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Eight
Aidan
The pain was excruciating,radiating up and down my leg, almost hitting my hip, making every part of my lower body throb.
What was worse?
The need for relief.
I wanted an Oxy like a thirsty man needed water.
I wanted the escape.
I wanted the blurred lines—shit, I didn’t just want it. I fucking needed it.
No one should have to live with this.
No fucking one.
I snapped the second I entered the bedroom Conor had given me, slamming my hand into the wall, uncaring that the drywall crumbled, uncaring that it added to what I was already feeling.
The rage was new.
Normally, I just popped a pill. Swallowed relief, taking comfort in the chemicals that fucked with my system. But I couldn’t do that anymore.
I couldn’t.
I’d had the taste of heroin once. I knew why we were wealthy now. I knew how we were filthy fucking rich because one dose of that wicked tincture, and that was it. You had the taste. It wouldn’t leave you. It was with you forever. Haunting you.
Chasing after you, relentlessly. Endlessly. Worse than the pain. Because that triggered more of it, just of a different nature, while you carried on hunting that first high. Nothing, and I mean,nothing, was ever as pure as that original hit.
I’d been clean for forty-one days, and each of those was hard won. The pain, right now, felt all the more acute because Savannah was here.
I remembered the last time we were together. I’d been whole. Normal in myself. Tonight? I felt like I was missing a limb. I felt weak. Hobbling around while she sat there, like a goddamn angel sent to torment me, to remind me of what I’d lost.
I snarled under my breath as a small wave of crumbling plaster fell from the wall, decorating the black marble floor with dust.
As I twisted around, hobbling away from the door, a knock sounded.
My breath froze in my chest, because I knew if that was one of my brothers, they wouldn’t have knocked.
That meant it was Savannah.
Savannah who was more trouble than she was worth.
Savannah who, even bloodied, bruised, was never down for long, and who looked like sin sitting on Conor’s sofa. A sofa that had housed me and my blanket fort. That had seen me sweat into the leather, shuddering and jittering with tremors as I detoxed.
Why did she have to handle my brothers so well?
She’d sat there, somehow regal even though they were acting out. Brennan being a douche, his usual self when he was in front of people, when he wanted to act the big, bad O’Donnelly Fixer. Conor smiling at her, saying he even fucking liked her. I knew why too. She hadn’t doled out any BS to us. He liked the truth. So did I.
What I also knew? From watching her every goddamn morning on TVGM?
She wasn’t always so truthful.
She was, in fact, a liar.
The ditzy airhead she showed the world was a façade. I’d met the shark. I knew what went on behind those pretty brown eyes, and her analytical mind was hot as fuck.
