Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (53 page)

It wasn’t neat, nor was it cluttered. A few clothing items were strewn around. A guitar lay on his huge unmade bed. The television was muted. Running water sounded from beyond the bathroom door, closed with a dim sliver of light showing through the bottom.

The dog’s paws clipped across the room until he nosed the door. She backed up a step or two, biting her lip against the image of Gage and some woman in his shower or tub. Rascal retraced a path back to her, but stopped halfway and went back to the bathroom door.

She was never sure why her feet moved forward. Whether her curiosity got the better of her; whether Gage was apt when he’d declared her a voyeur earlier tonight; or whether her sixth sense that something was off finally alerted her that ‘off’ could be bad in a way she hadn’t yet imagined.

With her ear practically pressed to the door, she heard nothing except a muffled beat of music and the running water of what sounded like the shower as opposed to a bath. A minute passed. Two more. Possibly five.

There was no variance in the water like there should be if the shower wand was moving or someone was moving beneath the spray. No thud of a shampoo bottle. And if—if—he wasn’t by himself simply bathing and washing his hair, shouldn’t she have heard
something
by now? Sex in the shower
couldn’t
be that quiet.

Raising her fist, she rapped her knuckles on the door. Again. Again. And Again. “Gage?” Finding the door unlocked, she twisted and pushed. “Gage?”

The music was clearer inside the room. The beat hammered from the speakers docking his phone on the chrome towel caddy. Water cascading was the only other sound. The room was dim—atmospheric—but the lighting within the large, glassed in shower stall drew her eyes.

Through the steamy glass, she viewed a shadowy lump. Was he sitting on the floor?

“Gage?” And when he didn’t answer, she felt herself tripping into terror. Had he slipped? “Gage!”

Regardless, she felt invasive when she tugged on the shower door. And there he was in all the nude muscular magnificent glory of her earlier day-night dreams. Yet this was a living nightmare.

He could be asleep. Exhausted and asleep in a shower. It could happen. Probably had happened to someone now and then. But it was a desperate thought as she knelt beside his prone body and mashed two fingers to his corded neck.

Feeling a faint pulse, she called out to him again as she did a quick check through his thick wet hair for any sign of a head injury. Finding no evidence of anything that could be wrong, she grabbed his wrist, checking again for the beat of a pulse to reassure herself.

The water? Had he breathed in some? It swirled down the drain with no backup, and she discounted that thought. Surging to her feet, she swiveled the fixture off and the flow ceased. Shoving at Rascal, she dripped through the bathroom toward his phone.

And that’s when she saw. Stopping short before the polished granite or marble vanity, she eyed a decorative wooden box in horror. It was open and the inside of one side was a flat mirror. The other side was storage for crystal or coke paraphernalia: A straightedge razor. An empty bag. Smudges on the reflective surface. Yet, suddenly that seemed as insignificant as he had once declared when she’d witnessed him firsthand indulging his habit.

Because it was lying alongside evidence of a worse vice. One she was right now seeing for the first time.

A black zip up case also sat atop the vanity with items scattered in and around it: A small aluminum cooker with a filter lining the bottom. A tea light candle. Tourniquet. A syringe with the pump depressed. Extra needles. A lighter. A vial of what she knew to be bacteriostatic water. She was familiar with the setup although it had been a while since it had been in her mother’s bedroom.

Her feet flew across the bathroom, and she forgot she was wet until she slipped and caught herself on the pads of her hands before her face hit the tile floor. The warm tile floor… This anomaly caused her to pause as she soaked in the heat to her suddenly freezing body before pushing to her feet.

She grabbed the phone, toppling the dock, and it clattered to the floor. Her toes curled nervously into a fluffy rug as she swiped at the screen but found it locked. The emergency call icon beckoned, and she almost pushed it before her finger froze, hovering above the screen.

Her phone. She needed her own phone. Colt had texted her several times before and after their date. With getting his number her priority, she sprinted—more carefully—from the bathroom. Pausing in the bedroom, she flung Gage’s phone next to the guitar on his bed and did a double take when she saw a pill bottle. It lay in a miscellaneous pile in a tray with his billfold, a pocketknife, loose change and other items likely pulled from his pockets before he’d undressed. A whiskey bottle and empty glass were near.

She was truly falling down a rabbit hole. She’d known he had his vices but had never dreamed there were so many of such a degree.

“W
hat do I do? What do I do in the meantime?”
Scaarleette…

“Are you right there with him?”
Coollttt…

“Yeah. I just got back in here. In the bathroom.”
Scaarleette…
“

“Okay. Hold tight. Keep me on the line. And keep checking his pulse. I’m dialing the doc right now. And I’m on my way.”
Coollttt
…

“How long will it take his doctor? I don’t? I don’t call nine-one-one?”
Scaarleette…

“Don’t! You were right not to. Just tell me if his pulse changes and if it does—Hi, Mac! It’s Colt Powers. I’m calling about Gage. I think he OD’d. At his house.”

Diid I? Fucking serriouslly?

“I’ll be right there. Who else have you called?”
Dr. McKennly, thank God…

“No one. He has a pulse, but barely. I’ll have someone at the gate and the door. Please hurry—”
Coollttt…

Put Rascal uuup. He hates Mac. Acts all vicious with himmmm
…

“Twenty minutes max. I’ll be there. Is he breathing?”
Dr. Mac…

Am I? Breathing? Or am I dead, hovering in spirit form…

“Scarla?”
Coollttt…

“Um, I can’t feel or see him breathe. But he has a pulse. It’s slow. So slow…”
Scaarleette…

“When did you last check his pulse?”
Dr. Mac…

“Now. I’m checking it now.”
Scaarleette…

“And he has one?”
Dr. Mac…

“Yes. Still a pulse, but I can barely feel it.”
Scaarleette…

“Count the beats until I tell you to stop.”
Dr. Mac…
“Stop.”

“Four…”
Scaarleette…

“You got his emergency kit?”
Dr. Mac…

“What? What kit?”
Scaarleette…

“It’s there, Scarla. Somewhere. Find it, okay? It may have a red zipper. Or it may be just a brand new unopened box, thin enough for a pen type injector.”
Coollttt…

“I saw that box. I know where it is!”
Scaarleette…

“What does it say?”
Dr. Mac…

“I’m getting it. Wait. It says Naloxone Hydro—”

“That’s it!”
Coollttt.

“Open it up. Is your name Scarla?”
Dr. Mac…

“Yes.”
Scaarleette…

“Open the box and open the plastic, but don’t remove the syringe. Just keep it by you. Take his pulse again until I say stop. Ready?”
Dr. Mac…

“Yes.”
Scaarleette…

“Now… and stop.”
Dr. Mac…

“I couldn’t feel anything! His lips are really blue! Oh there! I felt a beat—kind of.”
Scaarleette, my beautiful Scar
.

“I’m less than five minutes away.”
Coollttt…

“Gage! Fuck this shit! Fuck you!”
Scaarleette

Her slap felt like he was safe inside a punching bag, taking the hit but not feeling it

“Scarla. I need you to calm down. Tear open the plastic the syringe pen is in and tell me when you’re done.”
Dr. Mac…

“Done.”
Scaarleette …

“Remove the red cap.”
Dr. Mac…

“Done.”
Scaarleette …

“You’re going to inject into muscle. Either his upper outer arm or upper outer leg—whichever has more bulk. Iit caann gooo throouugh clooothiiing. Dooon’t wooorry. Juuussst… “

I know I never said it, but I love you, Scarlette
…

M
ac, as Colt addressed the physician, stayed long enough to set up an IV and monitor Gage’s vitals for almost two hours.

“You did good, kid. You’re a smart young woman to have learned CPR.”

She might have shivered at the referral to her lips pressed against Gage’s cold discolored ones, but she was still in shock.

Colt had burst into the bathroom first, and it had taken her a moment to register his surprise on finding her sopping wet, straddling Gage’s comatose body, fingers pinching his nose, and lips on his. Of course, he knew what was going on, but she was sure it was a sight.

Gage had regained consciousness with a jerk that jolted his whole body, seconds after Colt arrived. The doctor was minutes behind him, amid ferocious barking, and Colt ran back downstairs to put up Rascal and make sure the doctor got inside okay.

In the minute and a half they were alone, she’d eased from atop Gage’s body and rocked back on her heels, clutching his hand. They locked eyes, and in that moment, she saw in him both the sweet boy she’d grown up with and the damaged adult he’d become.

Dr. Mac poked around the drug paraphernalia, dictated into his phone for a moment, and asked Gage questions about what he’d ingested that night. Then he’d set up the IV after they got him dried, decent, and into bed.

He’d left gadgets to monitor Gage’s oxygen level, an automatic blood pressure cuff, and another rescue pen kit. After talking to Gage for a bit and then her, he’d left, saying he had a surgery scheduled in a few short hours.

“I’ve got to get going too. Seth will be awake anytime now, and I’m supposed to drop him off at school.” After walking the doctor out, Colt turned to her. She was standing on the bottom stair, unsure whether to go back up or continue down. “Or do you want me to stay? I can text Seth and send him with the car service.”

“No. It’s fine. Really. I got this. I know how to change the IV. Don’t screw up things for Seth.”

Colt hesitated, as if he was reconsidering whether he should leave. And then he closed the distance between them. She fell into his hug, and when they pulled apart, he looked into her eyes. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be back around later.” He swung open the door and turned again. “Oh. Probably best not to answer his phone. Let it go to voicemail. I’ll try to handle what I can from my end. But the thing is, we have a charity gig this weekend. He needs to be ready. And this needs to be kept under wraps.”

“This weekend? He’s not going back into rehab?”

“He won’t stay in rehab. Been there, done that. This last stint was supposed to be for four weeks and he would have been out in time for this. This show is good for the band. We need this after—after some of the shit that went down last year.”

She didn’t know what ‘shit’ he was speaking of. What she did know was Gage shouldn’t be expected to jump on stage so soon after a relapse of this magnitude. When she remained silent, Colt restated his intention to call or come by later and left. She realized he had gone from saying he would come by, to he would
call
or come by.

Heading back upstairs, she entered Gage’s room. Standing over him, she watched the rise and fall of his chest and with a glance at the monitor clipped to his finger, assured herself he was sleeping peacefully with a normal oxygen count. She set her phone alarm to change his IV bag in three hours, and then after a moment of hesitation, eased onto the other edge of the bed and curled into a ball.

She wanted to cry, but no tears came. She wanted to call someone who cared, but who would that be? She had no one to lean on now that Ivy was missing. And who did Gage have? His father? Perhaps, but she wasn’t so sure he was a ‘confidant in a crises’ type of person to his son.