But with Garrick…I can see that he’s different, especially when he talks about his mother. His face softens along with his words. I’ve done my research on his entire family. I know he moved to California from Australia when he was younger, his mother worked in some plastic surgery ward in Hollywood’s finest hospital, and his little brother was adopted when Garrick was eleven. Family matters to him and it always has because they had to struggle before he got a shot at making something of himself and provide for them.
Washing my hands after doing my morning business, I crawl back onto the bed and look around the room. There are beautiful paintings hanging on the wall, plants in the corners that I’m not certain are real, and a large set of windows covered by sheer white curtains bathing the room in natural early morning light.
I reach for my phone that rests on the nightstand and notice a few strings of texts from my parents and best friend. Responding to them so they know I’m not dead, I groan when my father calls immediately after my message to them is delivered.
“Hi, Dad.” My voice is still groggy as I curl under the blankets.
“Hey, kiddo,” he greets. His voice is gravelly as always, making me smile in comfort despite being surrounded in luxury. “You were supposed to call last night. Your mother was worried thinking something happened.”
Shit. I’d told him my car was making a weird noise and that I needed to get it taken care of. Dad used to be a mechanic, so he kept asking me what sort of sounds it was making, and then promptly laughed when I tried to mimic the problem. I think his exact words were, “What sound is that? A dying whale?”
The soft blanket warms up my cold body as I snuggle in. “Sorry. Don’t worry about the car, it’s getting taken care of. I had kind of a crazy night, but everything is fine.”
“What’s wrong with the car?” he asks, something I should have expected.
I bite my lip. “Er…”
The disapproving grunt he lets out makes me frown. “Ry, how many times have I told you to get the details from the mechanic? They can overcharge and take advantage of—”
“My friend is handling it,” I blurt, wincing at the defensiveness of my tone.
In the background, I hear Mom say, “You have a friend?”
I drop my head back trying not to be offended by the surprise in her tone. She knows how much I love Moffie, but we don’t live in the same state anymore so we’re not as close as we used to be. Tiffany and I were situational friends, hanging out when we were both at our old apartment, but we never did much outside of it together. So, I guess Mom’s shock is justified.
But still. “Yes, Mom. I have friends.”
Dad chimes back in. “Well, I’m glad you have someone looking out for you.”
The curiosity is too much for my mother though. “Is this a girl friend or a boy friend?”
Thankfully, my phone alarm goes off indicating that it’s time to take my medicine. Saved by the alarm, I think to myself. “I have to go take my meds, but I’ll keep you updated on the car. No need to worry! Love you!”
I barely get a chance to hear the words back from them before hanging up and blowing out a breath of relief. Flipping onto my back, I groan and stretch over the side of the bed where my bag is resting on the floor.
My joints pop and crack as I dig through my bag and find what I need, prepping my syringe when I hear a knock on the door followed by Garrick’s voice. “You up, Rylee? I thought I heard you talking, so I wanted to let you know that I just got a call from—”
The door opens before I can respond, and his eyes instantly drop to the needle in my hand. Part of my shirt is up where I’m about to inject into my lower abdomen, but I pause when I see something dark shadow over his face.
His fingers grip the doorknob as he glares at me perched cross-legged on the mattress. “Did you bring fucking drugs into my house? After I went out of my way to help you?”
Blood drains from my face. “It’s not—”
“You need to go,” he informs me, his tone full of venom and not offering any room for explanation.
Despite feeling the icy tone penetrating my skin, I still try. “But I’m n—”
“Just stop. Jesus. I don’t allow that shit here anymore. I’m sure you know my past with things like that, but I’m clean now. I’ll call you a ride to take you to the shop where your car is, but that’s it. Nothing fucking more.”
His eyes snap between me and what I’m holding before he shakes his head and walks out, slamming the door behind him while cursing. My palm shakes as I lower the shirt and syringe and try calming my racing heart. I can hear him mumbling until it’s distant enough that I know he’s downstairs. Only then do I take a few slow breaths before doing what needs to be done, blowing out a breath before inserting the needle.
I channel my thoughts, so I don’t focus on the slight pain of the injection or the shake to my hands or the angry host waiting for me to leave.
One—I have medicine that controls my autoimmune disease and will make me feel better.
Two—I had a comfortable bed to sleep in last night, even
