Owned & Untamed (Back Down Devil MC #11)(4)

Then Jim got hurt…

I opened the door and called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

That always pissed Jim off.

There was no response though.

I walked down the entrance hall - the one with the same pictures of me and Jim hanging on the wall.

Cut to the left and I was in Jim’s part of the house. Jim had a master bedroom suite right off the living room. Basically Dad took a two story home and built a ranch style off the side of it. That was Jim’s part of the house.

I walked through the kitchen and saw the pile of dishes in the sink. I usually gave it a day or two before I stepped in. I walked over and saw a cluster of fruit flies scatter from a pan with crusted pasta sauce stuck to it.

I turned and noticed the small cabinet that held the microwave was open.

That’s where Jim kept his booze.

“Shit,” I whispered.

Some days dealing with Jim were hard enough, but when he got to drinking, it was worse. He would just spout off whatever was on his mind, no filter. He could get mean. He could get upset. He could tell stories of what he saw.

I almost wished I stayed for my own second glass of wine with Maggie.

I entered the living room and the TV was on. I saw Jim on the couch, his head propped up beyond the couch.

“Jim?” I called out.

No response.

I took a few steps forward and feared the worst. I feared the demons that had followed him back home were going to get him.

When I saw Jim’s head slump to right, a bottle in his hand, his mouth open, I froze.

I said the first thing that came to mind.

“He’s not breathing.”

**

I dropped down and grabbed the bottle of whiskey out of his hand. It was almost empty. I had no idea if the bottle was full or not when he started drinking. I touched his stomach and swore I felt nothing moving. I jabbed my fingers into his neck for a pulse.

There was a pulse.

His stomach then made a fluttering motion.

Jim let out growl and swatted his shoulder at me.

“Jim!” I yelled and slapped his face. “Open your eyes.”

His eyes tried to open and he looked at me. “What… what are you…”

“It’s Belle,” I said. “Why are you doing drinking so much?”

Jim grinned. “Boom. Boom. All in my head.”

He tried to move his left hand but it was like he was paralyzed.

I inched back and saw that he’d taken off his prosthetic leg. It wasn’t placed beside him but across the room. He probably got mad and threw it.

“Come on, lay down,” I said. “You damn fool.”

I stood up and Jim grabbed my arm. His eyes opened. “It hurt.”

“What hurt?”

“My leg, Belle…”

“Did you bump your leg or something?”

Sometimes Jim would be stubborn and try to do too much with a prosthetic leg and hurt himself.

“Here,” he said and grabbed for the empty leg of his jeans.

“There’s…”

I almost said there’s nothing there.

But I knew better.

Sometimes Jim would have nightmares and wake up with his missing leg in pain. Doctors called it a phantom limb. There was a psychological connection and his brain would send pain signals to a leg that wasn’t there.

“Does it hurt now?” I asked.

“Nothing hurts now,” he said.

He started to slide down the couch. His firm grip on my arm took me with him. I crashed to the floor, twisting my ankle. I let out a scream of pain as Jim’s face whacked the arm of the couch.

I thought his neck snapped but he quickly moved, telling me he hadn’t done more damage to himself.

But, fine, if he was going to be stupid, at least he was just drunk. I always hated the idea of guns in the house. And pain pills. I had to monitor the pills and make sure he didn’t hurt himself - by accident or on purpose.

I wiggled my way out of his grasp and touched his face. “You’re okay, Jim. Get some sleep. You’re going to feel like shit in the morning.”

“I feel… like shit right now, sis.”

“I know you…”

“Sick,” Jim said.

His eyes popped open.

Fuck.

I jumped back and kicked off my sort of heeled shoes I’d been wearing. I darted to the bathroom and grabbed the trash bucket. I snagged a towel and a washcloth on the way out. I jumped to the floor, put the towel down, and held the bucket out.

Jim rolled to his back and started to cough. His mouth then looked like a bubbling volcano as he started to get sick.

“You’ll choke!” I screamed.

I grabbed his hair and twisted his head to right.

He let loose into the trash bucket. It sounded like someone was dumping a bucket of wet mud out a two story window. I turned my head and held my breath, knowing I’d end up getting sick too.

The last few heaves sounded like a bear growling, threatening to rattle the windows.

Jim then rolled to his back and groaned.

I slapped the washcloth across his face - harder than was necessary, but I was pissed off. I emptied the bucket and returned. I forced Jim to turn to his side and stuck a few pillows behind him to keep him there. It was going to be a long night making sure my brother didn’t choke on his own vomit.