Page 73 of Embracing Trust

Sweat pours from my brow and my body shakes. Each pop makes me flinch and I gulp a few breaths as I try to stay calm.

I pad quietly up the stairs and take cover behind the kitchen wall as I peer into the living room. All clear. I sneak down the hallway to the source of the roaring sound and the popping. As I move closer to the bathroom, the commotion surges—increasing my awareness.

I charge in front of the bathroom door as I expect to find blood and the enemy. I come across Will, who is using an air-powered stapler to adhere underlayment flooring to the bathroom floor. The air compressor is several yards away.

Will looks up, stops what he’s doing, and sets the stapler down. His eyebrows raise as he studies me. “You feeling okay?”

I blink a few times.

“You don’t look so good, man. Are you sick?” He stands from his kneeling position. “Here, sit down.” He motions toward the toilet.

“I gotta go,” I say as I back away from Will and make a run for the front door. I collide with another worker as he’s entering the front door with several sacks of supplies.

“Whoa.” The worker spins in the doorway as he rights the supplies.

“I gotta go.” I push past him and hurry to my truck.

***

I barely move my body and my head feels like I got hit with an iron skillet. I try to open my eyes.

Where the hell am I?

I open one eye and the light is so bright, it pierces me like a knife. I quickly shut my eye as my brain swims around trying to make a recollection of exactly what I’m doing.

I groan. My mouth is dry like the desert sand and my stomach lets out an angry gurgle. I rub the back of my neck.

Shit, even my hair hurts.

I finally manage to open my eyes and find a nearly empty liquor bottle next to me in bed. I prop myself up on my elbows and recognize the motel room.

I better get up. I need to meet the homeowners soon. Coffee sounds horrible, but if I can drink a few bottles of water and down ibuprofen, I should be set.

Somehow, I manage to sit on the edge of the bed. I glance over at the digital clock and once I see the time, I rip off the covers and leap out of bed.

Shit! It’s after nine o’clock. I was supposed to meet the homeowners at eight.

I grab my cell phone. Two missed texts and a missed call from Patrick.

Patrick: The homeowners are waiting for you at the house. Are you running late?

Patrick’s gonna kill me. I scroll through to the next message.

Patrick: Ryan, what’s going on? The Bellamy’s had to get to work. They couldn’t wait on you anymore. Where the hell are you?

Just as I’m ready to listen to the missed voicemail from my brother, my phone rings.

“Hey,” I say, my voice gravely.

“What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m still at the motel.”

My brother pauses for a moment. “The Bellamy’s had to get to work. You missed the appointment.”

“I know. Sorry about that.”

“What happened?”

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