He lifted his arm and checked his watch. Four minutes of mind travel. Not nearly enough to distract him from the shooting pains bombing his right knee.
Jillian sat in the chair next to his bed, her head back against the wall and her eyes closed. She had to be ready for a nap.
He looked back at the ceiling. A shot of Vicodin would do him some good. Not a lot. Enough to take the edge off. To send him into that nowhere state and dim the tearing sensation in his knee.
The female doc who’d checked him out earlier whipped the curtain back. She didn’t look much older than him. She wore her long dark hair in a ponytail and her sunken eyes screamed of exhaustion. How long had she’d been on shift? He didn’t want her screwing him up with Vicodin.
“Mr. Lynx, how’s the pain?”
“It sucks.”
“We’ll get you some morphine.” She turned to the nurse. “We need an MRI on that knee.”
He slid a look at Jillian, who watched the exchange with big, questioning eyes. Spooked. This is what she’d been waiting for. That moment when he’d have to decide if he’d take the drugs and risk three hundred sixty-five days of recovery. Some fucking irony. His one-year anniversary. None of his plans figured that one.
Morphine.
Admittedly, morphine never did it for him. Vicodin was his drug of choice. A hit of that was like walking into the arms of a lover. It would wrap him up, hold him tight in that place where all pain and anger and heartbreak disappeared. Problem was, the joy disappeared with the pain and anger and heartbreak. All he’d have left was a visit to the land of nowhere.
“No morphine,” he said.
The doc raised her eyebrows. “You don’t need it?”
“I definitely need it. I’m a recovering addict. Vicodin is my weakness.”
She watched him for a moment and her eyes softened. “I see. I can give you Toradol. That’s a non-narcotic.”
“No.”
Jillian scooted the chair closer and grabbed his hand. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m clean almost a year. I’m not blowing it now.” He inched his head side to side. No deal. “A non-narcotic will still deaden the pain. The pain and the reminder of how hard I’ve worked to not blow my recovery are the only things keeping me from diving in headfirst. Trust me, I want to, but I can’t.”
Stabbing agony dug into his leg and he held his breath and locked his jaw against the swirling nausea. If he puked, it’d be all over.
Jillian squeezed his hand and he concentrated on the heat and comfort that came with the gesture. He wanted to prove to her he could do this. That he wouldn’t relapse. That he wouldn’t disappoint her. Not in this area anyway.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, “but please don’t do this for me. I don’t want you in pain.”
He turned to the doctor. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Sure. Let the nurse know if you change your mind. You’ll be heading up for an MRI shortly.” She spun on her sneakered feet and left the room.
Lynx went back to Jillian. “I’ve never said this out loud, but I’m terrified right now.” He stopped. Took a breath. “You have no idea how hard that is to admit.”
“I do know.”
“I know I need the meds. This knee is destroying me. But every day for the past year I’ve woken up and wanted to be high. It never goes away. I think about it for a few seconds and then I put it out of my mind. I make the decision to not go there. Some days it takes everything I have, but I know where it leads and it’s not good. I blew up my life on painkillers. And now, I’m lying on this bed like a goddamned weakling and I can’t figure out if I want the meds because my knee hurts or because it’ll feed my craving.”
She leaned closer and rested her chin on her arm. “Why does it have to be one or the other? There’s only today and the path you choose to take.”
“Exactly. Which is why I don’t want the meds.”
The door opened and Vic strode through, his big body immediately shrinking the room. Terrific.
“Boy Scout, what the hell happened?”
“What are you doing here?”
Vic jerked his thumbed at Jillian. “She called me.”
Lynx eyeballed her and she held her arms out. “I figured he’d want to know.”
“And she was right,” Vic said. “Fuck off with the attitude.”
Screw him. “Listen, you stupid fucking redneck, we’re doing a-okay without your input.”
Jillian stood. “He’s in pain and won’t take the meds.”
Lynx blew air through his lips. What was up with her? Did she want him to take the meds? Right. Sure. So she could fall back on him being a disappointment. Did she even know she did this? “Thanks. Traitor.”
Vic snorted. “Don’t be an asshat. Take the meds. Caring for yourself sometimes means making the decision you don’t want to. Doesn’t mean your life will be ruined. Alleviate the physical pain and don’t beat yourself up. You’re no use to anyone in this bed.”
Jillian held her hands up. “Hang on. You need to back off a wee bit. It’s still his decision.”
Vic gave her the WTF face and Lynx almost laughed.
Lynx turned to her. “It’s okay.”
Wrong thing to say. She drilled him with a glare. “No. He’s not the one dealing with recovery. It’s your decision. Neither one of us should factor into it.”
“Damn,” Vic said. “I like her.”
Lynx pointed at him. “You shut up.”
If ever there was a place he didn’t want to be it was trapped in a bed between his bullheaded friend and a woman he could easily see himself waking up next to every day while they broke his balls for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
The door opened and a nurse came through. “How are we doing, Mr. Lynx? Dr. Rosen asked me to check with you regarding pain management.”
Pain management. He needed a whole lot more than pain managed.
“He’ll take the meds,” Vic volunteered.
Lynx gave him a hard stare. “Back off.”
He glanced at Jillian and found her tight-lipped gaze plastered to his face. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He could fight the pain. He could. But his knee would still hurt like a mother and then his energy would be zapped. None of which inspired him.
“My knee is killing me,” he said. “Will you trust me that I won’t relapse? That I’ll be able to manage this?”
Tears filled her eyes and she closed them for a second. She bit her bottom lip and shook her head before opening her eyes again. “I don’t want you to be in pain.”
Not exactly definitive encouragement, but it might be the best she could do.
He turned to the nurse. “I’ll take the Toradol. No narcotics. Mark my chart or whatever that I’m adamant about no narcotics. And I want to see the bottle it comes out of. Please. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I need to see what I’m taking and prepare myself.”
The nurse smiled. “No problem. I understand.”
No, honey, I don’t think you do. “Thank you.”
The nurse left the room and he set his head back on the pillow to resume his study of the ceiling.
* * *
Jillian sat in the miserable imitation wood chair and watched the nurse push the plunger on the needle. Liquid cruised through the tubing on its way to Jack’s veins and at any second the relief would hit him.
Why am I watching this?
Yet, somehow, she couldn’t not watch. She’d been sitting with him, watching him do mental battle with not only his emotional demons, but the physical ones. Her only conclusion was that she hated to see him in pain. So, she’d done what she thought he needed and offered what little support she could.
She gave him that whole line of crap abou
t taking the drugs if he needed them, but she was a liar. A horrible, disgusting, enabling liar who knew he was suffering and was still disappointed that he’d chosen the drugs.
Ultimately, her fear was he’d get a taste of being high and would want it all over again.
Then where would they be? Each day she’d wonder if he’d used. Was it fair to him? No. Intellectually, she knew he deserved better.
Emotionally, she just wasn’t sure she could give it to him.
Within seconds, Jack’s eyes rolled back and a slow smile transformed his face, sheer pleasure so profound that Jillian held her breath. He set his head back on the pillow, that small smile playing on his lips as he closed his eyes.
He’s an addict.
Gently, she released his hand and reminded herself the drug was a non-narcotic. But still, the look on his face the minute the drugs hit his system couldn’t be denied.
He loved it.
It took a minute for Jack to open his eyes again. When he did, what she saw was the blank stare of an inebriated man.
And she’d told him to do it.
No running from it now. The agony of her decision battered her. Would that little taste, that hit, have him craving the next one? And the next after that.
Vic stepped up to the bed. “How’re you doing?”
Jack glanced up at him. “I’m very aware that I haven’t had painkillers in over a year.”
“You had to do it,” Jillian said.
He turned to her and glanced at her hand sitting on the bed. The one he held just a few minutes ago. “I know, but it’s hard. The addict in me misses it.”
“That’s the drugs talking.”
He grinned. “Maybe. But it’s true. The addict wants to be high again. It waits for me to be weak so it can remind me how good the drugs were. Getting that shot makes me realize how much harder I have to fight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Welcome to my world.”
Yes. This was his world. The daily grind. The day-to-day battle of choosing to fight his addiction. She’d had enough therapy in her life to know that addicts were never completely healed. The disease never left them.
They simply chose to take the other path.
She didn’t want to spend her life wondering if he’d choose the wrong one.
Two hours later, Jillian remained seated in the chair next to Jack’s bed while Vic leaned against the opposite wall. The MRI results showed no major damage, but Jack was still having trouble putting weight on the knee.
He’d need a trip to an orthopedic doctor. For now, they were waiting for the nurse to wrap the knee and give him crutches. Except she got called away to deal with a shooting victim. Probably multiples by the way the ER staff ran by his door.
“Kids,” Vic said. “I think we’re gonna be here awhile.”
“That can’t happen,” Jack said. “Those assholes that did this to me are probably tossing both our houses as we speak. They want that vial. When they don’t find it, they’ll come back.”
“What vial?” Vic asked.
Jillian ignored his question. “I set the alarm at my house before I left. If someone were there, it would be going off.”
Jack turned to her, his eyes a little clearer. “Then they’re probably watching for you to get home. At which point, they will shove a gun to your head and force you to tell them where the vial is.”
Vic boosted off the wall. “What fucking vial?”
Vic had a tone. A tone that warned all within fifty feet that he could be a very large, very scary man.
Jack, ever so slowly, turned to him. Yeah, tell him we broke a few laws. “We took a vial of Baxtin out of a Stennar Pharm shipment. We think there’s something screwed going on with it.”
Vic cocked his head. “Come again?”
“My idea. Not hers. The vials were there and it might have been our only opportunity.”
“Mike talked to you, right?”
What did that mean? Jillian swung her gaze between the two men.
“Yeah. He talked to me.”
Vic rolled out his bottom lip. “As long as you know what you’re doing.”
Jack focused on Vic, but stayed quiet. Here it was, that foreign language of stares only men understood. The blood pressure machine beeped and they all looked at it. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Then,” Vic said, “I guess we’ve gotta move.”
Shouting from the hallway drew Jillian out of her seat. “This place is a madhouse.”
Jack shifted to a sitting position. “All I need is crutches. We can stop and get a knee brace somewhere. I can deal with that.”
Jillian shoved him back. “Hang on.”
On her way to the ladies’ room while Jack was having his MRI, she’d plowed into a nurse leaving what looked like a closet. The supplies the nurse had been carrying went flying.
Lynx held his hands out. “What?”
“I’ll be right back.”
She darted out the door. Was it the third door on the right? Second maybe? She’d have to see. She moved down the hall at a steady, but not hurried pace. In one of the bays, a doctor shouted commands and Jillian spied at least half a dozen people surrounding the patient.
The multiple shooting incident kept everyone busy and allowed Jillian the opportunity to wander the hallways without drawing attention.
She turned right in the middle of the corridor and spotted the door she needed. If it didn’t have a lock on it, she’d let herself in.
Please let it be a supply closet.
Two feet from the door, she glanced behind her. A nurse stood outside one of the patient rooms checking a vial of medication. She didn’t seem too interested in anything but the bottle in her hand, so Jillian grabbed the door handle in front of her and gave it a gentle turn.
The handle moved—yes—and Jillian slipped inside. An automatic light illuminated the room.
Tall metal shelves filled with gauze, bandages of all sizes, rubber gloves and various other nondrug-related supplies lined the walls. She walked along the small aisles. No open spaces for crutches to be propped. Around the other side of the aisle she spotted three pair, lying flat on a shelf surrounded by boxes of padding.
She grabbed the ones that looked longest and hoped they were tall enough for Jack. Either way, she was taking them.
She paused by the door and stuck her ear to it. Some commotion, but she couldn’t tell how close. She’d have to go for it. The longer she remained in the room, the more likely she’d get caught. Sucking one huge breath, she opened the door, took three steps and hung a sharp left.
No yelling.
Good.
She turned the corner and spotted Vic standing outside of Jack’s room looking seriously pissed off. At any other time, she’d take a moment to feel terrified, but since she’d already reached the point of abject terror, Vic only added to the drama.
He spotted her carrying the crutches and grinned. “Nice.”
She swung by him into the room. Dressed in his regular clothes, Jack sat on the edge of the bed. She held out the crutches. “Will these work?”
Vic herded her sideways—not hard, but enough to let her know he’d take it from there—and levered himself under Jack’s arm to help him stand. Jack gripped one crutch then the other. The crutches would need a minor height adjustment, but for now, they’d get him out of there.
“Let’s roll,” he said. “Jillian, remind me to tell you how crazy I am about you.”
She smiled. “Will do. I might need to change my pants beforehand, though, because I think I wet myself.”
Vic cracked up as he led the way down the hall. Anyone who got in his way would be one sorry son of a gun. “I’ll bring my truck around. Wait out front.”
Minutes later, Jack was safely in the passenger seat of Vic’s Tahoe while Jillian sat in the back with his crutches on the floor.
She’d stolen them.
A moment of guilt settled on her, then, like a wisp of smoke, disappeared. She’d had to do it. With no time to waste, stealing those crutches meant getting to safety.
“Kurt?” Jack said into his phone. Obviously he’d called the DEA agent. “I’m heading to my office to get that vial. How can I get it to you?” He paused. “You don’t want to know.”
He held the phone away from his ear and Jillian heard Agent Boller’s voice bashing through the line. “He’s upset.”
Vic, of course, laughed.
“Are you done?” Jack asked. “I just got the crap kicked out of me, so I’m really sorry the poor little DEA agent had to wait on my ass. Now, you want this vial or not? Either you’re testing it or I’m finding someone else. Today is not the day to fuck with me.”
More yelling. Not as loud this time. Men were imbeciles. She waved for Jack to pass her the phone. “Give me that.” Jack handed it over. “Kurt? It’s Jillian. I’m freaking out here and I need you to tell us what to do. Not only did we steal the vial, I just lifted crutches from a hospital and I’m feeling crummy about that. You screaming is not helping. Just tell me what the hell to do.”
“I love this woman,” Vic said.
She shoved the phone back at Jack. “Here. Talk to him. He’s calm again.”
“Thank you.”
“Certainly.”
“It’s me again,” Jack said into the phone. A pause. “Yeah. I’d stick with me. You don’t want to piss her off. I’ll be at my office in ten minutes. The vial is in my safe. Where do you want to meet?” He spun back to Jillian. “Portillo’s. That’s busy. We’ll grab a sandwich, hand off a vial and hope like hell it’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“I could go for a chocolate cake shake,” Jillian added. Might as well. The day had been a disaster and a milkshake made with chocolate cake covered all the indulgence bases.
Jack ended the call and tossed his phone into the console. “Portillo’s it is. He can’t meet us until five. He’s in Indiana. We’ll have to stay out of sight until then.”
Opposing Forces Page 23
