Losing You (Stars On Fire Book 4) (17 page)

Pulling into a spot a few doors down from her place, Marc turned off his car. The heaviness of the bag of drugs in his jacket pocket weighed him down. His dealer had hooked him up—as always, plus a little welcome back surprise. Marc sat in his car, mentally preparing himself not to do these with Mia. After his day today, the temptation was strong.

So fucking strong.

Dwelling on it in the car wasn’t helping. All it did was make him want to reach into the bag and pop a couple pills. Pushing the door open, he got out and walked the short distance to her house. He rang the doorbell and when she didn’t answer, he tried again. A trickle of fear climbed up his spine when he got no response. The trickle turned into a river when he tried the door and it was unlocked.

No, he didn’t like that at all.

After entering her house, he shut and locked the door. Turning around to search out Mia, Marc froze when he saw her body sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Dread of what he may find made breathing difficult.

An image of his father’s lifeless body flashed before him, looking so much like Mia’s. He closed his eyes tight against the image. But the smell of blood filled his nostrils. He could feel it on his shaking hands.

Fisting them at his side, he fought against the flashback, but it was there. He could hear the blood spattering on the floor, hear his father’s last gasp of air. He could feel the blood soaking into his pants as he tried to stop the bleeding.

Shaking his head, he opened his eyes, yet stood still, watching Mia. He jumped back a step when her eyes shot open. A relieved sigh slipped past his lips. She wasn’t dead, but then he frowned. Why the hell was she passed out in the middle of the floor?

When he reached her, he went to the floor to lay with her, his eyes not leaving hers. “Mia, sweetie, have you taken anything?”

Worry filled him when she didn’t respond, but then he saw her swallow and one word made it out of her mouth. “No.”

Scooching closer to her, he noticed the strong smell of whiskey. “You smell like a liquor store.”

“Maybe because I drank one,” she said, still trying to find her voice.

Her eyes closed but he didn’t want that. He needed to keep her talking. “So, my dear, why are you lying in the middle of the floor?”

“I misjudged where the couch was,” she deadpanned. He fought not to smile. Even drunk to the point of passing out, she could still deliver a much-needed joke.

“Yeah, you did. You got about another fifteen feet to go.”

She tried to look over at the couch but her eyes rolled back into her head. “Really?” she eventually asked.

“Yeah,” he said, keeping his eye on her. Marc had a feeling she was fighting not to throw up. “Mia? Want to get up?”

“Yes and no,” she said before swallowing again. Shit, he needed to get her to the bathroom. Getting up, he stood by her side.

“I’ll get you up. Just don’t fight me, okay?” he pleaded. When she nodded, his hands went under her arms and he pulled her to a standing position. Once on her feet, she wobbled a little, latching on to Marc’s arm to steady herself. He glanced over at her green face and took off dragging her to the bathroom.

Just making it, Mia was on her knees, hugging the toilet. Marc rubbed her back as she threw up. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this for her, but he hoped it was the last.

“Think you can make it to your bedroom?” he asked when she stopped. Mia needed to sleep this bender off.

Turning to face him, she shook her head.

“Fuck,” he said at the look on her face. Frantically, she returned to the toilet, throwing up until she slid from the bowl and passed back out. Marc lifted her from the floor and carried her up to her bedroom and got her to bed.

Marc

The memory of his father’s suicide plagued him throughout the night. Marc stayed with Mia, focusing on the TV, letting the moving images of the shows and movies replace the ones from his past, instead of grabbing the bag from his coat. He watched TV until he finally passed out from exhaustion sometime around two. When he woke, Mia was snuggled up against his side, still sound asleep. He wanted to still be that way. Maybe he could call in. Grabbing his phone off the nightstand, he checked his calendar and saw that he had an all-day meeting near Naperville.

Fuck.

Begrudgingly, he carefully moved her hand and head from his chest and got out of bed. Too many years of experience told him that Mia would be hurting when she woke, so he got her a bottle of water as well as her phone, then hurried home to change before his meeting.

Wanting a long-ass shower but not having the time, Marc stripped and settled for a quick one. He was in and out of his house within fifteen minutes and then made his way to the brewery with five minutes to spare.

While he waited for the person he was supposed to interview to arrive, Marc shot off a text to Mia because he’d be surprised if she remembered anything from last night. Scrolling through the rest of his messages, he frowned when he noticed none of them were from Lizzie. Looking up from his phone, he saw two people heading his way. His thoughts on that topic would have to wait until after this interview and tour of their brewery.

That was some good fucking beer
, Marc thought as he drove home, a few six packs tucked safely away in the trunk of his car. He wasn’t going back to the office to work on the article when he could just as easily work on it from the comfort of home.

When he walked into his empty house, he threw his coat on the sofa, then headed to the kitchen to put the beer in the fridge, minus one bottle. Popping the top, he searched his pockets for his phone and came up empty. Returning to the living room, he picked up his jacket and patted the pockets down, pausing when he touched something soft, but he continued his search until his fingers slid over the cool, metal surface of his phone.

He pulled it out as well as the bag containing the drugs for Mia, then sat down. Tossing the bag on the table, he checked his phone and saw a reply from Mia. After he read it to make sure she had survived her morning from hell, Marc made sure he hadn’t missed a text or call from Lizzie. He needed to hear from her. He needed her to ground him—desperately.

Nothing.

After sliding his phone in his shirt pocket, he yanked his laptop out and went to work on his article. A few hours later, Marc sent the draft to his editor, placed his closed laptop on the coffee table and stared at the bag of drugs. He knew what was in there—some ecstasy, oxy, and zombie pills, plus some black tar.

Heroin.

He’d done it before . . . many years ago. But that high he couldn’t recall. And that drew him to what was in that bag. Maybe . . . just maybe chasing the dragon would work, would allow him to reset. To block these horrendous flashbacks from plaguing him. To block the thoughts of Lizzie slipping away from him. To rid himself of the vision of his friend on the ground looking so much like his father when he’d crumpled to the floor after pulling the trigger to end his life. He couldn’t lose her and last night at her place had rattled him.

Pushing off the sofa, he went to the kitchen where he grabbed the aluminum foil, a lighter, scissors, and a straw, then returned to the couch and laid out his items on the table.

Methodically, Marc cut a square out of the foil about the size of a post-it note then cut the straw in half. Unwrapping the sack of tar, he pinched off a small amount with his thumb and forefinger and pressed it onto the foil. With the straw in his mouth, he picked up his lighter with one hand and the foil in another.

Just one hit, he told himself as he moved the straw above the dot of tar and lit the lighter. Almost instantly, the smoke funneled up the straw. He breathed in a bit of air, before holding his breath. The smell was awful, kind of like burnt barbecue sauce. The taste was no better.

He waited for the buzz to hit. He didn’t know how long, but he thought it was supposed to be fast. He felt nothing. Absolutely no difference. Maybe smoking it wasn’t the way to go.

He needed this high.

Getting up, he went to his bathroom and got some alcohol wipes and the spare needle he had . . . for times like these. Just thought he’d never use it. After he returned to the living room, he prepared the heroin, heating it up and dissolving it with some water. When that was complete, he opened the needle from the plastic wrapper and began sucking up the solution. He wiped down his arm and with it still extended, he picked up the needle with his other hand. Intending on using the vein bulging on his forearm, he put the tip of the needle to it, then inserted it, flinching when he felt the needle prick the skin. Pulling the plunger up to check if he was in, he stared at the blood going into the syringe.

Score
, he thought, as he depressed the syringe just a little, going slowly. He was doing this. The heroin would soon be flowing through his system. Those flashbacks . . . those thoughts would be gone after he fully depressed this syringe. There’d be nothing.

A loud creak had him whip up his head. He froze, except for his hand which yanked the needle from his arm.

Standing in the doorway was Lizzie.

“Marc . . . what are you doing?” she asked, a tremor to her voice as she moved further into the room.

Fuck
, he thought as he scrambled up, dropping the needle to the table. Her gaze fell to what he just dropped and those beautiful green eyes flew wide in realization.

She knew.

She saw him doing the damn drugs.

“Marc . . . what have you done?”

He couldn’t handle admitting this to her, couldn’t handle the disappointment he knew would be in her eyes. Moving past her, he bolted out of the house, running as fast as his body would allow—away from Lizzie, who called out to him—wanting her far away from this.

Marc made it to the Walgreens parking lot and stopped, bending over and trying to catch his breath, feeling a little tingling in his hands and feet. His phone slipped out of his pocket and fell to the grass. Picking it up, he called his brother. He needed help.

While he waited, he scratched at the itch on his arm and didn’t stop when he heard Clark call out his name.

“Why’d she have to come back early and see me do that?” Marc shrieked.

“See what, bro?”

“Me doing heroin.”

“Fuck,” Clark cursed, letting out a loud breath. “Heroin, man? Seriously?”

Seriously
, Marc answered in his head. Lizzie saw him with a fucking heroin needle in his fucking arm. What the actual fuck had he been thinking?

His head fell back and the tears rushed to his eyes. Oh God . . . he’d lost her. He’d shown her just how unworthy he was of her.

“Where are you now? At home?”

“No. In the Walgreens parking lot,” he answered as a wave of nausea powered over him. Marc tried to stop it but before he knew it, he was doubled over, vomiting all over the green grass.

“Do not leave, Marc!” shouted his brother. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Don’t hang up either,” he added, the distinctive sound of a car starting in the background. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m in the car. Fifteen minutes, bro.”

Marc wanted to answer him, but his stomach had a mind of its own and he was throwing up again.

“
Fuck
!” his brother yelled again.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” Marc cried out as he fell backward onto the grass. He focused on the steady beat of Clark’s thumbs hitting the steering wheel. The rhythmic sound stronger than his own erratic heartbeat. As he drove, Clark spoke about traffic, letting him know where he was. When Marc heard the squealing tires in the lot, he didn’t look up; he knew it was his brother.

Clark’s shadow fell over him and Marc opened his eyes to the harried face of his younger brother. Clark put his hand out and helped Marc to a seated position, then Clark knelt in front of him. “I need you to listen to me, Marky,” he spoke. His ears perked up at his brother’s childhood name for him. The one he used when Marc hid in his room after his father’s death, when Clark would tell him, “I’m here, Marky. It’s okay.”

“You listening to me?”

The tears rushed to Marc’s eyes but he answered, his voice breaking. “Yeah.”

“You are not your father. You’re not him. So stop trying to be him. Stop following his footsteps. Okay? You are so much more, Marky . . .” Clark said, grasping Marc’s head, forcing him to look at eyes the same light blue as his. “You’re my big brother. My sanity. My cheerleader. Well, now, I’m going to be yours. You can live your life without the drugs. You just need to finally move past your father’s suicide. Do what you need to do. I’ll be there for you—whatever you decide, but please stop the drugs because I don’t want to lose you.”