Chapter Nineteen
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Luc
True friendship means showing your love and support during times of trouble.
I keep having to remind myself of that.
“Hey, Cash!” I push through his open front door. “You were right! That guy hasamazingreclaimed wood for sale. I saw some old barn doors I think would be great for—”
I cut myself off when I see he’s not in the living room or dining room or kitchen. I check the time on my watch. Eighteen hundred. He’s supposed to pick up Maggie in an hour.
Making my way down the hall to the bathroom, I expect to see him shaving and getting ready to sell himself to one of Miss Bea’s handsy friends. (Poor Cash. I reckon it’s true what they say. A guy will do anything for love.) But the door is open, and he isn’t at the sink or stepping out of the shower. He’s crumpled beside the toilet.
“Cash!” I rush to his side. Did he fall? Hit his head? Have a brain bleed?
Then I see the empty bottle of Gentleman Jack on the floor and the vomit in the toilet. My fear forges itself into a sharp blade of anger. It stabs into me as I nudge him with the toe of my boot, not exactly being gentle about it.
“Get up,” I grumble. “Get in the shower. You smell so bad you’re making my eyes burn.” Green Berets are not known for being particularly careful of each other’s feelings.
“I’m sick,” he slurs.
“You’re drunk.” I grind my teeth so hard my molars ache. “How could you do this? Maggie May is expecting you. Miss Bea isdependingon you.”
He squeezes his eyes closed even though he’s yet to look at me. “My brain is a bonfire of pain.” Only, when he says it, it sounds more likemy bray is a bonfir of pay.
As if to prove his point, he rubs at the scar above his temple. His arm is all loose and uncoordinated.
A drop of pity rains down on me, but then I remind myself that a lot of men have suffered head injuries and have dealt with chronic pain.Theydidn’t become fall-down drunks.
“Get up.” I nudge him again. “We’ll pour coffee down your damn gullet for the next hour and hope that sobers you up enough to—”
“No.” He shakes his head, then winces like the movement hurts. “Can’t.” He opens one eye to peer at me blearily. “You go, Luc.”
“Oh, no. You’re not doing this to me again. You’re not doing this toheragain.”
“Luc.” He lifts his head, and dammit! He’s crying. Big old crocodile tears roll down his cheeks to get stuck in his beard stubble. “Please, go. I’m too sick. I hurt too much.”
I look away, an angry muscle ticking in my jaw. I try to come up with a good reason why I shouldn’t beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of him.
Oh, right. He’s injured. He’s drunk. Not to mention, he’s my best friend.
“Where am I supposed to get a tux at this hour?” I demand.
“Wear mine.” He points to the garment bag hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door.
I shake my head. “It won’t fit.”
“Got it a little big.”
I frown. “Why in hell would you do that?”
“Luc? Please. Will you go?”
I curse under my breath even as I pull my shirt over my head and twist on the shower. I’ve been reading up on alcoholism and all the major suck that goes with it. I know, in this situation, I’m not supposed to enable him. I’m supposed to stand by and let him reap the whirlwind of consequences brought on by his decision to drink.
If it wasn’t for Maggie, that’s exactly what I’d do.
