Page 57 of Pistol Whipped

I listen, though I cannot help the low growl that escapes me.

“Eventually,” she soldiers on, “eventually, the shame of what had happened became overwhelming. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t bring myself to face Grams. So, I just drifted…from bottle to bottle and bed to bed. Until my money ran out; after that, the liquor got cheaper, and the beds got…worse. I existed like that for years. Years.”

I take a deep breath and ask, “What changed?”

“You already know. Grams got sick. She died.”

I feel her sobs more than see them.

“She died, and I wasn’t there because I was too goddamn drunk, and ashamed, and messed up to bother checking in on the only family who ever gave a shit about me.”

Her whole body shakes in my arms as her tears spill over. My own eyes are watery, and my throat is too clogged to say much, because knowing that Grams died alone, without either of us, might haunt me as much as it does her. It is most definitely the reason why, even though I play nice, even though I’m glad I saved him, I’m not sure I will ever wholly forgive my brother.

“After the hospital tracked me down, I swore on Grams’s memory that I would get my shit together. I sold her house, paid off the bad debts I’d been racking up for years, and used what was left to pay for the best damn rehab I could afford.”

Pride swells inside me at how much the woman in my arms has done to fight her demons, but I don’t want to interrupt her story.

“Six months in a treatment facility, and it worked. I was sober. However, that was only the start of my fight. Another four years, weekly meetings at St. Gregory’s church in The Neck with a bunch of other addicts, and finally, finally, it felt like I had a handle on my sobriety. Until last night.”

Though the water around us has grown cold, I hesitate to move because I do not want the brave woman in my arms to think her revelations have changed a damn thing. They haven’t. All I see is someone so strong, who has fought so hard to get to where she is today. I am in awe of her, because I know how hard that fight is.

For a second, my thoughts drift to Dallas, and I wonder where he would be, where we would both be, if he fought even a fraction as hard as Rain has.

She and I have always had an uncanny ability to read each other’s thoughts, and though so much of us changed since we were those teenage kids, that seems to have remained. Rain spins in my arms so her knees press against my chest, and she takes my face in both hands, forcing eye contact.

“Listen to me, Dutch. Every addict is different.”

I don’t even need a crystal ball for me to know that her thoughts, like my own, aren’t far from Dallas.

“You cannot compare one addict’s journey to another’s.”

“Hmph,” I grunt, “Maybe not, but I can say that you, Rain Gamble, are without a doubt the strongest woman I know.”

Unable to stand any kind of compliment, she rebuffs me with a swat of her hand.

“Right now, I’m also the coldest woman you know. Can we get out, please?”

We both laugh because she’s right. It’s fucking freezing. I help her out of the tub and wrap her in one of the fluffy towels I bought as a consolation to myself the last time Dax relapsed. At the time, I blamed myself and somehow thought linens were the cure. Now seeing Rain wrapped up in them, I’m starting to think I was right.

She hugs the towel tight around her. Though her shoulders are narrow, her hips aren’t, and the curve of them is as tempting as ever as I grab my own towel and follow her back to my bedroom.

She hums as she goes. The tune is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

“What’s that song?”

“You should know.” She smirks before collapsing backward into my bedroom. “You wrote it.”

Then she sings. On my bed, in nothing but her towel. The girl of my dreams sings,

“Now that you’ve held me,

You can’t let me go,

Because here in your arms,

I’m finally home.

You’ve always been just what I needed,