Where One Goes(56)

“I’ll drive them,” Sniper volunteers.





Sniper drops George and me off at his house, insisting he can handle things at the restaurant. George held me in the backseat the entire way to his house despite his own problems. His breathing was labored, and I know he’s ill. I told him about finding Casey’s body; of course, I left out the part about Casey’s soul showing me where it was. He hugged me tighter and told me how strong I was after experiencing something like that. My insides twisted, knowing I was lying to him yet again.

Once we’re inside, he leads me to the bathroom in the master bedroom and starts the faucet. “You take a warm bath and try to relax. I’ll order a pizza.”

“George, you aren’t feeling well. You should take a hot shower and let me handle dinner.”

“You’ve had a really shitty day. I’m going to feel like ass no matter what I do. At least one of us should feel a little better.”

He gives me a T-shirt and some boxers and leaves me to bathe. I soak for a long time until I hear his doorbell ding and know it must be the pizza. I haven’t eaten anything all day so I hurry out of the tub and dress.

By the time I reach the kitchen, George is in only a pair of basketball shorts, his skin coated in sweat. Shit. He doesn’t look so well.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Charlotte, but I need to lie down. Please help yourself to anything.”


“Okay.” I nod as he walks back to his bedroom. I switch on the television while I eat, trying to keep quiet so George can sleep. After a while I decide to go and check on him and find him curled up in the fetal position on his bed; sweat covering him. His body feels like it’s on fire. I find a washcloth and a dry towel and attempt to wipe him off while applying the cool cloth to his forehead.

“You should go home, Charlotte,” he moans in pain. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Taking his hand in mine, I kiss it. “I’m not going anywhere. The good, the bad, and the ugly . . . remember?”

And ugly it is. For the next few days I stay with George as his body punishes him for denying it the cocaine, pills, and booze it has become accustomed to. My heart aches for him; I’d do anything to take his pain away. At night, I’ve slept with him in case he’s needed me, and by day, I try in vain to get him to eat something. Ike assures me as long as he keeps drinking water, he’ll be okay; the body can survive days without food, but can’t go longer than three days before dehydration sets in. The only times I’ve left is when Sniper comes between shifts and stays with George while I clean rooms for Ginger. At least I was able to use Georges’ washing machine and clean my clothes.

The first twenty-four hours are the worst, but as time passes he starts coming to a bit more. Now, he’s just really tired and wants to sleep. While he’s been incapacitated, I’ve done some research trying to find him a therapist, or a facility that can help him keep clean. I hope he’ll be open to it.

“He’ll need rehab,” Ike says, as I Google all of the information I can about drug addiction.

“He won’t go,” I answer. “Not at first, anyway.”

“Who are you talking to?” George asks in a hoarse voice as he enters the living room. I nearly jump out of my skin. He’s shirtless and I can’t help staring at him for a moment, admiring his defined abs and bare, broad shoulders.

“Just talking to myself,” I reply as I place George’s laptop beside me and stand.

“You do that a lot?” he asks. “Misty said she saw you talking to yourself when you first started working at the bar.”

I have to fight like hell not to scowl at the mention of her name. “Did she?” I ask, my tone not hiding my annoyance. “I’m sure she had all kinds of things to say about me.”

“Easy, Charlotte,” Ike interjects, and I roll my eyes.

Pushing past George, I enter the kitchen and start pulling out lunch meat and cheese to make sandwiches. “You hungry?”

I’m tossing the items on the counter to the right of the fridge while searching for the mayonnaise when I feel hands grab my hips and pull me back. George spins me around, shutting the fridge right after, before lifting me and sitting me on the kitchen island. My legs open to allow him to stand close to me without thought. In nothing but a pair of George’s boxers and an old T-shirt, this position feels extremely . . . intimate. Running his hand up my thigh, he reaches the fabric of his boxers I’m wearing before he stops.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” he says. “For taking care of me. I’m sorry you had to.” His coffee eyes peer into mine and I reach up, threading my fingers through his shaggy hair.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, George,” I reply, letting my gaze fall to his lips.

When our mouths meet in a passionate, toe-curling kiss, I snake my arms around him and push my body forward so I’m as close to him as I can be. Before I know it, he’s lifting me, my legs wrapped around his waist, our lips never leaving the other’s as he carries me back to his bedroom. We’re a tangle of madness and want as we fall to the bed and he presses his full weight on me. My body is riddled with a delicious ache and when his hand slides underneath my top and cups my breast, I nearly explode. He trails kisses down my neck to my chest and lifts the shirt so his beautiful mouth can suck on my pert nipple. A deep throaty moan escapes me, and I buck my hips up to meet his body, begging for anything and everything he’ll give me.