Page 2 of Pocketful of Shame

I thought about that day in the hospital when I'd finally gotten through to him, or at least I thought I had. It felt like a lifetime ago, but I had seen something in his eyes, something that reminded me of a person I used to know. Again, I pushed the thought away, knowing that it wouldn’t do me an ounce of good in the long run.

Sketch would always be the same. He didn’t change easily. He had a very one-track mind. He believed what he believed and he made no apologies for it.

I still wanted one, though.

I wanted an apology.

I wanted the fucking word!

"Stop screaming, honey," a strange voice said from close by. "It won't do you any good, and I'll have to sedate you again."

Startled, I swung my head to look at the nurse sitting in a chair at my bedside. I hadn't realized I'd been screaming. The high-pitched keening noise that had been overriding the song was coming from me, I realized.

I snapped my mouth shut, attempting to quieten down, but my chest continued to convulse. Blinking rapidly, I tried to see through my tears, but everything was blurry. I needed to wipe the gunk from my eyes. I needed to get up. I needed toleave.

"Stop, Ramona," she instructed firmly. "You'll cut your wrists again."

How?I wanted to scream. I didn’t know what I was doing. I couldn’t figure out what was happening to me.

When I didn’t stop whatever I was supposedly doing, she leaned over my bed and placed her hands on my shackled wrists. "Just calm down."

"Help me," I managed to strangle out. "Please…help me help him."

"Help who, honey?" she asked as she released her hold on my wrists and reached for a syringe.

"Him," I cried out hoarsely, shaking my head when she leaned over me with a needle aimed at my neck. "Nothing in Pocketful," I began to pant, my dry lips cracking from exertion, "is what it seems."

"Shh. It's okay. You're going to be just fine."

"No, you don’t understand –"

A pricking sensation to my neck caused my words to slur and my eyelids to flutter. Twisting my head to the side, I leaned heavily against the pillow and stared out the window, watching as a pair of familiar, striking blue eyes stared back at me from the other side of the glass.

"Run," I mumbled drowsily, quickly losing control of my limbs, as a wave of darkness threatened to pull me under. "Hide."

Chapter Two

Sketch

"You know what, maybe I should drive us back to the motel," Presley said when we climbed into my truck. "It's been a long day and, well, you're looking a little irate there, Sketch."

Irate was an understatement for how I was feeling. Romi was locked away in a private room, surrounded by 24/7 supervision. She had been there for the past four days, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help. I couldn't handle it. I couldn’t put the mental image of the girl I used to know and the girl I saw in the bedtogether. It was like two different people. Her eyes… they weren't even the right color. I had no idea what drugs were flushing through her veins, but her pupils were so dilated that I could hardly see those whiskey colored irises I adored.

She lay on that bed and stared, mind blank, heart bleak. Everything seemed so vacant inside of her. A surge of guilt swelled up inside of me because I knew I was responsible for this. A huge chunk of her downfall was on me.

Fuck.

What I hated most was the fact that I wasstillmad at her. I shouldn’t be, but I couldn't get past the ten months of lies and secrets. The ten months of inner turmoil.And the twelve months before than when she dated my brother…

"It's been four days," I growled, slamming the driver's door shut and ramming my key into the ignition. "How much longer do you propose we leave her in there?" Cranking the engine, I tore out of the parking lot and into the evening traffic. "You better have a plan, because I'm telling you right here and now, Quinton, that I'm not gonna stand back and watch that happen again."

"You know, for a guy whose brother was killed in a car wreck less than a year ago, you sure like to take risks behind the wheel," he stated, pulling on his seatbelt so tightly I had no doubt he was restricting his airways. "No wonder they call you reckless."

"My brother wasn't killed in a car wreck," I reminded him, tightening my hold on the wheel as I swerved through traffic, narrowly avoiding a Chevy pickup. The owner blew the horn at me and I flipped the dick off, in no mood for pleasantries. "Chris was murdered and you'll be next if you don’t shut the fuck up and tell me the turn-off for the motel."

"Question." He held up a finger, expression smug, and I rolled my eyes. "How do you expect me to direct you without speaking?"

"Pres," I warned, just about done with his bullshit. I had been holed up in Houston with my brother's best friend for four days too many and I was growing beyond agitated. Quinton Presley might be a genius, but he was annoying as hell. "Why can't you just –"

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