But after my epic fail with Morgan, I’m in the mood to annihilate something.
3
MORGAN
Fingers shaking, I push my palm down on the small disc-like plastic and curl my fingers over the lip of the bottle, trying to open it once again. I don’t have a good grip on the lid and drop my hands to my sides as I grind my teeth on a growl.
“For crying out loud.” My jaw aches.
This is so frustrating. My hands are too clammy to get any real traction. Anxiety, worry, fear—pick out a troubled emotion because all of them apply—crank my internal temperature to a near hell-like level. And this June Florida weather doesn’t help.
I’m jittery and desperate as my feet shuffle against the melting asphalt. Who the hell was that guy? And how did he know my name?
Apprehensively, I glance around the parking lot of the shooting range and force my muscles to loosen. I’m alone. Randy Poole isn’t lurking out here, waiting to pounce.
I need to calm the hell down, especially if I’m going to confront that asshole. Trying once more, I put everything into twisting the top off the bottle and finally—yes—the lid springs free.
White pills tumble onto my palm, and I pop two into my mouth. The chalky substance sticks to my tongue and coats my throat but I’m long since past the gag phase. Taking them without water no longer bothers me.
And what does that say about me? I’m so desperate, in need of something to relax me, that I can’t even wait for water to wash down the pills?
Bzzz. Bzzz.
My phone vibrates on the hood of the car, and with my nervous feet shambling, I peer down at the screen while still clutching the bottle with all my might. It’s a text from my cousin Zach’s wife.
Not now.
Paige: Hey, lady! How are you?
I swipe up on the screen, flicking away the text and Paige’s warmth and cheer. Its disappearance does nothing to ease the self-disgust infecting my insides. I’m a piece of shit to ignore her.
This isn’t the first time. And it would be fine if I replied at some point today, but I won’t. Though I want to. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Another text comes in, and I tug on the end of my ponytail. The pain skittering along my scalp and into my neck does nothing to distract the guilt rappelling up my spine, settling in to feast on my bones and muscles.
Paige: It’s been too long. Let me know when you’re free to chat.
Been too long? More like barely a week since I spoke to Zach, and Paige, briefly. It’s plain to see those two are a tag team because only a handful of days go by before one of them contacts me.
After…
After the incident, they flew down from Toronto and stayed here for several months. It was a big deal, and the gesture wasn’t lost on me no matter how traumatized I was.
They’re busy, successful people, and they lived out of a hotel for weeks, running their businesses from here all because of me. They thought they could help, make a difference, and I suppose on some level they did.
But as time dragged on and I refused to cooperate, they started dropping hints that they’d take me home with them if I didn’t get help.
I couldn’t leave.
Wouldn’t.
It felt too much like defeat, and I’d already lost.
Even if Toronto was my birthplace and home, I hadn’t lived there in years and aside from Zach, Paige, and Nan, my grandmother, there was nothing there for me.
Ugh, I’m a horrible person. I’m lucky to have family that cares. Paige’s text… She’s worried. We’re friends, and she means well.
The trick to getting rid of them, getting them to go back to their lives, was to finally relent and see a therapist. Doc Newman helped, sort of. Then she no longer did, or more like I stopped trying the things she suggested.
Ugh, why can’t I be grateful to have family and friends who take the time to think about me, to reach out?
I can’t. I can’t when it feels like I’m being treated like a child or a china doll that must be handled with care.
Enough of this.
My hand tightens on the bottle and the other yanks once more on my ponytail. I can’t focus on Paige or Zach or any of that right now. One thing at a time.
The creep inside the gun range needs to be my sole focus.
The phone easily slips into the back pocket of my jeans, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders with it now out of sight. Or maybe the Xanax is working its magic.
Nah, that’s too fast. This stuff is good, but not that good.
My fingers tighten around the cylindrical tube, reminding me to check how many I have left. I squint and cup my hand over my brow to block out the sun as I look inside the bottle. Shit. There aren’t nearly enough pills.
At this rate, now that I need to up the dose to get the same effect, I’ll run out long before I’m due for a refill.
Refill? What am I thinking? Doctor Newman stressed she wouldn’t prescribe any more. If I felt like I needed more—hell, yes—then I’d have to start seeing her again. And even at that, she wasn’t going to simply write another prescription. She wasn’t convinced I needed the Xanax, and she worried I was using them as a crutch.
Fuck.
I don’t know if I can do it without them. Newman helped with the anxiety and fear, but nothing touches the guilt. Only the pills and who am I kidding? They only help to numb things, make me forget for a time. Not forever. I’ll never forget.
Sweat drips down my back and I fidget with the lid, taking way too long to close it, and when the front door of the gun range opens, I nearly drop the bottle. I shudder at the thought of the few pills I have left scattering across the ground and miraculously secure the top before whipping my gaze in the direction of the entrance.
My body loosens at the sight of two guys sauntering outside, laughing. It isn’t him, and I’m filled with a mixture of relief and dread. I don’t have all day but can wait another hour, maybe even two if I have to. Surely, he won’t be that long.
Nervously, I tap the bottle on my thigh and the pills rattle like the tick tock of time running out. I’ve got to do something about my dwindling Xanax. I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my contacts, looking for Mickey’s number. He only gave it to me days ago, so it should still be good. I shudder at the memory of that conversation, how I said too much.
The bar had already closed and most of the staff had gone for the night. I was the only one cleaning up and Shug waited for me at the door, to walk me to my car. Mickey hung around as if sensing my need, and normally, I’d have insisted he leave. But this time, I didn’t.
I was supposed to be casual, just ask him a few questions to find out if he could get Xanax and if so, how much. What an idiot. I was out of my depth. Like a python coiled around its prey, every one of my quivering breaths gave me away and Mickey gladly squeezed tighter, knowing just how close I was to the edge.
Mickey’s voice filters through the phone line, yanking me back to the parking lot. Voicemail. “Yo. You know what to do.”
I hit the red icon and end the call before the beep kicks in. I’m not leaving a message; I’ll keep an eye out for him at the bar. It’s safer that way. I don’t need a record of me calling a known drug dealer.
Movement by the building causes me to glance up.