Page 127 of Sin Like the Devil

“Did you check his room?”

Lennox narrows his eyes. “Great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Ease off, asshole. You haven’t got two brain cells to rub together. I have to ask.”

“You know what? Forget it. I’ll find him myself.”

With a final shove, he storms back off into the reception. I hate myself for appreciating the way his tight, white t-shirt bulges over his biceps and the fit of his sweatpants accentuates his perfectly curved rear.

I don’t have to like the guy to admit that he’s sexy as sin in a rugged, no fucks given kind of way. It’s a shame he has to open his damn mouth and ruin that attraction.

That’s when the real Lennox emerges. No amount of muscle or delicious stubble can fix that disaster. He’s a cruel soul hidden behind a pretty exterior.

Concerned for Raine, I head for the music room. It’s outside his usual practise hours, but the list of spaces he feels comfortable and safe in is limited. If something is wrong, he’d seek refuge there first.

In the south wing, it’s deserted. Classes have finished for the day, and everyone is taking refuge while the storm rages. I stop outside the pitch-black music room to take a quick glance inside.

“Raine? You in here?”

There’s no response, but I step into the darkness regardless, flicking on lights as I go. When I see his ajar violin case, I know the voice screaming in my head is on to something. The case is empty and haphazardly discarded.

“Raine?”

Nothing.

“Where are you? Raine?”

After searching the room from top to bottom, I find nothing. Just an empty case and no answers. Heading down the hall, I slam on the lights in the art room. My canvases and supplies are still in the top corner of the room.

With thunder exploding outside the bay windows, I make my way to the back of the room. Bingo. Raine’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by stacks of dry canvases and boxes of oil paint. His violin rests in his lap.

“Why are you hiding in here? You scared the shit out of me!”

Inching closer, I realise his head is lolling to the side. I drop next to him, quickly seizing his hand. It doesn’t tighten around mine. His fingernails are blue, matching the strange purplish tint of his lips.

Fuck!

That’s when I notice the empty plastic coin bag resting in his limp hand. I haven’t seen one of these since I used to help out at my dad’s butcher shop as a kid. He’d sometimes let me count the change at the end of a shift.

There’s a pale, powdery residue left in the bag from whatever pills were stashed inside. But the more horrifying realisation is that whatever he’s taken, I didn’t supply it. These aren’t the bags we use.

I’ve been carefully controlling Raine’s intake ever since he started coming to me. I never oversell and often reject some of his requests. Plus, the product is safe. Well, as safe as drugs can be. But this bag… it’s not mine.

He bought from someone else.

Who the fuck sold this to him?

Shoving the baggie into my pocket to figure out later, I look back at Raine.

“Come on,” I plead urgently. “Wake up, Raine.”

Withdrawal looks different than this. He’s completely out cold. Peeling back his eyelids, I find his pupils smaller than pinpricks. His healed, bruise-free skin is cold and clammy, but he’s breathing, albeit in a worryingly shallow manner.

Shaking him several times, I repeat his name, my voice taking on a frantic edge. Not even a twitching of the eye. All I’ve got is the rapid rise and fall of his chest to reassure me that he’s still alive.

I can’t leave him. Not like this. If he stops breathing, I’ll have to perform CPR. The mere thought is terrifying. Accident or not, I’m certain this is an overdose.

Patting down his pockets, I search for the lump of his smartphone. It’s in his jeans and chirps back to me as I stab the buttons, searching his contacts. I have to swallow my pride to press the ring button on Lennox’s name.

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