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He sat slumped and asleep on the wooden chair tucked up to the side of the hospital bed. Beside him, the heart monitor beeped and beeped ever so gently. Like a lullaby. And, just before she drifted off again, she saw the bandages around his forearm, where the hunting knife had sunk into, a reminder to Billie of what had happened, that it was all real and not a dream, and that Preston had saved her life. Sacrificed himself, almost died doing so, to save her.
Now—
She opens her eyes. And it’s different again.
Still by her side on the rickety chair, Preston is leaned over the edge of the mattress now, his hand on hers and his forehead balanced on his knuckles as though not quite sleeping but not entirely awake either.
The oxygen mask is gone from her face now. Her skin feels cool against the air-conditioned room, as though not long washed with a wet cloth. Yet, the wires are still clinging to her chest with flat white stickers plastered all over her.
Waking up from however long this sleep was, her breathing must have changed, or at least she moved enough to alert Preston.
She feels the wrinkle of his forming frown disturb their entwined hands. He turns his head to the side and blinks his lashes slowly, coming to.
“Preston,” she whispers a raspy sound from lips that, when moving, feel cracked and pulled too tight. It’s only now she realizes the dryness of her tongue, like her body is hydrated but water hasn’t touched her mouth in days.
Then the second burn, just as Preston lifts his head and turns his weary, inky eyes on her.
Drink.
She’s detoxed.
And the moment that truth sinks in, her toes curl against the rough, scratchy blanket, and her hand grips tight onto Preston’s. Panic lights up her sea-blue eyes, something that Preston reads all too easily.
“Shh.” Hushing her, he leans in to brush his fingertips along her clammy temple. “Everything is ok. You’re safe—”
“Vodka,” she cuts in with a whispery whine. But her voice is pulled so tight like violin strings, and her aching throat feels like it’s been replaced with sandpaper.
Distress has her worming under the blanket, fingernails digging into the smooth, tanned flesh of his hand.
The look he gives her is blank and quiet.
Ink-pot eyes stir with an edge of annoyance, maybe exasperation—but when he blinks his long lashes just once, that edge is gone and he just says, “You’re in the hospital, Billie.”
Her nails cut harder into his hand. “I need… drink…”
“You don’t.” His tone is firm, just like the way he sets his jaw and looks at her. It’s something of a miracle that he can understand her, her raspy words. “You need rest.”
The panic is tickling all the way down to her toes, the only thought in her mind being booze—until she softens against the stiffness.
She doesn’t feel it. The pain of the injuries beneath bandages wrapped around her thigh, her wrist, or the gauze stuck to her forehead. There’s no pain searing at her bones or flesh.
They’ve given her medication to numb the searing agony she should be in. Meds strong enough to numb her body, just as the booze does for her. And just like the booze, it numbs the ache in her heart she should feel—the sober pain she fights off each day sincethatday.
She’s…high.
Jaw still clenched, Preston watches her.
His eyes seem to study every passing feeling, thought and realization that flickers over her face, like he’s reading pages in a book.
“Billie,” her starts, tone stern, but his hand stays clasped with hers, his skin scratched up from her fingernails, “do you remember what happened?”
Her brow pinches.
Only a heartbeat of time passes before it all floods back into her mind in violent, flashing images.
Again, her toes curl and, with a dry swallow, she nods. “You killed him,” she breathes.
Preston’s mouth turns down with a frown. “Who?”
