I worked out hard, running five miles at a brisk pace. When I climbed off the treadmill, I was dripping sweat, and my legs felt like jelly. I grabbed my water bottle and threw the towel I’d brought with me to the condo’s gym around my neck.
The afternoon passed without a word from Boxer, and my concern grew into fear. He said he’d call, but he hadn’t. By ten, I finally picked up my phone and sent him a text asking if he was okay.
I went to bed without a reply.
* * *
A thump woke me out of a sound sleep. I sat up—heart in my throat—listening for a moment. I flung off the covers and got out of bed. The alarm clock read 3:12.
I flipped on the hallway light and made my way into the living room. I heard another whomp on the other side of the condo door, followed by a curse.
I glanced through the peephole, but I couldn’t see anything. And then there was a heavy rap on the door. I unlocked and opened it, poking my head out into the hallway.
Boxer was slumped against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him. He looked up at me with glassy gray eyes. “Hey, Doc.”
I crouched down next to him. “Hi.” I ran my hand across his forehead. He didn’t have a fever. When he exhaled, fumes of liquor hit me square in the face. “Well, I think I know your problem. How’d you get passed the security guard?”
“I came in through the underground garage. I woke you up,” he slurred.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Can you stand?”
He paused. “I’m not standing?”
I wedged my shoulder into his armpit. “Put your arm around me.”
Boxer threw a heavy arm around me and nuzzled into my neck. “You smell good.”
“I smell better than you,” I said lightly. “Come on. Up you go.”
Boxer managed to stand, and I held on to him tightly as I got him into the condo. I kicked the door shut and then led him toward the bedroom.
“How did you get here? Please tell me you didn’t ride your motorcycle.”
“Nah, I made a sober prospect drive me.”
“Shotty deal for him,” I said, wondering why a prospect was at his beck and call.
I guided him to the bed and moved out from underneath his arm. He plopped down onto the edge of the mattress and reached into his leather cut and pulled out a pistol, which he set on the nightstand. And then he fell back against the pillows.
I paused for a moment, looking at the firearm, and then unlaced his boots and slid them off him. Then I went to work trying to get him out of his leather cut and jeans, so he’d be more comfortable.
“Boxer, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Better. Now that I’m here.” He stretched out onto the bed and then rolled over, sliding his inked arms underneath my pillow and pressing his cheek into it.
He muttered something beneath his breath that I couldn’t decipher.
“What was that?” I prodded.
“Save people. You.”
A moment later, he was snoring softly. I looked down at him, wondering what had happened that was so bad that he’d had to drink himself stupid.
I smoothed his dirty blond hair off his forehead and then touched his whiskered cheek. I hoped he explained when he woke up.
* * *
I didn’t go back to bed. Instead, I curled up on the couch and watched a movie on TV, keeping an ear cocked for any noise coming from my bedroom. Boxer slept on. Around dawn, I crept to the bed and peered at him, but he was still fast asleep. I’d left water and four aspirin on the nightstand, so when he woke up, he could pop them immediately.