DirtyInterludes

by Jodie Becker

  Bryce scratched his arm and nudged one shoulder upward. “You say that now. Sitting on your high horse, trying to save people from things they just don’t want to be saved from.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Bryce glowered. “You wanted to get Venus off. I heard about your amended contract.”

  Something shriveled inside him. “What did you hear?”

  Bryce eyed him with a level of gleeful malice that made Max recoil inwardly. “Vane is going to use you like a piece of meat. He has it all planned.”

  Icy fear churned his stomach and prickled over his face. “What has he planned?”

  Bryce laughed. “Ever done it with a guy before?”

  Everything stilled inside him. “What?”

  Bryce lowered his head then looked out the window. “You’re going to know exactly how I feel. And when you do, I’m not going to begrudge you when you chase the dragon.”

  The silence in the car stifled him and he couldn’t look at his friend. “Get out.”

  Bryce’s bleary gaze snapped toward him. “What?”

  “I said, get the fuck out,” he snarled through stiff lips.

  A lost look entered Bryce’s eyes before it winked out. “Fine.”

  He barely shut the door before Max floored the accelerator. He ignored whatever Bryce said through the window and sped away. He wanted to deny the words that echoed through his head and how callously Bryce delivered them. He knew something bad was coming his way but he didn’t expect that. Not that. Nausea rolled through him. He’d been loosely scheduled for a shoot three days from now but no information about the shoot had been given. It wasn’t too unusual, but still…

  He pulled into his drive and stared blindly at the wall of his garage. When he’d made the decision to change his contract, he never really thought of the consequences of his actions. Would he turn to drugs just as Bryce did? His mind rebelled, but his common sense pointed out the rates of drug abuse in the industry. Wiping a clammy hand over his forehead, he left his car and entered his house. The silence inside yawned with vicious emotions. Undefined but disturbing.

  He couldn’t shake that whisper of malevolence in the back of his head. The one that promised he’d know the pain he’d seen in his friend’s eyes. He needed to drown it out. At the fridge, he pulled out a beer and snapped it open. He powered through it like a man dying of thirst, then grabbed another. Stomach roiling, he pressed a hand over it and grimaced. Whether it was from the beer or recent revelations, he didn’t know or care.

  He eased himself down onto the lounge. Chugging back a few healthy gulps he waited for the buzz to hit him. Dipping his head back, he cursed at the self-recrimination tumbling through his head. He didn’t want to think. His friendship with Bryce was disintegrating over one act of kindness. No good deed went unpunished. He huffed a sound of disgust at the often-invoked phrase. Now he knew the depths of it. After witnessing a side of Bryce he’d never seen before, Max feared he might lose more than he bargained for.

  He finished off the last of his beer and eased back, the buzz expanding to a haze, and eventually his eyelids drooped.

  A knock at the door brought his head up and he blinked through the darkness. Geez, he’d fallen asleep. Rubbing the back of his head he tried to shake the vestiges of sleep. The knocking persisted.

  “Max, it’s me,” Bryce said through the door.

  Shit. He dropped his head back and hoped Bryce would leave him in peace. He wasn’t ready to see him. The knocking continued.

  “I know you’re there. I can see your car.”

  Damn. Max stood, switched on the light and loped to the door.

  Bryce stared at him, his eyes still slightly glazed. Again reminded of his friend’s failure to keep a promise, Max stiffened against the disgust that threatened to curl his lips. “What do you want?”

  Bryce shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, rocking on his feet. “Can I come in?”

  Max sighed but waved him in. They stood in the entrance, both silent, the tension so tight it vibrated between them. Uncomfortable, Max returned to the lounge, flicking on the television. Bryce sat on the one-seater. Max tried to follow the news but could feel his friend’s attention on him.

  He looked at Bryce, frozen by the intense stare that seemed to stab right into his heart. “What?”

  “I know what you’re going through. It’s hard to face these things and I can help.”

  Confusion tumbled through his head, the haze of sleep and booze still clinging to his thoughts.

  Bryce leaned forward. “I don’t want you to think badly of yourself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Bryce blinked. “Your next shoot. I know I handled it badly before, but—”

  “Shit.” His stomach churned but he wasn’t sure if it was from drinking or the thought of… He searched for the remote and turned up the volume.

  Bryce glanced at the television, then at him. “It’s just a job, okay? We’re still the same guys. You and I.”

  Max threw the remote onto the coffee table. “What do you want me to say, Bryce? That I’m cool you all but laughed in my face about what’s coming my way? That I wanted to do this shit so I could feel all powerful or mighty or some shit like that for protecting a girl who had no clue about what this industry entails? I’m done, all right? I’m not talking about this with you.”

  “Didn’t you say you needed to talk this stuff out?”

  He glared at his friend. “Yeah, I did, but when I’m ready and right now I’m not God damn ready.”

  Bryce recoiled and nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay.” He pointed in the general direction of the bathroom. “I’m just gonna…”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Max fumed in silence for a few minutes but soon that wore off and left him with bilious guilt. Rubbing his forehead, he cursed himself for acting like a douche. Bryce was his closest friend in the industry and he’d snapped his head off. He sighed, promising to apologize when Bryce returned. Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. He leaned back to check the stairs. Fuck it. He stood and lumbered up the steps. At the door he knocked softly. “Bryce, you in there?”

  When there was no answer, he knocked harder, ice forming in his veins. “Bryce?” He checked the handle. Locked. Fear pounded in his chest. “Bryce, open the fucking door!”

  He shouldered the door until the lock gave out and stumbled to a halt at Bryce’s limp form curled around a pool of vomit on the floor. Everything went cold. “Oh shit, oh shit. No, no, no.”

  Max dropped on his knees, ignoring the acid terror burning in his stomach. A sheen of sweat covered Bryce’s gray-tinged skin sending a shaft of icy fear through him. Heart racing in a hollow chest, he picked up Bryce’s upper body and jostled his shoulders. “Wake up. Wake up, man!”

  Nausea roiled in his gut when there was no response. Max eased his friend to the floor and raced down the stairs on unsteady legs. Dialing 9-1-1, he hurried back upstairs and waited for an answer. He felt as if he’d run for two hours rather than two minutes. His head pounded as he knelt over his friend, desperate for help that wasn’t getting here fast enough.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “M-my friend. I think he’s overdosed.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my bathroom.”

  “Okay, calm down. I need you to verify your address.”

  He rattled off the information.

  “Is he breathing?”

  He held his hand over Bryce’s nose, his chest hurting as he waited for that fateful breath. Come on. It blew softly against his fingers. “Yes. But it’s really shallow. Hurry.”

  “An ambulance is on its way. Stay on the line.”

  Max swallowed the urge to rage at the operator. Panic ate away at his muscles and he struggled to breathe.

  “How old is your friend?”

  “Uh, twenty…twenty-seven.”

  “Why do you think this is a
n overdose?”

  “Because he’s been struggling with addiction.”

  “Do you know what he might’ve taken?”

  What hadn’t Bryce taken? “I—I don’t know. He takes whatever can get him high. Please hurry. His lips are turning blue.”

  “Ambulance is on its way. Has he been showing any indication he might be suicidal?”

  Rage burned in his gut. “He isn’t suicidal.” Max jostled his friend. “Hold on, man. Help is coming.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sirens woke Bridget from sleep. They sounded awfully close and she rolled over, waiting for them to speed by. But they didn’t. Red and blue lights flashed through her window and curiosity forced her out of bed. Pushing aside a curtain, her heart thumped hard against her rib cage at the sight of paramedics rushing into Max’s house. Twisting away, she hurried down the stairs, panic making her legs feel weak. The door banged against the wall as she raced across the lawn toward Max’s house.

  She stopped at the threshold, hands on the doorframe. “Max? Max.”

  Sound deeper in the house propelled her forward. Taking the stairs two at a time, she skidded to a stop at the sight of paramedics in the bathroom, crouched over a man she’d never seen before. Max sat on the toilet seat, face pale, shoulders hunched forward. The paramedics worked on the man’s inert form with an IV in his arm. Vomit coated one side of his face, and the medic wiped it away and cleared the mouth before inserting a long plastic tube. A bag clicked over it and they began CPR.

  The moment it cleared the man on the floor seized. His body jerked as if suffering from an electric shock. The smell of ammonia and feces burned her nostrils. Max swore and reached for his friend. Her heart dropped at the agony on his face.

  “Give us room to work,” one of the medics demanded.

  Max settled back, his skin now a sickly green. The paramedics rolled the unconscious male onto his side then strapped him onto a back board. As one they lifted the man and moved him out of the bathroom. Bridget stepped aside and watched them carry him down the stairs with Max in tow. He’d yet to notice her.

  She walked down the stairs and watched on the porch as the paramedics loaded the man into the ambulance. They passed quick words with Max, jumped in the vehicle and sped away.

  The ambulance disappeared around the corner, the sirens fading into the night, and Bridget waited for Max to face her, her heart aching for him. His shoulders slumped forward, his head dipped in a picture of pure misery. Tears lodged in her throat, the shock of what she’d seen passing under the sad image of Max standing alone and still. So still.

  Cautiously she approached. “Max?” Her voice was whisper soft.

  He turned, his eyes glazed with disbelief. He looked at her as though he didn’t quite recognize her, his brows drawn low. “Bridget?”

  The confusion in his tone made her brush her hand over his shoulder. “Yes.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, lips compressed so tight they whitened.

  “Do you… Are you okay?”

  He opened his mouth and coughed out a sound. Eyes squeezed shut, he sucked in a broken breath. “Shit,” he rasped.

  “Do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

  The look of relief almost floored her. “Yes.”

  She hurried back into her house, threw on jeans and a shirt and returned to the front door to find Max by her porch, looking like a lost boy. Something broke off inside her at the sight. She slipped into her car and he settled into the passenger side. As she drove, Max bounced his knee, his features set in stone. Everything about him appeared so brittle she worried one wrong move would make him break.

  “I fucking should’ve known,” he mumbled.

  Not knowing whether to speak or let him open up on his own, Bridget tightened her hands over the steering wheel. Raking a hand through his hair, he exhaled harshly. He faced away from her, watching the passing scenery. He cleared his throat and pressed a fist to his forehead, mumbling a curse. Flinging himself back in the seat, he glared at the road.

  “Can’t we go any faster?”

  Bridget floored it. She parked outside the hospital and Max was out of the car before it fully stopped. Bridget hurried after him. The glass doors to the ER slid open and the noise of conversation and crying children filled her ears. Max skidded to a stop at the desk, slamming his hand down on the counter. The nurse took one sweep of his body, no doubt checking for obvious injury.

  “The paramedics told me to come here. They brought a man in. Bryce Roland.”

  “Are you a relative?” she asked, looking down at a manila folder.

  Max hesitated. “Yes.”

  The nurse turned her attention to another nurse, a stout woman with tired eyes. They talked and the larger woman walked around the counter and waved them to follow. Bridget followed, but the nurse held out a hand. “Who are you?”

  Max shifted. “She’s my wife.”

  Bridget stifled the surprise and instead sidled closer to him in a united front. Satisfied with the answer, the nurse moved along, guiding them down a hall lined with gurneys holding patients waiting for care. Some people were asleep while others moaned, asking for help. The nurse’s shoes squeaked on the vinyl tiles, her steps filled with efficiency. Bridget hurried to keep up, Max only a step ahead of her. The nurse led them to a room with blue seats, a plastic plant and an old coffee machine.

  “The doctor will see you when they’ve stabilized the patient.”

  Max nodded stiffly and stepped into the room. Bridget followed, squinting under the fluorescent light. A window spread along one side of the room with a view of another section of the hospital. Max sat, his heel tapping against the cream tiles. Bridget settled beside him and dropped a hand over the clenched fist on his knee. He startled but didn’t move away from her touch. After a moment, his fist eased and he entwined his fingers with hers. Silence fell between them with the ding of a bell and distant conversation seating them firmly in their current situation.

  Max’s stomach churned, his heart pounding against his rib cage. Vinyl spread out before him, but all he could see was Bryce on the floor convulsing. The ugly sound that choked from his friend as he seized. His heart pumped razor blades, the pain excruciatingly sharp. He tipped his chin, pulling desperately at his ragged control. Bridget’s hand was swallowed by his, her lily-white skin contrasting against his tan. Misery tore at the veil of control and he bounced his knee faster as his fingers tightened over hers. Keep it together. Pain cinched around his chest and constricted the air in his lungs. Bridget winced and he tried to release his grip, but he couldn’t. She was his anchor in the tumultuous storm he suffered through.

  “Shit,” he mumbled.

  Bridget dropped her other hand over his, enveloping him in her warm grip. The ache of failure rippled through every movement, his frame drawn so taut he feared he’d snap. So caught up in his own issues, he didn’t notice Bryce was reaching for him as he drowned.

  “I should’ve known,” he grumbled.

  “What happened?” Bridget asked, her voice whisper soft.

  Dark and bitter self-recrimination filled his gut with acid. The muscle in his jaw hurt as teeth ground together. What could he say to her? That he signed on to something he didn’t want and it made it difficult to live in his own skin? That Bryce taunted him of a future waiting for him and it threatened to upset their friendship?

  “He came to me wanting to sort something out and I got pissed off at him.”

  Desolate, he struggled to draw air. His chest hollowed out to the point he felt as though his soul burned in hell. He swallowed hard. Once. Twice. “He wanted me to talk and tell him we were cool, but I just…” What could he say? He sneered at his friend’s attempt to “help”.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s all fucked up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I should’ve seen this coming a mile away. I knew, God damn it, I knew and I didn’t react soon enough. I just want him to be okay.” His voice broke on the
last word.

  “He will be,” she whispered.

  Pain lanced his chest at the misery shuddering through his frame. For all the “sage” advice he could give a newbie, he couldn’t help a veteran or save himself from making mistakes. Two months ago he was fine with the status quo. But life upended on him in one shot. The strength he relied on and the separation he cast between Max the porn actor and Max the average guy cracked, ready to shatter. It’d broken him. He rubbed his forehead, scrambling to regain the tattered pieces of his control. Unable to look her in the face, he turned his head toward some point on the floor.

  The ball lodged in his throat grew spikes and he couldn’t speak through it. Bridget cupped his jaw, forcing his attention to her. Her eyes were wide and earnest, wanting to see into him, but he couldn’t let her. Tears burned, barely held back by his control.

  She ran a thumb along his cheek. A caress made to comfort. “Max. You have to know this wasn’t your fault. Whatever happened, you didn’t do it.”

  His lashes drooped and a tear seared a trail down his cheek. She rubbed it away. “Max, look at me,” she croaked.

  He heard the sadness in her voice and it lanced him in the heart. He didn’t look at her, his breath soughed from downturned lips. “I can’t.”

  “That’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  He nodded. He needed Bridget. Needed her to hold him and tell him he mattered. That he didn’t make a fatal mistake. He wanted to wake up and find this was all just a horrible nightmare. Dipping his head until his forehead touched hers, he trembled. Their breathing intermingled, hers steady, his short and broken. He sniffled and a tear tipped off the end of his nose. Misery swallowed him whole, chewed him up and spat what remained of him out. The dam to his agony broke in silence. Sadness hacked at his lungs until he drowned in his pain. Bridget’s thumb along his cheek anchored him to the present. Kept him from spiraling out of control.

  As a quiet sob shuddered through his frame, he slid his face along the side of hers until his forehead pressed against her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his back and rocked slowly, much like a mother would a distressed child. He accepted her comfort, expelling all the self-hatred and blame. After a while, he released one long, shuddering sigh and drew his composure together.