finally alerted me that ‘off’ could be bad in a way I hadn’t yet imagined.
With my ear practically pressed to the door, I 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 I have heard
something
by now? Sex in the shower
couldn’t
be that quiet.
Raising my fist, I rapped my knuckles on the door. Again. Again. And Again. “Gage?” Finding the door unlocked, I 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 my eyes.
Through the steamy glass, I viewed a shadowy lump. Was he sitting on the floor?
“Gage?” And when he didn’t answer, I felt myself tripping into terror. Had he slipped? “Gage!”
Regardless, I felt invasive when I tugged on the shower door. And there he was in all the nude muscular magnificent glory of my 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 I knelt beside his prone body and mashed two fingers to his corded neck.
Feeling a faint pulse, I called out to him again as I 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, I grabbed his wrist, checking again for the beat of a pulse to reassure myself.
The water? Had he breathed in some? It swirled down the drain with no backup, and I discounted that thought. Surging to my feet, I swiveled the fixture off and the flow ceased. Shoving at Rascal, I dripped through the bathroom toward his phone.
And that’s when I saw. Stopping short before the polished granite or marble vanity, I 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 I’d witnessed him firsthand indulging his habit.
Because it was lying alongside evidence of a worse vice. One I 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 I knew to be bacteriostatic water. I was familiar with the setup although it had been a while since it had been in my mother’s bedroom.
My feet flew across the bathroom, and I forgot I was wet until I slipped and caught myself on the pads of my hands before my face hit the tile floor. The warm tile floor… This anomaly caused me to pause as I soaked in the heat to my suddenly freezing body before pushing to my feet.
I grabbed the phone, toppling the dock, and it clattered to the floor. My toes curled nervously into a fluffy rug as I swiped at the screen but found it locked. The emergency call icon beckoned, and I almost pushed it before my finger froze, hovering above the screen.
My phone. I needed my own phone. Colt had texted me several times before and after our date. With getting his number my priority, I sprinted—more carefully—from the bathroom. Pausing in the bedroom, I flung Gage’s phone next to the guitar on his bed and did a double take when I saw a pill bottle. It lay in a miscellaneous pile in a tray with his billfold, a
With my ear practically pressed to the door, I 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 I have heard
something
by now? Sex in the shower
couldn’t
be that quiet.
Raising my fist, I rapped my knuckles on the door. Again. Again. And Again. “Gage?” Finding the door unlocked, I 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 my eyes.
Through the steamy glass, I viewed a shadowy lump. Was he sitting on the floor?
“Gage?” And when he didn’t answer, I felt myself tripping into terror. Had he slipped? “Gage!”
Regardless, I felt invasive when I tugged on the shower door. And there he was in all the nude muscular magnificent glory of my 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 I knelt beside his prone body and mashed two fingers to his corded neck.
Feeling a faint pulse, I called out to him again as I 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, I grabbed his wrist, checking again for the beat of a pulse to reassure myself.
The water? Had he breathed in some? It swirled down the drain with no backup, and I discounted that thought. Surging to my feet, I swiveled the fixture off and the flow ceased. Shoving at Rascal, I dripped through the bathroom toward his phone.
And that’s when I saw. Stopping short before the polished granite or marble vanity, I 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 I’d witnessed him firsthand indulging his habit.
Because it was lying alongside evidence of a worse vice. One I 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 I knew to be bacteriostatic water. I was familiar with the setup although it had been a while since it had been in my mother’s bedroom.
My feet flew across the bathroom, and I forgot I was wet until I slipped and caught myself on the pads of my hands before my face hit the tile floor. The warm tile floor… This anomaly caused me to pause as I soaked in the heat to my suddenly freezing body before pushing to my feet.
I grabbed the phone, toppling the dock, and it clattered to the floor. My toes curled nervously into a fluffy rug as I swiped at the screen but found it locked. The emergency call icon beckoned, and I almost pushed it before my finger froze, hovering above the screen.
My phone. I needed my own phone. Colt had texted me several times before and after our date. With getting his number my priority, I sprinted—more carefully—from the bathroom. Pausing in the bedroom, I flung Gage’s phone next to the guitar on his bed and did a double take when I saw a pill bottle. It lay in a miscellaneous pile in a tray with his billfold, a
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