Page 5 of Puck Your Charity

The walls around me dissolve, taking the yellow suns and painted cartoon animals with them. The ten-year-old boy in thegold and black jersey fades away, replaced by a much smaller room with pale pink walls. A tiny girl drowns in oversized hospital blankets.

Loren.

The smell of bleach suffocates me. My memory drags me back to a plastic chair just like the one in the corner. My fingers go numb recalling the feel of a small, cold hand while the doctors rushed in. The exact second that the beeping turned into a solid, endless tone plays on a torturous loop in my head.

The flashback crushes my chest, making it impossible to pull oxygen into my lungs. My vision tunnels until all that remains are those clear plastic tubes.

A frantic beat hammers against my ribs, and cold sweat breaks out across my forehead. My stomach pitches with the sudden, violent need to vomit.

Spinning on my heel, my shoulder clips the wooden doorframe. The jolt of pain barely registers as I break into a dead sprint.

The brightly lit corridor blurs past as I shove through a rolling cart of supplies. A nurse shouts something, but the rushing noise inside my ears drowns her out. Escape is the only thought I have left. I have to get outside into the fresh air before this tomb suffocates me completely.

Hitting the double doors at the end of the ward, I burst into the stairwell and take the concrete steps three at a time. Echoes bounce off the walls like gunshots from my shoes.

Reaching the ground floor, my shoulder smashes into the exit bar, sending the metal door flying open.

Bright afternoon sun blinds me the second I stumble out into the back parking lot. Even with the concrete radiating warmth, my entire body feels plunged into a frozen lake.

Ripping the zipper of my gold and black tracksuit jacket down, the fabric tears off my shoulders and hits the asphalt. My fingersclaw at the collar of my t-shirt. Bending over with my hands resting on my knees, I gasp for air.

It smells like exhaust fumes and hot tar.

My hands shake violently, so I squeeze my eyes shut and force a count on my breaths.In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

The panic attack recedes, leaving behind a hollow, aching void in my chest. Standing up straight, the back of my hand wipes the cold sweat away from my forehead.

My pulse still pounds. Frustration settles in my gut. I hate losing control.

The hallway argument echoes in my memory. Complaining about the smell and the charity visit felt easier than admitting my terror. Anger works as the perfect shield to keep people away and stop their questions.

Did that woman hear any of it?

Her image flashes in my mind. Standing in the hallway with her arms crossed over those navy scrubs, her dark hair fell in a sleek, blunt bob around her face. A fierce, protective energy commanded the space around her.

She looked beautiful.

I definitely looked like a total maniac sprinting out of her patient's room. I wrecked the entire mood before anyone evensettled in.

My jaw tightens. I refuse to stand in a parking lot and dissect my mental breakdown. I need a distraction. I need a drink. Reaching into the pocket of my trackpants, my fingers pull out my phone. I open the group chat with Malcolm, Lawrence, and Finn.

VICTOR:

I had to get out of there. Meet me at Phera when you finish with the kid. Let's get drinks. I'll be in the VIP section.

I hit send and pick up my jacket before I order a car to pick me up and take me to the club.

The bass thumps through the soles of my sneakers. The upscale nightclub, Phera, pulses with neon lights and a crush of sweaty bodies on the dance floor. Sitting in a curved, dark leather booth in the secluded VIP section on the second floor, a velvet rope and two large bouncers separate me from the chaos below.

Staring at the amber liquid in my glass, the ice cubes clink against the crystal as I swirl the expensive whiskey. A long swallow burns a welcome path down my throat.

It does nothing to numb the self-hatred festering in my gut.

Hours passed since I fled the hospital. Stewing in my toxic thoughts the entire time, the scene in the hallway played on an endless loop. Olive’s brown eyes burned into my memory. The heat of her judgment felt as real as the exact shade of gray on the kid's face.

The velvet curtain shifts. Three familiar giants duck their heads and step into the dim booth.

Malcolm, Finn, and Lawrence slide onto the leather bench across from me. They fill the space with their sheer size and their combined scent. The crisp citrus notes of our pack blend mingle with the smell of the bar.