mrs. Hawk couldn’t do anything about it. He forced a smile for her, because she was a nice person and he liked her. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course.” She studied him with furrowed brows and concern in her eyes. “You give me a shout if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Unable to speak past the knot in his throat, he nodded his thanks, turned, and went back inside.
On the way out to his truck to go to the ER, he hesitated with his hand on the doorknob and anger simmering in his gut. Why should he go running off to see his dad? His dad hadn’t even called. Hadn’t even cared that Nat would be worried about him. It would serve him right if Nat left him to stew in his own juices.
Guilt kicked Nat out the door in spite of his hurt. He shouldn’t think like that about his own father. He’d promised to look after his dad. He had a responsibility. Dad would call eventually anyway, when he needed a ride home. No point in waiting around, wondering and worrying. Since he evidently wasn’t going to sleep tonight in any case, he might as well find out what had happened.
Clutching his keys so hard they dug divots into his palm, he strode to his truck and set out for the hospital.
The desk nurse at the Port Angeles hospital's ER rose from her chair as soon as she spotted Nat coming through the door. “You’re Mr. Horn’s son, right? Nat?”
“Yeah.” How sad was it that he and his dad had been here often enough for the triage nurse to recognize him? He glanced at her name tag: Pam. Right. He remembered her now. “I’d’ve been here sooner, but he didn’t call me. I didn’t even know he was here until I got home and my neighbor told me.”
Pam’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I asked if I should call you for him and he said no, that he would do it himself.”
“Yeah. Not your fault he didn’t.” Nat stopped and rested his elbows on the triage desk, ignoring the side-eye from the waiting room full of people. It looked like the usual motley crew—headaches, flu, out-of-control blood sugar, sprained ankles . . . Hell, way too many people around here didn’t even have a regular doctor, which was why the ER stayed full all the time. Yeah, he’d learned a lot kicking his heels around here over the last few years. “Is he okay? Why’d he call the ambulance?”
“Said his back hurt so bad he couldn’t stand it, and he was out of pain pills.” Pam’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I know, I know. But we can’t get in the habit of telling people they aren’t in pain.”
Especially when they are. Nat rubbed his eyes. “So, he’s okay?”
“Well. That’s for the doc to say for sure. But I don’t believe it’s anything serious.” She stood and skirted the desk, gesturing to a tall, lanky man on the other side of the room. The man strode over to take her place while she led Nat toward the treatment area. “C’mon. I’ll take you back.”
He followed her down the short hallway and through the double doors into the ER bay. The place was busier than usual tonight, nurses hurrying back and forth and one of the phones ringing while the lone woman at the desk answered another one. She looked seriously stressed out, and Nat felt bad for her. The hospital—or at least the emergency room—always seemed to run short-staffed.
Pam walked fast. Nat jogged to catch up, and followed her into the second to last cubicle on the left.
His dad was lying curled on his side on the narrow ER stretcher, eyes heavy-lidded and dozy. The lines of stress and pain that had aged him beyond his fifty-three years had eased enough for Nat to catch a glimpse of the strong, smiling man he’d been before his wife’s death and the logging accident had killed his spirit.
Throat tight, Nat went to his father’s side and perched in the chair next to the stretcher. “Dad?”
> His father blinked a couple of times and focused on Nat’s face. “Oh. Hi, Nat.”
So casual. As if he hadn’t gotten himself hauled off to the hospital without even telling his son. Nat bit back his frustration. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were working. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Jesus. Nat scrubbed both hands over his face. “Yeah. Well, next time, don’t worry about that. Just call. Okay?” He didn’t even consider mentioning the whole business with Uncle Jeff. Now wasn’t the time.
“’Kay.” His dad’s voice came out slurred. He gave Nat a slow-motion smile. “Didn’t mean to worry you. Sorry.”
The really annoying part was: he meant it. Now, after the fact. And after the drugs.
Before Nat could get any words past the angry-relieved-sad-wounded rock lodged in his chest, someone knocked on the half-open door, then strode inside. He didn’t know her, and he’d thought he knew every doctor and nurse in this ER by now. He rose, putting on his meeting the doctor face.
“You must be Nat.” Smiling, she held out a hand, which he shook. Her grip was firm and cool. Reassuring. “I’m Dr. Willett.”
“Yeah. Hi.” He glanced at his dad’s blissed-out face, then back at the doctor he didn’t know. “You new here?”
Her eyebrows rose. “I’ve worked at this hospital for two months now. But I have nearly fifteen years of experience in emergency medicine. I can assure you that your father’s care is in capable hands.”
He let out a nervous laugh, his cheeks heating. “That’s not what I meant.” Only it sort of was, not that he would admit it. He rubbed the back of his neck, where the tension of the day had his muscles in a knot. “We’ve been here so many times, I thought I knew pretty much everybody.”
Understanding lit her brown eyes. She nodded. “I see. Well, if you’d like to step out into the hall, Nat, we can discuss your father’s case while he rests.” She aimed a warm smile at Nat’s father when he rolled over and blinked at her. “Sleep if you can, Mr. Horn. Your son and I will be right outside.”
“You’re the boss, Doc.” With a crooked thumbs-up, Nat’s dad curled onto his side again, shut his eyes, and relaxed into instant sleep.
Nat watched with a mix of love and despair that cut him to the bone. “I wish he could do that at home.”
“So he hasn’t been sleeping well?” The doctor’s gaze was sword-sharp.
“Not lately, no.” He didn’t mention that lately included the last year and a half, at least. He wasn’t sure why he kept it to himself. Probably because he didn’t trust people he didn’t know.
“Nat? Is there something else you want to tell me?”
He made himself meet Dr. Willett’s too-intense stare. “What did he ask you to give him?”
“Vicodin.” She moved out of the way so a nurse could push a hunched older woman in a wheelchair down the hall toward X-ray. “Your father has been in this ER multiple times for complaints of uncontrolled pain.”
“Yeah.” Nat stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. His whole body felt stiff. Tense. “He’s not faking. He was in a logging accident four years ago. He had a lot of injuries, including a broken back. The doctor said he has nerve damage too. He hurts all the time.”
Her features softened with a pity he hated worse than the searching suspicion. “I know his pain is real. That’s the true hell of addiction for those like your father, who started down that road from an injury or illness. They develop such a high tolerance for the drug that it takes more and more of it to help the pain, while they become physically and psychologically dependent on it. An addict can literally be at the point with a drug where they have to take enough of it to make them unconscious before they get any relief from their pain.” She crossed her arms, looking thoughtful. “His records state that he’s allergic to oxycodone. Is this a true allergy, or is it more of a poor tolerance? Because we can mitigate symptoms like stomach upset, and oxy could potentially provide him with much better pain control.”
Nat shook his head. “No, it’s a real allergy. His doctor tried that in the first year. It made him break out in hives.”
“Oh. Well, we can’t risk it, then.”
An invisible hand closed over Nat’s chest and squeezed. He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. “How do I help him?”
“The best thing for him is a recovery program. But,” she continued before he could say a word, “I realize that addiction services are difficult to find and rarely covered by insurance, especially worker’s comp. It’s the same with other mental health services, sadly.” She let out a deep sigh. “There’s a support group that meets at the outpatient physical therapy center once a month, if you can talk him into it. I know it’s not very convenient for you. I wish there was something closer, but there isn’t.”
Nat shrugged. “It’s okay. I appreciate the suggestion anyhow.”
“I intend to prescribe him a muscle relaxer that he hasn’t taken before, so hopefully that’ll help some. Also, I’m going to recommend that his primary physician take him off Vicodin entirely and start him on something that doesn’t include acetaminophen. Long-term use could damage his liver, especially with his continued drinking. Which he should definitely stop, by the way.”
Nat couldn’t even feel annoyed by her frown. Over the last four years, he’d become the responsible adult in his home. Wasn’t it at least partially his fault that his disabled father somehow kept getting hold of alcohol?
He laughed, sounding as tired as he felt. “Yeah, well. So far I haven’t been able to stop his old friends from bringing him beer. I think I need a bodyguard for him or something.”
Her frown eased into sympathy. “I wish there were more I could do.”
So did Nat, though he was grateful for even this much. All the other docs here had gotten so used to Jerome Horn’s recurrent presence that they generally gave him a few days’ worth of his usual meds and sent him on his way. A new drug, new pain control recommendations, and the offer of a support group, no matter how far from home it was—how long had that been available, anyway? Why hadn’t anyone told him about it before?—felt like a splash of cold water on a hot day.
He didn’t tell the nice doctor that there wasn’t any worker’s comp involved. Not anymore. Not after the demon bastards had told his dad he was perfectly capable of going back to work—as long as it wasn’t logging, which was all he knew how to do—and stopped paying his bills. When his long-term disability insurance through the logging company had kicked in—disability, fuck you very much, worker’s comp—it’d covered a fair chunk of his medical bills, but not enough. Now if his stubborn father would only admit he needed treatment for depression and addiction, and accept the available help, maybe things would finally take a turn for the better.
Since Dr. Willett wasn’t interested in the whole sob story, Nat nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll talk to him about the support group. Thanks.”
She patted his shoulder and strode off toward the desk. Alone in the bustle of the emergency room, Nat leaned against the wall. God, he was tired. So tired of the whole damn thing. He tried to take it a day at a time, but sometimes it felt like he and his dad would never get off this crazy treadmill of drugs and ER visits and borderline poverty. If Nat could make his dad whole and well for good, he’d do it, whatever it took.
Because then you wouldn’t have to babysit him anymore.
An ugly thought, maybe, but Nat couldn’t deny its truth. Not that it mattered, since he didn’t have magic powers, and couldn’t fix anything.
With a great effort, he pushed away from the wall and went back to his father’s bedside.
“So then, Alicia slaps him in the face.” Solari let loose a gleeful cackle. “I love this role. Truly, I do.”
Amused, Rafael grinned at her. “You didn’t really slap him, did you?”
Horror flooded her face, making him laugh. “Oh, Rafael, you know better than that. I would never, even if it was allowed. Levi’s a lovely man. I’
d never want to slap him.”
Rafael was about to ask her how lovely she thought the admittedly hunky Levi Pritchard was and what her girlfriend would think of that—teasing, of course—when Nat slid into the plastic chair beside Solari and plunked his tray onto the table. “Hi, guys.”
“Hi, Nat.” Solari squeezed his shoulder. “Are you all right? You look ready to do murder.”
She wasn’t wrong. Nat’s pale cheeks burned with two red blotches, and those gorgeous wolf eyes shot furious sparks. Rafael fought the urge to reach across the table and take his hands. “Is something wrong?”
Nat shrugged. “No more than usual.” With that cryptic half admission, he hunched over his tray and picked at his pasta salad.
Rafael exchanged a meaningful look with Solari. They both knew Nat had been hiding something from day one. Some sort of trouble in his life that he didn’t want them to know about. Both of them—okay, mostly Solari—had nudged before, asking if Nat was okay. Usually, he said fine. When asked if anything was wrong, he’d say no.
Today’s No more than usual was a stark confession in contrast. Maybe it meant he was ready to talk about whatever was bothering him.
Rafael opened his mouth to say . . . What? He didn’t know. Something encouraging.
Solari’s phone played the Jaws theme at full volume. She scowled as she shut it off. “Well, that’s my official ten-minute warning.” She stood, shoving her chair back. “I’m off to makeup. Rafael, you don’t need to worry about being on set for a while, but I think Carter will need you in an hour or so.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
“Nat. I’ll see you later.” She dropped a quick kiss on the top of Nat’s head, then hurried off.
Rafael tried not to laugh at the comically startled expression on Nat’s face, but totally failed. He snickered behind his hand.
Nat glared. “What’s so funny?”
“Your face. I mean,” Rafael clarified when Nat’s eyes narrowed, “you looked so shocked, that’s all.”