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“Yeah,” he agreed, “you did. “Are you clean now?”
I rubbed the spot on my inner arm.
“Last night,” I said, and my throat and chest seized up on me. “I think. I only did the one dose—really. I was going to do another one when I woke up, but I came here instead.”
He stood up and came around the desk, grabbed my wrist, and then flipped my arm over to look at the bruises from the multiple punctures. His fingers covered my wrist, and he looked at his watch for a few seconds. He flashed one of those lights in my eyes and generally checked me out. Without a word, he grabbed an alcohol swab and cleaned off the spot on my inner arm.
“You dosed a hell of a lot more than once.” His eyes bore into me.
“I guess it’s been a few days.” My stomach lurched a little. “I’m not really sure how many.”
“You still have the stuff at your apartment?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
Dr. Baynor picked up the phone and told whoever was on the other end to cancel his appointments or move them all to another doctor. He grabbed his keys out of his jacket pocket and motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
He did, in fact, drive a Lexus, and I warned him about parking it in my neighborhood, but he didn’t seem to give a shit. There were a couple of teens in the parking lot behind the apartment, and he told them he’d give them each fifty bucks if his car was untouched when he came back out. The two kids shrugged, agreed, and sat down on the curb near where he had parked.
As soon as we walked into the place, Baynor glanced around, saw the shit on the table, and immediately went for it. He grabbed the magazine with the mostly crushed rock in the middle of it, picked it up carefully, and moved over to the sink. He was way too quick for me to make any comment before he washed it down, soaking the paper in the process, which I guessed was the idea.
He picked up the needle and examined it.
“Was this new at least?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It was wrapped.”
“So you aren’t completely stupid,” he said, “just mostly stupid.”
He shoved the capped needle and tubing into a paper bag, which he rolled up and shoved into his pocket. His other hand reached into the other pocket where he pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple hundred on the table.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m buying your drugs,” he told me. “I’m guessing at the street price of that much, as well as how much you used already.”
He was actually pretty accurate.
“Do I need to admit you to the hospital?” he asked.
“I’m not really jonesin’,” I told him. Another easy lie. “I just…I don’t want to think.”
I leaned heavily against the wall between the kitchen and the living room. I tried not to think of how much I liked holding Tria against it, but memories of our first kiss came back to me. The night of my cousin’s wedding followed right after.
“What do you want now, Liam?” Dr. Baynor asked.
“Tria,” I said without hesitation.
“What are you willing to do to get her?” he asked.
“I can’t…I can’t think about this shit,” I told him.
“What shit?” he asked.
“Any of it.”
“Having a child?”
