Page 56 of Endurance

Kallie

Shortly after one, I pulled into Sloan’s driveway. His black Chevy Camaro was parked haphazardly in the middle of the drive. It was at an angle, and I couldn’t pull up all the way. That wasn’t a good sign. After ensuring my back end wasn’t sticking out in the street, I parked near the end of the drive, then got out and walked up to the front door.

After ringing the bell four times, it was clear he wasn’t going to answer, so I walked around to the back. Thankfully, the gate to the backyard wasn’t locked. As I rounded the back corner of the house, my steps faltered when I saw a patio chair tipped on end and the glass patio doors partially open. My stomach dropped, and panic began to set in.

I hurried toward the open doors. Once inside, I looked around but didn’t see Sloan. The place was a mess—but in a different way than it had been when I was there the first time. Takeout containers and clothes no longer littered the floor, but almost every piece of furniture had either been shifted to awkward angles or knocked over. One of the end-table lamps had toppled onto the floor, and the glass top of the coffee table had slid to balance precariously on the frame. Automatically, I bent to reposition it so it didn’t fall and break.

As I stood back up, I froze when I spotted an orange prescription bottle on the floor. The lid was off, and it appeared empty. Picking it up, I read the label.

It was oxycodone.

The pit in my stomach grew.

“Sloan?” I called out in alarm. I listened for his answer as I picked up the lamp and put it back in its proper place on the table. Stepping over an empty bottle of Jack Daniels, I made my way upstairs with the hope of finding Sloan there.

I tried not to worry about what the empty pill bottle and liquor could signify, but my anxiety only grew with every step I took. Halfway to the top, I heard a loud bang, then a thud. I gasped and began to sprint up the last remaining stairs. I hurried along the hallway toward the sounds. At the end of the hall, I came to what I could only assume was Sloan’s bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the room reeked of whiskey—but that wasn’t what caused fear to wrap like a vice around my heart. It was seeing Sloan lying face down on the floor that made my blood turn cold.

“Sloan!” Rushing to him, I skidded to a halt and tried to flip him over. His dead weight made it a struggle, but I eventually got him to shift onto his back. He looked up at me with glazed eyes, almost as if he couldn’t focus. Judging by the smell of him, he probably couldn’t. His pupils looked normal and not constricted like I’d expected them to be. That was a good sign. It meant he might not have taken the prescription drugs after all.

I pressed my lips together in a tight line, glanced around the room, and tried to think of what to do. There was a balcony off of Sloan’s bedroom, and he was lying just inside the open doors. The wrought-iron curtain rod hanging over the door had been pulled from the brackets, falling until it skewered one wall. My quick guess was that he tripped coming inside and tried to grab ahold of something to stop himself from falling. The rod puncturing the wall was most likely the source of the bang I’d heard, and the loud thud was probably Sloan’s heavy body hitting the floor.

He groaned and attempted to sit up. I quickly shifted to help him. That’s when I noticed he had another bottle of Jack—this one half-empty—clutched tightly in his hand. Despite his fall, he managed not to spill a drop. I did a mental calculation, combining the bottle he was holding with the empty one at the base of the stairs, to figure out how much he’d likely consumed since last night.

Fighting to push himself up with his free arm, the two of us managed to get him into a sitting position. Shifting his body, he leaned back against the side of the bed, almost as if it were too much of an effort to stay upright on his own. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his face was pale. He looked fragile and broken.

Have I been blind over the past month? How did I not know he could be triggered so easily?

Speechless, I could only stare at him. I was kicking myself for failing to ask more probing questions about his accident and what happened with his mother and father. As a trained PR agent, I knew how to ask the hard questions, yet I’d avoided them and allowed my personal feelings to get in the way.

After a moment, he seemed to regain some semblance of focus and glared at me.

“What are you doing here?” he slurred viciously. I flinched from the venom in his voice. I’d never heard him talk to me like that before.

“I talked to Colton. He told me about the crash. I was worried when you didn’t answer the phone, so I came here to see if you were okay.”

At my words, his face momentarily softened.

“I called you.”

“I know, but you didn’t leave a message. Sloan, what happened?”

“No rainbows,” he mumbled instead of answering me. Reaching up, he fumbled the blue extensions I’d clipped in today. “Why blue?”

“Blue is when I’m sad. I was sad when Colton told me what happened. I’m even sadder now to see you like this. Why, Sloan? Why did you do this to yourself?”

Instantly, his menacing look was back. He scowled and tried to stand up. I quickly moved to help him, but he batted my hand away.

“I’ve got it!” he snarled. Once on his feet, he swayed a bit but didn’t topple over like I thought he might. With him standing at full height, I was able to take in his appearance. He was clad in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, and there was a long cut extending from his right shoulder to his sternum. It wasn’t deep, but it would still need tending to.

“Sloan, you’ve scraped yourself up pretty good. Let me get something to clean—”

“If you’ve come here to save me, you can forget it. I don’t need you to fix me anymore. Get out!”

“You’re drunk!” I snapped back. It was foolish to point out the obvious, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’d never seen him in such a state, and I didn’t know how to handle it.

“Well, thank you for pointing out what I already knew. In my opinion, I’m not drunk enough. Now get out so I can finish this here—” He stopped slurring to point a wavering finger at his bottle. “This here bottle needs to be finished.”

He took a few swerving steps toward the balcony doors. I moved, afraid he might fall on me, but I was also scared of him going outside near the railings.

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