Page 21 of Unchained

Standing, she grabbed the ice bucket from the top of the mini-fridge and went to the bathroom. After filling it with lukewarm water and grabbing a washcloth, she returned to the bed. She set the bucket on the nightstand and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Brooks, we need to get your shirt off and cool you down.”

He didn’t move.

“Brooks?”

He dropped his hand away from his face and pushed into a sitting position on the side of the bed. His weight teetered, and he folded forward. She pressed her hands into his chest, stopping him from taking her down. “Hey, you need to sit up,” she said, gasping. Her arms threatened to buckle.

His unfocused gaze crawled up her body. “You need to go.” His voice broke with desperation. Tears mingled with his lashes.

Her heart constricted. The moisture left her mouth. She took in his sallow, gray skin, the crinkle in his brow. Heard the waver in his voice. He caught her arms, pinning them to her sides.

“Please, dammit. Just go—I don’t want to fucking hurt you.” He spoke the last part through clenched teeth.

She wiggled free from his hold and brought her palms to his cheeks. “I’m staying with you.”

He hung his head, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her waist and burrowed his face into her neck. His soft sobs ripped at her heart. Running her hands over his shoulders, down his back, then up to his hair, she murmured softly, “It’s going to be okay. You’ll get through this. Just breathe . . .”

Minutes dallied on. Slowly, he pulled away, his gaze lowered.

“I’m going to get this shirt off you, okay?” She caught the hem and tugged it up. He lifted his arms, and she pulled it over his head. Tossing it to the floor, she took in the sight before her. Later, she’d make a point of examining the ink that decorated his upper body, but at the moment, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his stacked muscles. Bandages still covered his midsection.

She eased him back onto the bed. He lay his head on the pillows so it was slightly elevated. She sat beside him and dipped the washcloth into the water. After wringing out the excess moisture, she wiped his forehead then his cheeks, taking care to avoid his bruises. Most of his cuts had healed. Weird.

“That’s nice,” he said. His voice had taken on a dreamy quality. He blinked heavily.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered.

He obeyed. His hand moved across the mattress. He brought his palm to her knee, and his fingers cupped the inside of her thigh. A low hum started beneath her flesh. She pushed it from her mind.

“Cam,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“Mmm?”

“Tell me something. About you, please.” He spoke softly, his request desperate, like that of a child struggling with a nightmare and begging for one more story.

She relaxed her shoulders and moved the cloth over his pec. There was little she could do to take his pain away. All she could do was help him through each wave of the withdrawal—and if her voice helped, she’d tell him anything.

“Okay.” Several beats passed. “When I was young, my sister got pregnant. She had a little boy named Isaac. It was tough for Stacey, my sister. And it was especially tough for Isaac, not knowing his biological dad. . .”

Soft breaths broke through Brooks’ lips.

She continued talking until he drifted off to sleep. She’d let herself get sucked back to thoughts of her family. Of Isaac. Of her sister’s tragic death and Isaac’s rage and hatred toward her mother. Drugs hadn’t conquered Isaac’s pain. They’d only intensified it and his need for revenge on someone—anyone he could blame.

Guilt made her press her lips together. She was to blame.

* * *

Nausea hit Brooks with the force of bowling balls smashing together. He shivered. His teeth chattered. He rolled to his side and curled his arms around his waist. Wetness coated his skin, making his arms stick to his abdomen. He hadn’t been sick since he was a kid, but the wrenching of his intestines was bringing back vicious memories of high fevers. His mom had given him ice-cold baths. He kept grasping for her face, but every time it came into focus, the image floated away.

The withdrawal.

Jesus.

He cracked open his eyelids. A bucket with a washcloth dangling over the edge sat on the nightstand. A blurry sheen covered his vision. The bed tilted beneath him, and his body threatened to roll off the side of it. He gripped the nightstand, anchoring himself so he could drag his foggy gaze around the rest of the cheap motel room.

Cam. Had she left? He’d told her to, dammit. He couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t signed up to care for a junkie. He yearned for her presence, for her touch and voice, the one beacon in this nefarious sea.

The click of the bathroom door opening reached his ears, but he couldn’t turn in the direction of the sound. The quick rustling of footsteps followed.

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