Page 131 of Straight to Me

I hesitate before saying my next line, unsure whether I’m ready. “Then meet me somewhere, I’ve just finished work.”

I can hear his deep, shallow breathing.

“I can’t ride.”

“Are you drunk?” My face flushes with anger when he doesn’t immediately answer. How dare he drunk call me during the middle of the day when I’m at work after ignoring my text all week. “Have you been drinking?” I’m fuming as I walk to my car.

“Yes,” he croaks.

“And you thought after drinking was the best time to get back to me?” Again, he remains silent, for far too long. I wait, torn between saying more or simply ending the call. I get in my car and decide to hang up.

“Jack’s dead,” he says before I can.

My phone slips from my hand. Jack’s… Jack, he’s… I sit momentarily numb before driving as fast as I safely can to Preston. Not even knowing where exactly VP is. I start for his house with tears streaming down the sides of my face.

I can only imagine the pain he must be in right now. His cousin, his best friend, is dead? The man who’d saved me, who I never even got to say goodbye to, is gone?

Parking up, I quickly run to his front door. Before I reach it, I see it’s already ajar. Lynn appears from inside, like she’s just arrived as well, making me stop in my tracks.

“Where’ve you been?”

“It's complicated, Lynn. He just called me, but I’m here now.”

She nods, walking back inside. I follow and find his house is a mess. Usually so clean and tidy. I shut the door and call for him, but he doesn’t answer.

I follow Lynn into the kitchen. Mouldy food sits on the side, various dishes she’s brought have been left half eaten. A broken bottle surrounded by smashed glass and blood stains sits in the middle of the kitchen floor. Lynn waves me off to find him and says she’ll take care of things downstairs.

I run to the stairs and take two at a time to his bedroom. There on the floor, face down, he lies unmoving with an empty bottle of Jim Beam still in his hand.

“Shit, Dean!” Crouching down by him and using all my strength, I roll him to his side. “Dean, open your eyes.”

He attempts to roll them open lazily, but to no avail. “Mads?”

“It’s me, now open your eyes.” He gives it another go. “Dean, you idiot. What’ve you done?”

He doesn’t reply.

His body starts jerking, his chest starting to convulse. I hold his head to one side as he projectile vomits the entire bottle of whiskey all over the carpet. Making sure he doesn’t choke on his own sick, I hold him steady until he’s got nothing left to give.

Once he’s done, the room stinks to the high heavens. The rancid smell makes my throat close. I retch, still holding him. “I can’t drag you to the bathroom. Can you get yourself in there or climb into bed?” He shifts to his elbow, opening one bloodshot eye. He looks to me then to his bed.

I help him stand by hooking his arm over my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but the pain in my rib twinges as his weight slumps over my body. He staggers to his feet and I guide him to the bed. I pull back the covers as best I can before his large frame flops to the mattress where I cover him up. He’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Making my way downstairs, I don’t quite make it to the bottom before I drop to sit with tears uncontrollably falling. Everything’s a mess. And Jack… poor Jack. I need to know what happened to him. He was doing fine when we left. Had the Sodom Saviours finished the job? Did he take a sudden turn and not recover? I'll have to wait until Dean has sobered up to find out anything more.

Lynn has taken all the dirty dishes from the kitchen and is nowhere to be seen. I’m grateful to her and that she didn’t see VP like this. I look around at the rest of the mess and decide to get a start on it. It’ll keep my mind busy until I can talk to him.

I take up a glass of water with some painkillers and place the empty bin by the head of the bed, just in case he needs them. He doesn’t stir the entire time I clean his kitchen or when I dispose of all the mess on his completely ruined carpet.

Two hours later, after Lynn brought back his dishes and a fresh pasta bake, I hear him move around upstairs. Another five minutes and he makes his way down.

I get up to put two pieces of bread in the toaster and he stops at the doorway to the kitchen, watching me busy myself.

“What are you doing?” he asks, drained.

“What does it look like.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

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