by Marie James
Blaze’s hand squeezes mine tighter, as if he’d have to be dragged away.
“Husband,” we both say at the same time, his declaration more aggressive than mine.
I smile at his possessiveness, and the fact that I now remember the wedding at the silly little chapel actually happened.
“Your driver’s license doesn’t reflect your married name.” The guy speaking beside the bed must be a doctor, if the white coat and clipboard he’s holding is any indication.
“Today,” I manage with a tiny smile that brings another wave of pain to my jaw. “We got married today.”
My eyes finally get with the program and I’m able to hold them open a little more. I notice blood on the fingers Blaze is holding onto.
“We were in an accident.” I check his eyes for an explanation.
He nods and swallows hard. “A cat darted out. I was so scared, Fallyn. You wouldn’t stay awake, and the police came…”
He bows his head, chin resting against his chest. I see the light catch a tear as it rolls down his cheek. I want so much to wipe it away and tell him it’s not his fault, but I notice his bandaged right arm resting on the bed.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, and the look in his eyes says everything he can’t manage.
His throwing arm. The extent of the damage, I’m not sure of, but from the look in his eyes, it can’t be good.
“You suffered a pretty severe concussion,” the doctor says. “We need to keep you here overnight for observation. I’m concerned that it took you several hours to regain consciousness. On a scale of one to five, what would you rate your headache?”
“Four,” I answer honestly.
“We’ll get you something for the pain.” He marks something on the clipboard he’s holding.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Mr. Porter, it’s my understanding you didn’t allow the full examination with your arm. I understand if you want to decline medical attention, but with all accidents requiring the assistance of an ambulance, the state of Nevada requires a blood draw.”
Blaze glares up at him. “My arm is fine, and I only had two drinks. I didn’t wreck because I was drunk. The fucking cat ran out in front of us.”
I squeeze his hand when his voice elevates and the pounding in my head worsens.
“I’m sure that’s the case, Mr. Porter, but we still have to draw blood.”
The doctor nods to a nurse standing in the doorway. She comes in, prepping the area on the inside of his elbow. He’s not happy about having to pull his hand away from mine, but he cooperates.
His hand is back in mine the second she covers the needle prick with gauze and paper tape.
“As I said before,” the doctor says, “visiting hours were over a while ago.”
Tears well in my eyes. “Please,” I beg. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m sorry,” he begins.
“It’s our wedding night,” I barter.
He nods, agreeing to let Blaze stay before leaving the room.
Blaze scoots his chair closer, his shoulders shaking as he lays his head down beside my outstretched arm.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Fallyn. That damn cat…”
“It was an accident,” I assure him. “I’m going to be fine. I’m worried about your arm.”
He shakes his head violently. “Fuck my arm. I’d cut the damn thing off if it meant you never got hurt in the first place.”
I smile even though the sentiment is entirely absurd. “One hell of a wedding night.”
He wipes fresh tears from his cheeks, nodding in agreement. “I figured you’d have a headache from it banging against the dashboard. I never bargained for this.”
I grin, doing my best to keep from laughing. The pain is too great when I do. “Cocky much?”
His silly grin tells me I said the wrong thing. If his right arm weren’t bandaged, I’m certain he would’ve gripped himself to show just how cocky he is.
“How bad is your arm?” I push him further, and he just lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “Blaze, tell me.”
“There’s some ligament damage from the impact.”
A sob escapes my lips. I’m not a doctor, but that doesn’t sound like it’s conducive to playing football.
“What does that mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“That my football career is more than likely over before it even started.” The calm resignation in his voice is ominous.
“And school?” I know he’s here on a scholarship, and I met his family. If he can’t stay in school, I don’t even want to think about how things will be for him.
“I talked with my coach just a bit ago. He says as long as I’m in rehab and making progress, the school won’t cut me from the team, but if I can’t play any of my senior year, I might as well kiss my NFL career goodbye.”
His words are flat, emotionless. He’s shut down, and now is not the time to push him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. What else can I say? I know he’s worrying about his future enough for the both of us.
Before my brain can formulate words that will help the problem, the door to my hospital room flies open.
Two uniformed officers step inside, zeroing in on Blaze.
“Blaze Porter?” the taller officer says, standing beside my husband.
“Yeah?” He looks up at the officer.
“Please stand,” the tall officer’s partner says. “You’re under arrest.”
My heart thunders in my chest, making the next part of the conversation almost impossible to understand.
“Arrest?” Blaze says, but stands and complies. “There has to be some mistake. My insurance is valid. I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t even speeding.”
Blaze’s pleading eyes find mine, as if I can do something. My eyes widen because I don’t have a clue what’s going on.
“I was at the party with him the whole time, Officers. He only had two drinks. Look at his size,” I urge, pointing to his large frame. “There’s no way he was over the limit with only two drinks.”
“His blood alcohol level was below the legal limit.” The officer directs his attention to Blaze. “But the heroin in your system is why you’re being charged with driving under the influence of a controlled substance.”
“What the fuck?” I mutter before I can stop myself.
The click of the cuffs on Blaze’s wrists makes my eyes snap up to his. Wide, confused eyes stare at the officer in front of him as his Miranda rights are read.
“I don’t understand…the drinks I had were called Liquid Heroin, but that girl at the party said they were Jägermeister and peppermint something or other.” He tries to bargain with the cops, shaking his head back and forth.
“Mr. Porter, the blood tests don’t lie. You need to cooperate and get your lawyer to fight it out in court. Now is not the time.” The tall officer is respectful, but I can tell he gets the “I’m innocent” speech every day.
“My wife is lying in a fucking hospital bed,” he rages.
I tremble at his violent outburst, my head beginning to throb again.
“And she’s there because you were fucking high.” The less patient officer tugs his handcuffed arms, and they disappear out the door without another word.
Blaze’s voice travels as he argues with them all the way down the hallway.
My head throbs as I gasp around hiccupping sobs. I have no idea what to do, and no one to call. My parents, although only a few hours away in St. George, Utah, would only say, “I told you so”. My closest friend has done nothing but say hateful things since I started dating Blaze.
Alone on my wedding night, in a hospital bed, and put there by my championship football player husband who has just been accused of being on heroin. The only thing missing right now is my invitation to the Jerry Springer show.
Chapter 18
Blaze
Heroin.
No fucking way.
I’d never touch that shit. Not after
watching my mother live in her own filth for years. Not after attending her funeral yesterday because she shot up one time too many.
Yet, here I am, in the back of a cruiser listening to the cop in the passenger seat degrade everything I’ve ever done.
I made the mistake of mentioning football, the championship.
“If this would’ve happened before that championship game, my wife would still be around.”
The larger cop driving sighs. “You’ve had a gambling problem for years, dickhead. Your wife would’ve left eventually. You never should’ve put the house up against the game. It’s not this kid’s problem.”
“They never should’ve won that fucking game,” the cop says. His laugh is misplaced until his next words finally float back to me. “He’ll never throw a football again. Fucked up arm, driving while high—wait until the national sports news hears about this shit.”
I hang my head low. “There has to be some mistake,” I say more to myself than the officers taking me in for processing. I don’t feel shit except for the dull throb in my shoulder from my injury. I’m not stoned—not that I would know what that even feels like. I’ve religiously stayed away from anyone who could even offer me drugs. My whole life has been spent on the football field, preparing to live a better life.
The cops don’t respond to my grumbling as we pull up to the station. The driver gets me out and directs me to a locked door while the asshole cop pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one.
“You need to get a good attorney,” the officer says low, so his partner can’t hear.
“I can’t afford an attorney, man. I’m at school on a fucking scholarship.”
He nods his head in understanding, sympathy in his eyes. “Do what you can. Your future rides on what the judge says in your case. Keep your head down when you get in here. This place is full of assholes with nothing to lose. The last thing you need is more trouble while you wait for bail.”
***
“Sign here,” a lady says as she slides a clear bag of my possessions across the counter.
I scrawl an unintelligible signature on the page with my left hand. Not having use of my right arm when it’s my dominant one seriously sucks.
“You’re free to go,” she mumbles, nodding to the next person in line.
I stand near the trash and remove my wallet, cell phone, and the bottle of pain meds the hospital gave me when they patched me up three days ago.
Fallyn never showed up. I have no idea whether she’s okay or things got more serious with her injuries after I was dragged away. It took what seemed like forever to be released on a personal recognizance bond. Bail wasn’t an option since I don’t have access to what little money I have in the bank. The last week has been shit, and that includes my debit card being compromised. I was only focused on bourbon and Fallyn after the news of my mother’s death.
I groan when I find my cell phone is dead. I can’t call to check on Fallyn. Hell, I can’t call a friend to come pick me up.
I throw the empty property bag in the trash, pop two of the pain pills the jail refused to give me for my shoulder, and grab a cab with the last twenty in my wallet.
February, to most places in North America, is still considered winter, but you wouldn’t know it from the warm, desert air that hits my back as I climb out of the cab in front of Fallyn’s apartment.
“Keep the change,” I insist as I pass over the money. Getting to my wife and making sure she’s okay is the only thing I can focus on right now.
He nods in appreciation and drives away. Heavy, tired legs carry me up the single flight of stairs standing between us.
My first knock goes unanswered, as does the second. My heart pounds in my throat as I wait for someone to open the door. My palms sweat as thoughts of the worst swirl through my mind and I rub them down my thighs. When the lock flicks and the door is pulled open, I sigh with thick relief.
“Well, if it isn’t the asshole,” Charity sneers, blowing a long strand of hair out of her eyes. Normally dressed and made up to perfection, Fallyn’s roommate stares back at me in old worn jeans, a t-shirt two sizes too big, and hair pulled back in a bandanna.
I ignore her scathing tone and push by, nudging her to the side.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” she spits out as I walk past packed boxes stacked in the living room and open Fallyn’s door.
She must’ve heard Charity in the doorway, because she seems prepared for me. Unshed tears sparkle in her eyes as I close myself inside the room with her.
“Fallyn.” My stomach drops. Dark circles under her eyes and severe bruising on the wound in her hairline make me pause for a second before I reach for her, needing nothing but to comfort her.
“Don’t,” she says with an upturned hand.
“I’m so fucking sorry.” I said it time and time again in the hospital, but being gone for days and seeing her still in pain breaks my damn heart.
“I can’t do this.” The quiet calm of her voice guts me. Resignation fills the room, smothering me.
“What exactly is this?” I ask, even though I fear I know what she’s talking about—a declaration I’ll never accept.
“Us,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing to rid our lives of. Looking in to her eyes, I search for answers, any sign of regret over throwing me away. Her lip quivers and I know she’s not as indifferent to the situation as she’s trying to be.
“There was a cat, Fallyn,” I explain again.
She shakes her head, ignoring my words. “I won’t be with an addict, Blaze. It’s best if you go.”
Anger seeps into my veins, the heat of the rising emotion burning my cheeks. I take a stumbling step back.
“I’m not a fucking addict,” I seethe through clenched teeth. No matter how upset I am, yelling at her when I know her head still hurts isn’t the right thing. She’s ripping my heart out, and all I want to do is protect her, keep her from feeling even an ounce of pain.
She swallows roughly when she looks back up at me. “You were drunk the night we met. You showed up drunk after days of not speaking to me. You use alcohol to celebrate. You use it when you’re upset. Instead of coming to me, instead of seeking me out for comfort, you find it in the bottom of a bottle of bourbon. You’re an addict.” The resolute tone of her voice is almost impossible to argue with.
“You’re my wife,” I mutter, as if it’s the only reason she needs to see past the recent mistakes I’ve made. “I was drugged.”
“Why would someone put heroin in drinks at a party, Blaze?” She searches deep in my eyes for an answer I can’t give her.
“I don’t have a damn clue, Fallyn. My mother died of an overdose. My father uses the shit every day. I grew up in hell. Why would I take the same path as my shitty fucking parents?” I hate that the tremble in her lip has subsided. She’s gaining courage and resolve, not bending to me like I hoped. “Everything I’ve done for the last ten years has been to get away from that life. I’d never take a step back.”
“You need to go.” The emotionless flat tone of her voice cracks me open another inch, leaving me bleeding out while standing between her and the door.
“You’re my wife,” I repeat. “You said you loved me.”
I hold on to hope that the tear rolling down her cheek means she’s accepting my pleading.
She swipes at it with angry fingers, looking past me rather than in my eyes.
“You promised. For better or worse. I took every single word of our vows seriously, Fallyn. This is the worst,” I argue. “It’ll be better from here. I swear it. I’m going to call an attorney and he’ll get all of this shit straightened out.”
I drag my hand down my face in frustration as she leans toward the bedside table, grabs a folded newspaper, and tosses it on the end of the bed.
My picture on the front page glares back at me and all the pride I once felt whenever I wore my football uniform fades into the bitter taste of bile burning the back of my throat. I stare at the smiling
picture of myself and the headline claiming, “National Champion Quarterback also a Heroin Addict.” My world tilts on its axis as a black fog floods my vision. This destroys everything I’ve been working for.
Coach was concerned about my injury, and even then, I knew my college and any prospective NFL career was over, but I was sure I’d be able to rehab and stay on the team, if only to keep my scholarship so I can finish school. This changes everything. This wrecks everything.
My eyes dart back to Fallyn, her eyebrow raised and posture telling me everything I need to know. She’s the only thing I have now, and she’s walking away, judging me for something beyond my control, just like everyone else.
I blow out a hard breath as my shoulders slump. I hang my head in defeat. “You don’t believe me?”
“Everyone is talking about it. I’m not in class today because of the way I was treated when I tried to go yesterday.”
My eyes narrow and rage I can finally direct somewhere else consumes me, but I quickly realize this isn’t about everyone else. This conversation is about her and me, about how quickly she can jump ship when things aren’t perfect. I feel like shit that my actions have had repercussions on her life, but this isn’t some simple boyfriend/girlfriend issue. We said vows, promised our futures to each other, and she’s worried about how people are responding. She’s letting outsiders who mean absolutely nothing make her decisions for her.
“You’re worried about your fucking reputation?” Unsteady, I sway on my feet, taking a step back so she doesn’t confuse my anger over the situation as aggression to her. My words are calmer than the rage I feel inside my now empty chest.
Her eyes snap from the newspaper to mine. “My reputation? Are you fucking kidding me? They put my name in that paper, Blaze!”
“Exactly. I found you at that party. My friends became your friends. I made you something in the eyes of shitty people who mean nothing, and now you’re pissed they turned on you like they apparently turned on me?”
“You found me?” she spits out, anger replacing her quiet determination. “You made me something? I wasn’t lost until you found me, Blaze!”
