Rock Bottom

by Canosa, Jamie

  Now and then, food would appear beside the bed, though I never saw who brought it as I drifted in and out of delirium. I possessed no strength to actually eat any of it. The same went for the bottles of water. Just breathing seemed to require more energy than I possessed as fever ravaged my body. Eventually they would be taken away, only to be replaced with more of the same.

  I laid there in agony, staring at the condensation streaking down the side of the water bottle, feeling the sandpaper grit in my mouth, trying to will myself to grab it, but I just couldn’t move. And, after a while, I didn’t want to.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Little by little, as the drugs started to clear my system, mental clarity slowly returned. That was worse than anything I’d been through in the days before. Without the cloudy haze to hide in, I was forced to face the truth. To see myself and what I had become. I didn’t like what I saw.

  Then there were the memories. I could almost live with where I’d ended up, but how I’d gotten there was unforgivable. I’d hurt so many people in my selfish quest to be . . . what? Happy? So much for that.

  My father was a hard man to please and brutally honest in his expectations and disappointments, but he’d only ever wanted the best for, and from, me. I couldn’t escape the words he spoke the day I left. You take one step outside that door you had better be prepared to never come back in it. Those eighteen words plagued my drug riddled brain for months— disownment, abandonment—but they sounded different to me now. They sounded like the idle threat of a frustrated parent that I’d pushed too far. He hadn’t meant it. I knew my father. If I’d just gone back home, he never would have turned me away. Never.

  And my mother . . . My heart broke just thinking about her. I could still see her standing in the driveway, watching me leave. How much must my disappearance have hurt her? Was she sad? Scared? Was she angry with me for my stupid, selfish behavior? Did she blame Dad? Had I destroyed their marriage?

  Angela and Carrie. We’d been friends since kissing a boy would give you cooties. Years of laughter and tears and support. Neither of them deserved the way I treated them in the end. I hoped they hated me enough that my absence meant nothing to them, but I knew it probably wasn’t true.

  And Declan. I’d gotten him suspended from school just for trying to help me, and then couldn’t even bring myself to face him at that party. No wonder Elijah had shown up on that street corner. Why he hadn’t been surprised to find me there. In my self-absorbed brain, I hadn’t even thought to ask. I hadn’t asked him a lot of things. Mainly because I was too much of a coward to hear the answers.

  Elijah. Just the thought of him sent waves of guilt crashing over me. If anyone, anyone, in the history of the universe did not deserve the kind of love and devotion he’d shown, it was me. How he could ever have loved me was a mystery, but he had. Despite all of my unforgivable flaws, he’d loved me. And I’d thrown it away.

  Worse than that, I’d failed him—in the worst possible way. When he’d needed me, when he’d stood right in front of me with the evidence of how much he needed me on his swollen, discolored face, I let him down. I hadn’t loved him enough to be what he needed me to be. I’d been more concerned with my own selfish drama and where I’d get my next hit than the fact that he was standing there, hurting, right in front of me. I’d loved the drugs more than him.

  And me. I’d loved the drugs more than myself, too. I sold myself out—body, mind, and soul—time and time again for just one more hit.

  For that, for all of that, there was no forgiveness.

  I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

  I could never earn forgiveness.

  I’d damned myself into this hell of my own making and that . . .

  That, I deserved.

  In my small windowless cell, I couldn’t find distraction from these thoughts. Not even sleep offered a reprieve from the torments that raced endlessly through my mind. I hated myself with a bitterness I’d never felt toward anyone—not even Rafe. I hated myself.

  As my body grew weaker, so did my will. I knew it had been too long since I’d had anything to eat or drink, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. If I died down there, who would know? Who would care? It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

  I shut my eyes and willed it all to go away. I was tired of fighting. Tired of hurting. I was just so damn tired. Then . . . I heard his voice, quietly shouting for my attention.

  It matters to me.

  Who would care? Elijah would care.

  Despite everything I’d done and failed to do, Elijah would care. He would care. He’d proven as much, and that scarred my heart. Someone still cared about me. I still mattered to someone. I wasn’t lost or forgotten or abandoned like the drugs wanted me to believe. Like I wanted to believe to give myself the excuse I needed to keep using them.

  I was a coward and a fool before. I wouldn’t be again. I wouldn’t take the easy way out. I would try. I would fight. I owed Elijah at least that much.

  Ignoring the agonized screams from my body begging me to be still, I forced myself to open the warm bottle of water and drink. I tried to sip it slowly, knowing my stomach would reject more than a little, but it was difficult not to chug the entire thing. The more I drank, the better I felt. Each time my stomach reacted, I’d make myself stop, breathe, let it settle, and try again. Slowly, I drained the entire bottle, and the soreness in my muscles began to ease. The pounding in my head soothed, and even the storm raging in my stomach seemed to calm.

  For the first time since I’d been in that hellhole, I slept.

  ***

  When I woke again, I wasn’t alone. I had no idea how much time had passed, but my body didn’t hurt so badly. I ached like I’d had a long day at the gym, but nothing like it had been the past few days. My head was sore, yet clear. And my stomach seemed to have found solid footing and expanded back to its normal size.

  “Welcome back.” It was Rafe’s friend—the scarred one—standing over me. “How are you feeling?”

  I wanted to tell him that I felt better—that he could let me go—but all that came out when I opened my mouth was a raspy groan. Probably not the most convincing response, but he bent over to release my restraints, anyway.

  “That good, huh?” He chuckled as he helped me sit upright. I nearly flopped back down on the disgusting mattress in exhaustion, but he caught me and hauled me to my feet. “We’d better get you cleaned up. Rafe will be here soon.”

  I wanted to ask a million questions. Why was Rafe coming? Where were we going? What would happen to me now? But I didn’t, I followed him silently up the basement stairs, using all of my intense focus to simply remain upright. The man led me into a bathroom and turned on the shower, checking to make sure the water was warm enough.

  “You gonna be alright in there on your own, or you need some help?” It didn’t come across as an overtly sexual question, but the thought of letting him see me naked was enough inspire my near violent response.

  “No.” I shook my head adamantly. “I-I’m fine.”

  “If you say so.” He vacated the room, leaving the door open a crack behind him.

  I shut it before stripping off the caked on clothing and stepping into the lukewarm stream of water. Turning it up as hot as I could get it to go, I lingered there until the water ran cold and I began to shiver. Scrubbing my skin to the point of near rawness had removed the grimy sweat and dried vomit, but it wasn’t enough. I washed my hair three separate times, and still I felt dirty. The memories of all of the things I’d allowed to be done to me made me feel rotted . . . inside. Where a shower could never reach.

  How could Rafe expect me to continue to do those things without the drugs? It was cruel. But that wouldn’t matter to Rafe. All he’d ever seen when it came to me was dollar signs.

  The pipes groaned and the drain gurgled when I shut off the shower. Behind the curtain, I found a pile of clothes folded neatly on the toilet seat and that damn door was open again. I shut it and reached for a
towel. The clothes were mine. I recognized them from my closet. That’s how I knew Rafe was there.

  “Look at you! Bright and shiny new.” Rafe practically glowed with excitement when I stepped into the kitchen. “And just in time. I’ve put together a more . . . permanent engagement for you starting tomorrow. For tonight, we’ll just get your feet back under you on the corner. Get a little more practice in.” He winked at me and I nearly vomited. I probably would have if there had been anything left in my stomach at all.

  Shadows were starting to creep into the room and I knew there would be no rest. Evening was falling and Rafe expected me to be ready to work.

  I was more than a little surprised when we made a side trip to the apartment first, but I didn’t bother asking why. It didn’t matter why. Some small part of me desperately hoped he’d taken pity on me and was taking me home to rest. That part was obviously a moron.

  “Look at this.” Rafe thrust several sheets of paper into my hand with barely legible numbers scrawled across it.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Let’s call it . . . your portfolio. It’s a financial statement, outlining your earnings in comparison to the debts you’ve accrued over the past few months.”

  I was no mathematician, but there were an awful lot of negatives on that page. According to the parts I could actually read, I owed him for housing, food, clothing, other supplies, and of course, the heroin, which didn’t come cheap. The positives column was almost laughable.

  “So you understand?”

  My eyes misted over at the hopelessness of the situation laid out before me, making it even more difficult to decipher. Not that it made a difference. The conclusion was pretty clear. Rafe owned me. And he would continue to own me for a long, long time.

  “Now that you’re clean, you have the chance at a more lucrative job.”

  Was that . . . hope? “What job?”

  “Damien was quite charmed by you the other night, it would seem. He’s interested in acquiring you for a prolonged amount of time." I knew that must have been a direct quote, because they definitely weren't Rafe's words. "He's renting your sweet ass for as long as he wants it to do with as he pleases. And he's paying good money to do it." That sounded more like Rafe. "It may become a more permanent situation if he chooses to buy you."

  "Buy me?" My heart turned over in my chest.

  "He'll pay off your debt to me, plus a nice little chunk of change, which means you'll owe him, instead. But I doubt he'll be giving you the opportunities I have to pay it back. He's much more interested in keeping you for himself."

  "Then how am I supposed to get out of this? How am I supposed to earn my freedom?"

  "Simple, sweetness. You're not."

  Chapter Thirty-six

  After my financial education, Rafe left me on the same old familiar corner where Marissa waited anxiously for him to pull away before she practically mauled me.

  “Where have you been, sweet cheeks? I’ve been worried sick. I thought he . . . You look terrible. Are you sure you’re alright to work tonight?”

  “Do I really have a choice?” A wave of lightheadedness crashed over me, toppling me into the wall.

  “Here. Sit here.” She lowered me against the brick wall and I complied, happily allowing gravity to have its way with me. “Christ, you can barely stand. What did he—?”

  I was saved from having to answer her by the blowing of a car horn. My heart turned over at the sight of a rusty white station wagon parked at the curb. I tried to get to my feet, but my body simply wasn’t allowing it. My knees gave out and I hit the pavement hard.

  Elijah was out of the car and by my side in an instant. I wanted to wave him off, tell him not to let the others see him, but he ignored my protests, scooping me up in his arms.

  “I don’t think she can—” Marissa tried to step in, but Elijah was having none of it.

  “I’ve got her.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “It’s okay. I want to go with him.” The look I gave her revealed more than I probably should have knowing she was supposed to report back to Rafe, but Marissa was one of the few people in my world that I trusted.

  “How long should I tell Rafe you’ll be gone?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” Elijah answered for me.

  “He won’t accept that. He needs her back tomorrow.”

  “Then . . . tell him overnight. Tell him she’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Elijah didn’t speak again until after he’d carefully lowered me into the passenger seat, buckled me in, and pulled away from prying eyes—and ears.

  When he did, there was no disguising the tremor in his voice. “What happened? Where the hell have you been?”

  In all fairness, I was still having difficulty forming a coherent sentence. The fatigue and utter torture my body had been put through might have had something to do with it, but mostly . . . it was him.

  “You’re still here.” A fact that my brain was failing to compute.

  He pulled to a stop at a traffic light and turned to look at me like I’d grown a second head. “Of course I’m still here. What? You thought that little goodbye note you left back at the hotel would be the end of it? That I’d just . . . leave you here?”

  “But I told you—”

  “I know what you told me. I read the note. About a dozen damn times. It was just as stupid every time.”

  “I—”

  “I can’t just ‘let you go’, Ry. I can’t ‘move on’. I love you, Rylie.”

  I’d honestly believed myself beyond shocking, but his words rocked me to my very core.

  “You . . .?” He loved me? Still? It wasn’t possible. “You can’t.”

  “Well, that’s just too damn bad, isn’t it? Because I do. I never stopped.” We pulled into the same hotel we stayed at last time. “Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.”

  Under normal circumstances, it would have been a cold day in hell before I let him carry me around like some baby, but these weren’t normal circumstances. Wrapping my arms around his neck, he cradled my weight as I breathed him in, allowing the familiar scent of cinnamon and spice to ease some of the tension from my achy body.

  After wrestling with the key card, he took me inside and laid me on the bed, but he didn’t stop there. Removing my shoes, he tucked the comforter around me until I was snug as a bug and had a vague understanding of what a mummy must feel like.

  “There.” He settled on the edge of the mattress and brushed the hair from my forehead. “Now talk to me. What happened to you?” His fingers glided over the yellowing bruise under my left eye from where Rafe had punched me. His voice dropped to a frightening growl. “What did he do to you?”

  I considered lying. Elijah already knew too much—more than I ever wanted him to—but I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it. I kept the ugly description of my time in the basement minimal, but it was impossible to hide the results. My eyelids drooped with exhaustion and my hands trembled as I spoke.

  Elijah didn’t say a word. He sat there, stone faced, listening to me until I’d finished. As the minutes drew on, his silence became maddening. I needed to know what he was thinking.

  “Elijah?”

  “A week and a half.”

  “What?”

  “A week and a half. That’s how long that bastard kept you locked up.” He spit the words as his fingers carefully traced the torn flesh around my wrist. “Starved, in pain, all alone.” Elijah shook his head and took a shuddering breath as though he were trying to remove the image I’d tried not to paint for him. “You . . . you could have died down there, Ry.”

  I didn’t tell him that I honestly thought I might for a while. Or that it hadn’t really mattered to me, one way or the other.

  “And it would have been all my fault.”

  My half asleep brain jolted back to consciousness and I wrestled myself free enough to sit half propped against the headboard. “What?”

  “It would have been
my fault, Rylie. All of this, all of it, is my fault. I did this to you.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s true. Who called you predictable? Who told you that you needed to have more fun? Who introduced you to the drugs? Who introduced you to Rafe, for chrissakes? Me, Rylie. I did that. All this shit started when you met me. If you hadn’t . . . Christ, you’d be at fucking Harvard right now.”

  The reminder of my previous life brought with it an acute, intense pain. “Don’t, Elijah. Don’t do this to yourself. Not over me. I’m not worth it.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Princess—”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m not a princess . . . I’m a whore.”

  Shutters slammed into place, hardening his expression. “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch that made you think that.”

  “I don’t think it, Elijah. There’s some pretty damning evidence to the fact.”

  “I don’t give a shit about any of that. I don’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done. I care about you.”

  “You say that now, but—”

  “I mean that. Always.”

  Why are we even arguing about this? ‘Always’ wasn’t something we had the luxury of debating. Our time together was limited. Finite. And running out.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Before our time together was up, there were things I needed to know.

  “Elijah? My . . .”

  My fingers ached from how tightly I’d knotted them together until Elijah gently pried them apart and threaded them through his. “What is it?”

  “My parents. Are they . . . are they okay?”

  Elijah shifted and drew a deep breath. His thumbs swiped idly across the back of my knuckles while he seemed to be collecting his thoughts.