Page 114 of Things I Wish I Said
“You—” She blinks at me as if trying to understand. “Why would you do that? You knew he was looking to get back at you.”
Shit.
I pull away again, wondering how I can say this so it doesn’t sound like she drove me to it, because at the end of the day, my inability to cope is all on me.
“After I left your place, I needed something to take the edge off. So, I messaged him asking for some smoke. I knew it was risky after his warning at Kip’s, but I was desperate. So when he agreed at double the price, I allowed myself to believe that would be the only way I’d pay.”
Or maybe I just didn’t give a damn. Maybe I wanted trouble.
I wait as my words register. If she blames herself for this, too, she doesn’t say so.
“So, what did . . . did he mess with your car or something? Or were you that messed up, and if so, why didn’t you call somebody. Call me!”
“Dustin suggested I leave after I smoked and drank my weight in whisky, then followed me.” I shiver as I recall the sight of his taillights in my rearview mirror. “He then proceeded to slam into my car and run me off the road.”
Ry gasps. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital. Last night—”
“No. No hospital.”
“Grayson, you were vomiting, and you hit your head. For all we know, you have a concussion or a brain bleed.”
“It’s not a concussion,” I say, my tone calm.
“You don’t know—”
“Sinclair!”
She closes her mouth, her eyes searching mine with sympathy and concern I don’t deserve.
“I wasn’t sick because of the crash.”
“But . . .”
“I was sick because Dustin laced my weed with something.”
She’s silent for a moment, her eyes wide as she absorbs this information.
“Laced it with other drugs?”
“I’ve never used anything other than marijuana, I swear. I might be an idiot, but I’m not a junkie. I know my limits, but after I started smoking, I realized I felt a lot more messed up than I should, and I knew. When I asked him, he more or less admitted it. He’s been trying to get me hooked on the hard stuff for years, and this was just another way to dick with me.”
“So, when you say he laced it with something, you mean . . .?”
I lift a shoulder, and grimace at the sharp pain in my chest. “LSD, cocaine, fentanyl, PCP, who the fuck knows?”
And I don’t want to know.
She sucks in a breath. “Fentanyl? Isn’t that . . .?”
I sigh. “I’m trying not to think about it.”
“So, what now?”
“Stay the hell away from Dustin and get my shit together.” I scrub a hand over my face. “At this rate, I’ll be lucky to keep my athletic scholarship when I start at George Mason. They’ll take one look at me when I get to the field and know I’ve pissed away the season and wasted my talent. I’ve been sloppy and it shows. I’m not in the kind of shape I need to be for a travel team, let alone a Division One college team. If I don’t get my act together by the time we start training and conditioning, I’m screwed.”
I say the words, but they don’t fully register. It’s like there’s this roadblock inside my brain, preventing me from giving a fuck.
“Why are you screwing around? I’ve seen you play. I know you love it, and the kind of talent you have takes work and dedication. Serious athletes like yourself don’t get to where you are by drinking and smoking.”
