I tried to shake off sleep but it was too tempting to stay in the realm of half wakefulness, so the hurt in Lily’s voice didn’t hit me fully.
“She’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I’ve got Pop-Tarts and Magic Mike. Nothing bad can happen when they’re around. Now go.” The woman’s voice was familiar, from somewhere.
“Okay. Thanks so much for doing this, seriously.”
“Yes, you’re welcome. I’m amazing and we both know it. You can thank me by calling that idiot biker and restoring my faith in love and happiness.”
There was a pause. “Okay, bye.”
“Toodles.”
I heard footfalls across our floor, then the door opened and closed.
Then there was silence and I was alone with the anonymous woman.
I creaked one eye open, then another. As soon as I welcomed reality back in, the craving hit me like a sack of potatoes covered in barbed wire. I sucked in a breath, a clean breath. It felt wrong, the air. I was too fucking lucid and there was nothing I could do about it.
Well, there was something I could do. One big, tempting, alluring something.
But I wasn’t going to.
Once I’d fought off the craving to a manageable level, I looked up. A woman with chocolate curls wearing head-to-toe black and making me all too aware of how fucking wretched I looked banged away in the kitchen. I got up on shaky feet. She looked up, her kohl-rimmed eyes focused on me.
“Hey, you’re awake,” she observed. “I’m making Pop-Tarts.” She held up the box. “That’s my version of cooking. That and opening a bottle of wine, but from what Lily’s filled me in on, mind-altering substances might not be the best right now. So sugar and preservatives is our hardest drug right now.” She peered at the box. “And this particular flavor has seven vitamins and minerals in it. Score. Health.” She gazed up. “Wait, you like Pop-Tarts, right? I won’t be able to trust you if you say no, just FYI.”
I blinked at the woman in front of me. The knockout with expertly applied makeup, wearing a turtleneck and a leather skirt that molded to her small but curvy body, chattering about fucking Pop-Tarts. And talking with obvious knowledge of my addiction. Not tiptoeing around it but stepping her kick-ass heeled ankle boots right into it.
I liked her immediately.
“Anyone who doesn’t like them is most likely an employee of the Devil. Definitely not worth trusting,” I said, my voice slightly croaky.
She grinned. “Awesome. We can be friends, then.”
“Can you do that?” Rosie pointed to the screen, where Channing Tatum was executing a pretty deliciously complicated dance move.
“In my current state? No,” I answered, swallowing my fourth Pop-Tart. The first food that had actually stayed down in three days. “But when I’m not recovering from a heroin addiction? Totally.”
Rosie grinned at me. “Well, the second you’re better, you’re totally teaching me how to do it.”
When I was better. She said it offhand, like it was actually a certainty rather than a very precarious future that relied on me not fucking up.
I grinned back. “Sure.”
Despite the obvious shit I was battling, I was actually having a good night with this chick. I still felt like some invisible asshole was using my psyche as a punching bag, and I wanted a fix more than I wanted backstage tickets to Smashing Pumpkins, but that small grin was about forty percent genuine. Rosie was refreshing in her authenticity. She didn’t dance around the topic of my addiction, despite the fact we’d only just met. She didn’t even fucking blink when I said I was a stripper, just nodded and said that pole dancing was a great workout.
She was giving me the smallest bit of hope, treating me like I was normal, not a colossal fuckup.
It was because I was starting to feel hopeful again that the pounding at the door came to remind me that I’d never be normal.
Rosie didn’t jump, but her eyes flickered to me. “You expecting anyone?”
I shook my head.
She pushed up off the sofa. “You stay put, drool at Channing. I got this,” she declared, dusting Pop-Tart crumbs from her skirt.
I didn’t watch the screen but the door as she made her way over to it, a sick feeling in my stomach.
That feeling was justified when she opened it.
From my vantage point on the sofa, I could see Tyson clearly, taking up the entire doorframe with someone else next to him.
Rosie leaned against the frame casually, blocking their view of me. “Can I help you?” she asked sweetly, like it was two Girl Scouts in front of her, not a couple of assholes who had lost their necks to steroids.
“We’re looking for Bex,” Tyson grunted.
“I’m looking for a cross between Jared Leto and Charlie Hunnam.” She looked them both up and down. “Nope, that’s not you.” She tried to close the door but a meaty arm stopped her.