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“Joey Lynch, you better look at me.”
Blowing out a pained breath, he leaned back in his chair, rested his hands on his lap, and reluctantly looked at me.
All of a sudden it made perfect sense.
The drowsiness.
The lethargy.
The scorching-hot skin.
Eyes as black as coal.
“Oh my god.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
He moved to turn his face away, but I caught his chin between my fingers and forced him to look at me. “What did you take?”
“Nothing,” he argued before releasing a pained breath. “Today.”
“Yesterday?”
He nodded slowly.
“And the day before?”
Another nod.
My heart broke further.
“When did it start?”
Silence.
“When did it start?”
“After I left your place.”
Oh god, no…
“So, we’re talking a week?”
“About that.”
“What was it?” I forced myself to ask. “What did you take?”
“Not what you think.”
“What did you take, Joey?”
“Not that.”
“I didn’t ask you what you didn’t take,” I hissed, heartbroken and furious. “Tell me what you took, dammit.”
His eyes locked on mine and stayed there, focusing on me as best he could, given that he was clearly under the influence. “Just some pills and shit.”
“And shit?” I glared at him. “What does ‘and shit’ consist of? Because I’ve been with you long enough to know that when you say the words ‘pills and shit,’ your meaning can vary wildly.”
