Page 102 of Even After Sunset

I don’t see any sign of Jackie, so that’s one good thing. I need time to pull myself together before I’m ready to face her.

I stumble the few feet to the bathroom and puke my guts out, then take a leak—no easy feat, given that the bathroom is the size of a postage stamp, and that I’m still unsteady on my feet.

So that’s two issues taken care of. The stomach cramps are still just as bad, though. I rifle quickly through the medicine cabinet because I know there’s a bottle of Pepto Bismol there. Like I said: not my first rodeo.

I find the bottle and twist the cap off, then take a few gulps. It’s never helped with the cramps in the past, but I’m an eternal optimist, among other things, so I even take an extra couple of swigs for good measure.

I’m still feeling a little… delicate, so I fall onto the couch instead of fixing myself a cup of coffee. A few more minutes of just sitting and I’m sure I’ll be good to go. Well, maybe not good to go. But hopefullyokayto go, at least.

I glance up at the microwave: it’s almost ten-fifteen. And still no sign of Jax, which is weird because I thought she said she wanted to get on the road by nine.

A few minutes later, I hear her voice outside. And a man’s voice. Probably another one of the vendors. I get up and pour myself a glass of water, then collapse back onto the couch, because apparently this is the extent of physical exertion my body is capable of right now.

I’m just taking my second sip of water when the door opens. Only it isn’t Jackie who walks in.

It’s the Doc. Richard fucking Pemrose.

He looks like he’s expecting the confused-as-fuck expression on my face. Then again, he always looks calm. You could set a pack of wild baboons on him, and he’d still have that same serene expression on his face, like “Oh my, what a surprise. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to make this barbaric attack more comfortable for you…”.

And then another man steps through the door and comes over to stand beside him. The guy is huge. Like bouncer huge. Bald head, no neck, all muscle. The two of them take up the entire living space.

“Silas,” the Doc nods. “I’m sorry if we took you by surprise.”

Except, it’s obvious that theymeantto take me by surprise. He and the beefcake are here for a reason. And that reason is me.

I push myself up—because you don’t want to be the guy still sitting when you’re about to be accosted for something. One of the many useful lessons I learned in juvie.

The big dude takes a step closer, like he’s bracing for me to make a run for it. I peer over his shoulder, but I can’t see anyone else there. I know I heard Jax’s voice a second ago, but there’s no sign of her now.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my eyes sliding from the Doc, to Mr. Clean, then back to the Doc.

Richard lets out a sigh and gives me one of those close-lipped smiles that means, “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but I’m going to do it, anyway.”

That one I learned from well-meaning social workers back in the days before they all started to look at me with disdain.

“I’m here because we’re concerned about you, Silas. About some things you may be dealing with.”

My eyes dart to the door. “Did Jackie call you about something?”

“She’s worried about you, Silas. We all are.”

Jackie ratted me out…

About the liquor in my backpack… About the times I’ve come back wasted. Maybe other stuff, too. Only I can’t think what, right now.

Richard motions to Mister Muscle. “This is Aubrey. He works at Henderson House—an alcohol addiction center for teens that—”

“A fuckingrehab center?”

“I’ve secured a spot for you in their treatment center, yes. Just outside Springfield, so you’ll be close to home. I think it will—”

“What the hell did Jackie tell you? That I’m a fuckingalcoholic?Is that what she said?”

I crane my neck to peer over his shoulder again, because I know she’s out there and I need to ask her what the hell is going on. But Beefcake—sorry:Aubrey… blocks me again.

“Jackie cares about you,” Richard says. “She’s worriedabout you. And she wants you to get the help that you need.”

“I don’t need help,” I snap. “So thank you for the intervention, or whatever this is. But I’m not going to a fucking rehab center.”

---