Page 44 of Rock Bottom

“Then I suppose someone else gave you that love bite on your neck.”

I flushed and pulled my collar up.

Wattson turned back to his patient. “Either way, I don’t care as long as you’re getting tested and using a condom.”

“Pretty sure they call it a rubber across the pond, Doc,” Bowie said, grinning widely.

“Shut up, Bowie,” both Wattson and I said at the same time.

Wattson finished drawing two vials of blood from Dante’s arm and quickly patched him up before he let us take him out of the car. Rather than haul him upstairs, I had him brought into my room where Wattson took his vitals again.

“He seems stable.” Wattson dropped Dante’s wrist but didn’t take off his gloves, which meant he wasn’t done.

“But?” I encouraged.

“But I haven’t had a chance to test the sample I took.” Wattson went to the desk where he’d dumped his medical supplies and sifted through them for a small, handheld meter.

Bowie crossed his arms. “That looks like my grandma’s glucose meter.”

“It’s based on similar technology, except this one measures the amount of ethanol in the blood instead of glucose. Much faster than waiting on a lab, but a little less accurate. Should give us a general idea of what we’re dealing with, though.”

“Speaking of, any news back on Church’s tea?” Bowie asked, crowding in to watch Wattson work his magic.

Wattson looked at me and shook his head. “Should know soon, though.”

I wasn’t interested. All I cared about was Dante.

I pulled the chair away from the desk and sat in it, staring at Dante’s pale, unconscious body. Why did you go? Why with Oscar? I thought he made you uneasy. Was I wrong? Or were you just that desperate for someone to listen? I’m such an idiot. You were right here, and I was miles away dealing with my own problems when I should’ve been here for you.

Wattson’s meter beeped. “Huh. That’s odd.”

“Do it again,” Bowie urged. “That can’t be right.”

“What’s wrong?” I stood, going on high alert.

The machine beeped again. “It’s saying his BAC is point zero four, but that’s impossible. He’d barely even be buzzed. The test is inaccurate, but not that inaccurate.”

“Dude’s passed out cold and not even over the legal limit?” Bowie tipped his hat back to scratch his head, and they looked at each other.

“What does that mean?” I pressed. “To someone who isn’t an alcoholic or hasn’t dealt with one?”

“It means,” said Wattson, gathering up his things, “I need to run more tests. We can be sure of one thing, though. Whatever did this to him wasn’t alcohol. What kind of drug user was he?”

Bowie crossed his arms and shrugged. “My money’s on oxy. Rich kids love their pill parties.”

“No track marks on his arms, so I doubt he was using intravenously.” Wattson picked up a bottle of Narcan, walked over and sprayed it into Dante’s left nostril.

Bowie leaned over him. “How long until it works?”

Wattson frowned and looked down at the spray in his hand. “If it was oxy, we’d have a pissed off rockstar about now.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded.

“Means it’s not heroin, fentanyl, Vicodin, oxy, or meth.” Wattson returned to his bag, packing more supplies back into it. “Which means I don’t know what it is.” He snapped his bag closed. “Either way, my medical advice is the same. Keep him breathing. If he stops or has a seizure, you call an ambulance, not me.”

“But Boone said—”

“I don’t care what Boone said,” Wattson barked, cutting me off. “If you call me, he’s dead, and you can tell Boone I said so. I’d rather have a pissed off boss than a dead patient.” He picked up his bag and walked out of the bedroom.

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