Page 196 of The Fine Line
“Oh my God,” I mutter.
I shake my head. Try to apologize.
“I’m sorry?—”
Holt spits blood, doesn’t get up.
“Go home,” he wheezes. “Pack your bags. You’re done.”
“W–what?No– I–”
“What? No?—”
Someone’s hand grabs my shoulder. My pants fall. The coke and Oxy baggies spill out.
Half conscious, Holt turns his head, spotting them.
“And there it is.”
“Fuck. Holt, I?—”
“You’re done,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it”
Several hands grab me all at one. Yank me to my feet. Drag me through the bar. Throw me outside into the rain.
The door slams shut behind me. It’s pouring now—cold and relentless. I stumble into the alley behind the bar, chest heaving, blood dripping from my nose and mouth. My hands tremble, scraped and raw. My whole body’s shaking, from adrenaline or drugs or shame—I don’t even know anymore.
What I do know? Reality is crashing down on me with every step.
I start running.
Where to?
No fucking clue.
I don’t have anywhere to go.
But I keep running. Until my knees buckle and my legs give out.
I drop to the ground against a dumpster and bury my face in my hands.
“Fuck!” I shout, grabbing two fistfuls of my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I stay like that for a while—just rocking, soaking wet, trying to breathe. Trying to stop the spiral.
Eventually, I fumble for my phone in my pocket, my fingers stiff and clumsy. I stare at the screen through blurry eyes, blood and rain streaking my face. I don’t know who I’m calling. I just hit the name I’ve always hit first.
Mom.
It rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
I hang up without listening.
I scroll to the next name.
Dad.
