by Davida Lynn
Copyright © 2014 by Davida Lynn. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Acknowledgements
A big shout out to my writing partner Rayna Bishop, my faithful companion in stories. She keeps me honest.
To my grandfather, who was there when I began writing, but not when I finished.
Also by Davida Lynn
Brutal
Alicia didn't belong here. She wasn't looking for love or thrills. She wasn't looking for a biker. She just wanted to survive. Maverick was part of a different world. Smart and devastatingly sexy, he was a bad boy biker who walked unscathed through the valley of sex, crime, and death. He was her best chance at living to see another day.
They never expected to fall in love...
“...And number two, microcytic anemias can also be sideroblastic anemias. Myelodysplastic syndrome. All very rare.”
It was halfway through my Hematology and Oncology class when I got the text. The long-haired kid next to me gave me a glare, but he was back to his laptop in an instant. I ignored the loud vibration and continued typing.
I thought it was probably Jess or Layne planning a study session. All three of us had been struggling with oncology terminology, and we could use the practice. We’d be interns soon, and the last thing any of us wanted was the embarrassment of mixing up something simple.
When my phone buzzed again, I sighed and rolled my eyes. Dr. Abraham’s lecture wasn’t the most interesting, but it was crucial stuff. I decided to silence my phone until the end of class. Even as I yanked it from my narrow pocket, it shook again. Three texts? I gave the hippie kid an apologetic glance. He opened his eyes wide at me before facing forward again.
I hit the button to turn on the screen. Three messages, all from Nick. Before I could even unlock my phone to see what he’d said, the screen lit up. He was calling.
The vibration caused the long hair sitting next to me to turn again. This time he'd had enough.
“Can you not?” His disdain dripped like venom down fangs.
I felt sweat on my brow. I rushed to hit ignore as I mouthed “sorry.” Whatever Nick wanted, he could tell me in a message.
I put the phone in silent mode and dropped it into my lap. With the face down, I wouldn’t even be distracted by the flashing light telling me I was wanted.
Dr. Abraham had my attention again, but not for long. Nick barely ever texted or called, and when he did, it was usually to tell me some useless information, ask for money, or send me some picture that was only funny to him when he was baked out of his mind. A cat stuck in a box, or maybe a painting that Nick thought looked like Jesus when you crossed your eyes.
An hour later, class wrapped up. I had gotten absorbed in the exciting world of blood diseases, and until I looked down at my phone, Nick’s messages had escaped my mind.
When I switched it on, my heart allowed panic set to in. I had twelve texts and three missed calls, one voicemail, and they were all from my brother.
The texts started off pretty standard. He needed help. He needed money. They were the same texts I often ignored. Med school didn’t exactly leave me rolling in cash, and I wasn’t in the habit of enabling a junkie.
At least he wasn't begging me for prescriptions already. Nick had joked that he would be so proud to have a dealer in the family. It always reminded me why I hadn’t been home in nearly ten years.
As I scrolled down, though, the messages began to worry me. He said he owed people money and they were running out of patience.
The last text was the one that got me. Hope, they aren’t messing around. I fucked up big time.
He almost never used proper grammar or my name. I realized it was serious.
I looked around and saw the lecture hall was almost empty. I slid my laptop into my bag, and as I stood up, I listened to the message.
“Look, I know you think I’m a dirt bag. Don't worry; I do too.”
I heard the drugs in his voice. He was slurring his words and having a hard time staying focused. I was used to Nick in his natural environment. The disappointment and embarrassment had long faded away.
“I borrowed some money from these guys, which was a retarded move. I know them through Kevo, and he said they were good guys. They were not good guys. I’m on some pretty bad shit right now, Hope, and like, now apparently I owe them ten grand.”
My temple throbbed, and maybe my anger made me think he could hear me. “Goddammit, Nick.”
His recording interrupted me his voice getting shakier like the ice around him was cracking, “I got no one else. I got no one, Hope.” There was a crash that actually made me jump before I realized it was part of the message.
“Sorry, almost dropped the phone in my cereal. But for real, Hope. I don’t know what to do. This guy, Beezer—Jesus, that’s his fuckin’ name. Beezer’s sending dudes for me, and I’ve got nothing. I don’t know what he’s gonna do. I totally get it if you don’t come down. I guess I called to let you know what happened.”
I stood near the doorway, trying to comprehend Nick’s voicemail. I hated every time he contacted me. Despite doing my best to distance myself from my old life and my terrible family, he would never let me go completely.
What I wanted more than anything in the world was to delete the message and get on with my life. I wanted to forget about my childhood and all the pain that my brother reminded me of with every interaction.
I couldn’t do it, though. Maybe that was why I was going to become a doctor: I just couldn’t give up on people.
Knowing I was probably making a mistake, I called my friend Layne and prepared my best groveling voice. When she picked up, it was showtime.
“Layne,” I said, my voice as cheery as a nursery rhyme, “what would you say to a large pizza with everything on it, and the amazing brownies that you get from Little Pizza King?”
“I’d say you were up to something.” She knew me well. I bribed food for favors too often. I noted that I’d have to think of some other means in the future.
I kept the sweet voice on, but soured it with the truth, “My brother is in trouble, and I think I need to travel down to Bakersfield to see what’s up.” I paused, trying to find the right words. How do you describe the soul-crushing obligation to family?
“I guess… I guess it’s my duty.” The word fell from my mouth like a dead tooth. It confused and hurt me. It was something I never wanted to have to say.
“Hey, it’s no problem. The car’s yours. Family is family.”
I was grateful as I hung up, but Layne didn’t know my family. They say blood is thicker than water. Where I come from, the blood is as thick as concrete and will pull you to the bottom of a lake if you let it settle.
***
Not too long after I heard Nick’s desperate voicemail, I was on the road. Two hours due south on the highway felt like I was crossing the Rubicon. I felt the weight of my past get heavier with every mile I drove. Each mile marker was a memory coming back from the dead.
Bakersfield was not just four hours south—it was ten years in the past. It was flashes of my abusive father. It was the late nights of screaming matches between my parents.
I tried to shake the voices from my head. The plan was to solve Nick’s problems as soon as possible and get back before missing any more classes.
I knew I couldn’t solve the drug problem, but I really didn’t care to. Nick had been running with the wrong crowd ever since middle school, just after our mom left. Dad
was gone most of the time, and I could only do so much to keep Nick on the straight and narrow.
Once he fell in with some of the tough kids in school, it was all downhill. My younger brother stopped coming home for days at a time, his grades dropped, and it wasn’t long before he started doing drugs. Our father didn’t exactly instill hard work and discipline into Nick, and once he found those kids, any bit of drive he had faded out.
I let out a groan when I passed the “Bakersfield: 23 miles” sign. Ever since high school, I had done my best to get as far from my hometown as possible. Undergrad was an hour away, and med school even further. Bakersfield left an acrid taste in my mouth that I wasn’t eager to remember.
Of course, Nick didn’t answer when I called him back. Just one hour after he called me, he was MIA. My anger rose, but then I thought that it might already be too late. Beezer—the name alone was enough to make me regret the trip—may have already come for Nick. I realized that I might be making the trip home to arrange a funeral.
Highway 5 stretched onwards almost without end. Small dying towns would pop up and fade out just as fast. I cursed my compassionate heart for speeding up as I got closer. I could tell myself I didn’t really care, but I’d never convince myself. I had channeled my desire to help others away from my brother and father. I had labeled them as lost causes long before leaving Bakersfield. Maybe it was the Hippocratic Oath wearing me down.
It wasn’t just the town that I was dreading, and it wasn’t just my family. Growing up was a difficult time, and there were people that I wasn’t keen on running into again. Driving past the nice part of town and into a trailer park sent the last bit of my dignity floating away on the wind.
I turned in and had to drive on the wrong side of the street to avoid the huge potholes. Sagging porches were littered with old bikes, scrap metal, and trash. Brand new mobile homes stood beside visibly decrepit models with a permanent layer of grime.
I felt my heart speed up as I turned onto Cherrywood Court. 178 Cherrywood was easy to find; it was the only one left down the small dead end road. The dirty brown trailer flooded my head with memories, and I almost slammed on the brakes to turn around. It was like the closer I got, the more the pain radiated from my past.
A beat-up and rust-infested Chevy sat in the overgrown driveway. I remembered when Nick turned seventeen and Dad gave him the car. My father was so proud to actually give someone a gift. Of course, it was Nick who got the car. Dad already saw me as stuck up and “too good for the family.” He was right.
I kept Layne’s car a safe distance from the trailer, near an old babysitter’s place. I could already envision some panel falling from our roof onto the borrowed car. I couldn’t protect myself from my past life, but I could at least keep Layne’s car safe. Better very safe than sorry.
Beer cans and car parts littered the poor excuse for a lawn. “Jesus, Nick,” I sighed.
Stepping through the weeds, I made my way up the warped boards the led to the front door. There was a metal bowl on the stoop, and I realized that Casper was still around.
When Nick was sixteen, he brought home a stray, and even though my daddy didn’t allow the lab in the trailer, he stayed, oftentimes sleeping underneath the steps. The dog must have been twelve or thirteen by this time.
The hollow thump of my knocks was enough to make me shudder. Ten years earlier, I had felt such soaring pride hearing the door slam for the last time. I’d thought it would be the last time, anyway.
My brother didn’t answer. After a few seconds, though, I did hear the slow clicking of nails on linoleum, and I knew Casper was inside. Looking through the frosted glass window wouldn't do much, so I reached for the knob. The door was dented and bent, and I had to give it a hard pull before it would release.
For a split second, I thought the place was vacant. Aside from a few dirty dishes in the sink, there wasn’t anything around. Stepping inside, I realized it was just the status quo. Stale cigarette smoke and the bitter smell of body odor hit me. It was much stronger than when I had lived there. I was sure the cleaning and groceries stopped after I left.
The old dog looked at me from the living room area. His yellow coat was matted and dull, but his tail wagged slowly, despite his condition. At least he looked well-fed. He ambled over to me, eager for some quality attention, no doubt.
“Good boy,” I said, stepping into the kitchen and finding a sweet spot behind his ears.
The kitchen and living area were one, transitioning seamlessly with trash. I stepped into the trailer, ignoring the smell. Clinicals and work with cadavers had given me an iron nose.
“Nick!” My voice sounded a bit too much like my mother’s.
I looked down the hallway to my left. The shadows painted a morbid picture on the wall. I didn’t hear any sounds, and the living room to the right was empty, save the dirty couch that Dad had proudly hauled from the trash when I was sixteen.
I headed down the hallway, pushing the narrow bathroom door open, but then closed it quick, hoping to keep the demon smells trapped inside. The first bedroom was as empty as the kitchen, but my brother wasn’t in sight. I panicked when I saw a leg dangling off the side of the bed at the end of the hallway.
With Casper at my heels, I made my way down the hall. Moving inside the room, I saw Nick lying flat on his stomach, sprawled diagonally across the bare mattress. My limited training took over, and I began to assess the situation. Worried that he might have been killed, I looked for blood beneath him. There weren’t any stains, and I saw his body rise as he took a slow breath.
When I reached across his body to take a pulse, it all made sense. His left arm was still tied off, and the needle was hanging from his vein. My junkie brother’s pulse was slow, but it was steady.
I found myself talking out loud again, “Goddammit, Nick. Fuckin’ idiot.”
My emergency room hours came back to me, and I carefully took the needle out. The tiny spot of blood would soon heal into just another track on his arm. I destroyed the hypo by bending it on a mirror as I set it next to the mattress with his spoon and the other stuff he needed to shoot up. Casper let out a faint whine.
I turned Nick onto his side, his limp body heavy and taxing for my small frame. By the time I had him somewhat comfortable and safe, my heart was pounding and I felt beads of sweat growing on my brow.
I leaned back against the wall, watching my brother’s chest rise an almost imperceptible amount. After a while, he began to moan, and I knew his high wouldn’t last much longer.
My head fell back against the fake wood paneling. Another shitty memory in the family trailer.
After I caught my breath, I dug through the piles of clothes in the bedroom looking for Nick’s cell. I didn’t know if there’d be anything useful on it, but I was sure he’d have Beezer’s number, at the very least. My first thought was to call the police, even though I knew there wouldn’t be much they could do.
Nothing they could do, actually. I could almost hear the cop on the phone telling me so. Nick probably had quite a reputation with the police. He was starting to get recognized all too often by the time I left. I was sure his star had only risen in the criminal underground since then.
Bakersfield followed the model of most major cities: let the criminals take care of the criminals. No one would care if Nick was killed. He’d be just one less junkie destroying the image of the small tourist town.
I flipped through his last few messages. Just like he said, there was the conversation between him and Beezer about the money.
Uve had a month. Now u have a week.
I can get it to you, bro. I need some time.
Three days later, another one from the dealer. U got the $$$?
Nick hadn’t responded to that one, and the last message that came in was from one day before I arrived. It was short and straight to the icy point: Times up See you in 24. That text came in around six, leaving us down to about twenty hours until the dealer would show up.