High (19 page)

I pick up the phone when Felix calls me back ten minutes later.

“Hey.”

He sighs heavily into the phone. “Hey. Look, I don’t want to put this on you when you’re halfway across the world, but I think Blake is going off the rails. In fact, scrap that, she’s veering off the fucking tracks, rolling down the embankment on fire and exploding at the bottom.”

I clench my jaw, squeezing my fist tightly. “Why? Is she okay?”

I hear him sigh down the phone. “Go to your laptop and type her name into Google.”

“What? Why?” I open my laptop and type her name into the search bar. “You're shady as shit. Just tell me what the fuck is going...” I trail off as various angles of a series of images pop up on my screen as well as a couple of YouTube links. Blake is standing facing a police officer—so close she looks like she’s going to kiss him. A sensual smile pulls at her lips, and anger simmers, just waiting to boil over. The next shot, he has his hand inside her dress, groping her tit. “He’s a motherfucking dead man.” I growl.

“Yeah, keep going.” He says quickly.

I click the next image, and he’s pulling his hand away from her, a small bag of white powder in his hand, and in the next she has her hands pulled behind her back as the cop snaps the cuffs on her. “Shit.” I’ve been away for forty-eight fucking hours and she’s managed to get arrested already.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I’ll call my lawyer and get him down there.”

“She’s out already. I found out about twenty minutes before she actually walked through my office door. Her dad isn’t exactly father of the year, but his only daughter being charged for possession is not something he wants to shout about.” I hear the creak of his office chair.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting my impending headache. “Why did she come to see you?”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s why I’m calling you.”

“Felix.” I growl his name. I know what he’s going to say, and yet I really want to believe that he wouldn’t sell Blake coke. Now. After this. While I’m away. We both know it’s not going to end well.

“Look, she was in one of her moods. She told me that if I didn’t give it to her, she would get it elsewhere.” He stammers over his words.

“How much?” I snap, barely restraining myself. I’m going to fucking kill him.

“A gram.” He rushes on. “But you don’t know her like I do, Rhett. She’s chaotic when she’s like this.”

“Exactly, and you just sold her enough coke to down a horse.” I drag my hand over my face. I rest my hand against the nearest wall and hang my head forward. “Fuck.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but just…don’t judge her okay. Something is going on with her.”
Yeah, it’s called addiction.

“I’ll be on the next flight back.” I hang up and slam my fist into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.

Blake is not supposed to be the girl I drop everything for, and yet right now, all I feel is panic and very real fear. I shouldn’t care this much. After all, didn’t I peg her as a statistic the first time I met her? She’s the girl that shines so brightly she can only possibly burn out. People like Blake are always the same, they over compensate, masking their fucked up, tragic inner selves with a shiny façade.

But in the last few weeks, I feel like I saw her,
really
saw her. She’s beautiful in every way, but she’s damaged, like a butterfly with a crumpled wing. On some level, I think she needs me, and perhaps I need her to need me. When did something that should be so simple get so complicated?

 The second I get off the plane I get straight in my car and head for the girl’s apartment. My phone is pinging, email alerts flashing with images of Blake partying, dancing on bars, missing half her fucking clothes. It’s four in the morning, and if she’s not at her apartment, then I will fucking drag her out of whatever fucking club she’s still in.

I pull up outside her apartment and jog across the road to the main door. I press the buzzer and there’s no answer, so I press every one until someone gets pissed off and buzzes me in.

I can hear the loud music from half way down the corridor, and when I get to her door, the wooden frame is practically vibrating with it. I’m surprised her neighbours haven’t complained yet.

I ring the bell, but there’s no answer so I use the key Milly gave me. I’ve never actually used it before because I feel like it’s an invasion of her privacy, but the panic that’s gripping me now leaves me with no reservations.

The door swings open and the blaring rock music fills the room. I go to the sound system and switch it off. The sudden silence feels deafening, and I listen for any sign of Blake but hear nothing. I glance across the room, and it’s then that I notice the remnants of the cocaine on the coffee table, the fine powder coating the glass like dust. The clear plastic baggie is empty.
Shit.

I start tearing through the apartment, my panic steadily increasing as I work through each room. Through the bathroom doorway, I spot her long legs, motionless. No, no, no.

When I round the corner I see her propped up against the side of the bath, her vacant glassy eyes staring at nothing, and for one horrible moment, I’m sure she’s dead. Then she blinks slowly and tries to focus on me. Her nose is bleeding, the blood running over her lips and down her chin. The front of her white dress is covered, the red stain covering her chest like a gunshot wound. Shit, that’s a lot of blood. She looks away from me again, fixing her stare straight ahead as she lifts a bottle of Jack to her lips, taking a long swallow.

“Blake?”

She glances up at me, a small smile pulling at her lips as her eyes drift closed.

“Rhett.” She rasps. Her fingers grip the bottle so hard her knuckles turn white, and then she takes a heavy swig before dropping the bottle onto its side. It’s clinks against the tile and whisky sloshes everywhere, filling the room with the smell of Jack Daniels.

I drop to a crouch in front of her, my heart clenching at the sight of her because how can I fight this? I can’t. This is self-inflicted and she can’t even find it in her to care for herself.

This right here is the shit she hides so well, the mess that lies underneath the sparkly façade of Blake McQueen. No matter how much she tells herself and everyone else that she doesn’t have a problem, she does. She may not need to snort that shit every day, but as soon shit gets real, or life gets too hard, this will always be her escape.

I don’t know how to deal with her, but I can’t leave her like this. I bend down and scoop her up, one arm under her back, the other behind her knees. She doesn’t fight me as I lift her small frame and place her in the bath.

She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her slim arms around her shins. Blood streaked strands of golden hair fall forward, shielding her face.

I sigh and take the shower head off the wall, turning it on. When it’s the right temperature I start to wash her. The water cascades down her body in a pink tinged, bloody path. She allows me to wash her, never resisting or uttering a word.

I unzip the dress and pull it over her head, dropping it into the bottom of the bath. When I’ve washed her hair and face and removed all traces of blood, I wrap her in a towel and carry her to her bedroom.

I don’t know how much she’s taken. Should I take her to the hospital? Her lack of reaction to anything is scaring the fuck out of me. I’ve seen people on drugs, hell, I’m not a saint, I’ve taken drugs myself. The problem is, everyone reacts differently.

“Blake, I need to know how much you took.” I stroke the wet hair off her face, griping her jaw and forcing her to look at me.

Her eyes meet mine, unfocused, as though she’s not really seeing me. There’s a beat of silence and then she suddenly throws her arms around my neck, her body heaving with sobs. Her towel falls down and I pull her against me.

“I’m sorry.” She cries. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t even know what to say to her, so I just pull away and find her some clothes to sleep in. I dress her and lie her down on the bed, pulling the duvet over her, but when I stand to leave, her fingers latch onto the front of my shirt.

“Stay.” She begs, her voice a raspy whisper. “Please.” I should walk out that fucking door and I should keep on walking. She’s not strong enough for this, I’m not strong enough for this because somewhere along the way I think I fell in love with this girl—I realized that the moment I thought she might be dead. I should know better than anyone that the ones who love us hurt us the most, even if they don’t mean to. With a sigh, I strip down to my boxers and turn off the light, climbing in next to her. She reaches for me and winds her fingers through mine as she presses her face against my chest.

I roll onto my back and she rests her cheek on my chest. I feel a tear hit my skin, rolling down my ribs. I’m angry, but I won’t let her break. My fingers thread through her hair, stroking through the long strands.

I hold her as she drifts to sleep, but I can’t sleep because all I can think about is the fact that I can’t do this. 
 

When I open my eyes, it feels like someone has rubbed sand into my eyeballs. My mouth tastes like a small rodent curled up and died in it and my head is pounding. Light creeps around my curtain and I flinch away from it like a vampire. It takes me a few moments, but slowly, clarity starts to kick in and the memories surface. My parents, Felix, my epic blow binge.

My nose hurts, and I recognise the familiar scratchiness in my throat. I roll over. The bed’s empty, but I know Rhett has been here, the sheets smell of that fresh citrusy scent with the undertone of masculinity that always has my body tightening in recognition. He came back for me, and as much as it thrills me to know that he cares, I’m also ashamed that he had to come here.

I drag myself to the bathroom, each step triggering a jarring pain in my head. I glance in the mirror and almost recoil. I look like something someone just scraped off the pavement. My hair is a mess, my skin pale with dark circles under my eyes.

I splash cold water on my face and brush my teeth before going in search of coffee and painkillers.

I pass through my living room and see the empty baggie on the coffee table along with the fine dusting of white powder. Shame and guilt wash through me, making me feel like the world’s shittiest person.

When I step into the kitchen, Rhett is standing with his hip propped against the counter, a mug in hand, looking lost in thought. His hair is wet, as though he just got out of the shower, and he’s topless, his jeans unbuttoned. I feel like shit and
he
manages to look like that.

“Hey.” I whisper, my voice raspy.

His eyes flick to mine and there’s a moment where I can’t look away. I can’t breathe. I can’t think of anything that isn’t him or those golden eyes. The familiar connection crackles between us before his expression becomes closed, shutting me out. My heart squeezes painfully.

He doesn’t say anything as he watches me and the tension in the room builds.

“How are you feeling?” He asks flatly.