Page 67 of The Darkness Within

Compassion and sympathy tug at my heart. She lost her son and her husband in the same month. Now she’s faced with maintaining a house all by herself, something she’s never had to do before. She’s lost. A lot like Nash. Speaking of, I look up to find him staring at me, a curious but amused smile teasing his lips.

“Are you planning a hot date?”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “It’s…Violet. She wants to know if you enjoyed her gift.”

“Please tell her how much it meant to me.”

“I’ve got to find a handyman to take care of some things at her house,” I mention, glancing at my screen to see if she’s responded.

“I can do it,” he blurts.

Fuck. He’s getting in deeper and deeper. But is he in over his head?

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can figure it out. Let me help her.”

“Nash, we’ve talked about this. I’m not sure you’re ready.”

His hand curls into a white-knuckled fist. “Brewer, I need this. My life can’t just be about meetings and meds. I need this,” he implores, begging with his eyes.

Like I can say no to anything he asks. Especially when he looks at me like this. “Let me think about it.”

“Why don’t you ask Violet how she feels about it?”

Manipulative bastard. Always searching for a loophole.

There’s a joke about addicts and how they’re all qualified to chair the Ways and Means Committee because every addict excels at finding ways and means to get what they want.

“I said I’ll think about it,” I insist in my most stern sponsor voice.

I’m not just his sponsor, though, I’m his therapist, and his friend. I’m concerned for him on every level, afraid of making one wrong step that will set him back in his recovery. It’s a huge responsibility to carry on my shoulders, but there’s no one else I would trust with it. He’s in good hands with me.

Oh God, don’t think about your hand on the back of his head last night. Don’t go there while he’s sitting across from you.

“I’m going to go take a shower, and then I’m going to turn in for the night,” I say, hoping to escape before I say or do something I’ll regret.

Two hours later, I’m wide awake, staring at the shadows that dance across my ceiling. Have I become so dependent on Nash sleeping beside me that I can’t rest without him? Or is it just pure, unadulterated longing that keeps me awake?

Leave him alone, Brewer. Let the man rest, let him recover.

Fuck it. I grab my phone off the nightstand.

You awake?

No answer. Fifteen minutes later, and there’s still no answer, yet I know he’s awake. He’s always awake. I didn’t add a sedative to his cocktail tonight. He’s slowly weaning off them, and without them, there’s no way he can just knock out.

Damn it, what if he’s having an episode? What if he’s scared and suffering, stuck in the past and can’t find his way back? What if he needs me?

I can’t waste another minute on what if. Not if Nash needs help.

Climbing out of bed, I make my way upstairs, down the hall, to his room. When he doesn’t answer the third knock, I quietly slip inside.

Jesus Christ.

“Jesus Christ! Knock first,” Nash shrieks.

“I did, three times.” Nash, shirtless and definitely wide awake, has his hand down his pants, and I don’t need a degree in psychology to know what he’s doing. “I’ll just go…” Does that mean it’s working?

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