Page 50 of Repairing the Wreckage

“Thanks.” I don’t have the energy to walk him out, but the door closes behind him with a click.

I strip down, no longer caring if the camera’s still recording, and shuffle into the bathroom. While I was at the clinic someone filled the tub with ice. It’s melted enough for a cold plunge, but my most sensitive parts are strongly opposed to the idea, even if it might help speed up the healing process.

Instead, I hobble into the shower, flip on the hottest water I can stand, and get in.

Thirty minutes later, I return to the bedroom. Damn, I’m going to miss that shower. The hot water never seems to run out.

Someone stopped by while I was turning myself into a prune. A bunch of stuff that wasn’t here earlier is scattered over the desk and chair.

I tuck my towel around my waist and shuffle across the room. An industrial-sized bottle of Tylenol. Tubes, bottles, and tins of pain relief creams, gels, and ointments. Ice packs of various sizes shaped for different parts of the body. It’s like the world’s most depressing gift basket. At least the ice packs are cold. And a low, unfamiliar hum draws my attention to a slim refrigerator/freezer combo now installed in the corner of the room.

“That would’ve been helpful three months ago,” I grumble as I walk across the room to check it out.

It’s stocked with a tray of cold cuts and cut fruit, hard boiled eggs, bottles of muscle milk, juice, and water.

I grab an egg and water, choke them down, then hit the Tylenol bottle.

The freezer has another set of ice packs up top. I grab one designed to wrap around the ankle, one for my knee, and one for my shoulder and carry them to the bed.

Once I have the ice packs arranged on my aching parts, I pick up my phone and turn it on. A barrage of texts flash on the screen. Several from my mother—at least she’s alive—who apparently forgot I told her I’d be away at the reality show and needed money. None of her many messages ask if I’m okay. I don’t bother replying.

None from Molly. Not even a “fuck you for cheating on me” text. Maybe that’s a good sign? Probably not. She knew I wouldn’t have my phone on me.

I’m too tired to look at anything else. I send a group text to Eraser, Vapor, and Remy to let them know I should be headed home tomorrow.

I tap out a text to Molly and my thumb hovers over the send button. Finally I hit it.

Me: On my way home tomorrow. Miss you bad.

Three dots blink, blink, blink as if the message isn’t going through.

I check the text I sent to the guys. That was delivered.

Vapor: Let me know when.

Me: K

Remy: I’ll stop by your place on my way to work and leave keys.

Me: I’m fucked up. Not going anywhere.

I snap a pathetic selfie, send it, then set my phone down.

The ice packs are more annoying than helpful now. My bleary eyes swing toward the fridge. I should toss the packs back in the freezer but it’s too much trouble to get up.

Sleep.

I click the lamp off and roll over.

The Tylenol barely dulls the pain but at last I fall into the frantic tumble of sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Griff

The driver rolls the blacked-out SUV to a stop at the curb. He turns his head and lifts his eyebrows as if to say, “you live in this dump?”

“This is it.”

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