“Fine,” he sighs. “But if I get murdered over it, you’re going to have to answer to Ford.”
I can’t help but smile a little, despite the circumstances. I’ve been waiting for the tea on his secret boyfriend forever, and all the life-and-death family shenanigans have really derailed my gossip game.
“Mm, the super-secret burly boyfriend. Yes. Tell me, Tristan, how long have you been waxing the mechanic’s tail pipe?”
The snort that he lets out is incredibly undignified, and it feels nice to have the mood lightened for a second, even if it’s only by one percent. Today has been a lot.
“I don’t know, a couple months. Why, you jealous?”
My face scrunches up. “I do just fine for myself, thank you. When I’m not caught up in this shit.”
“I’m sure you do, sassy pants. Now, are you going to tell me why you wanted a sedative?”
“I just gave you his gun and told you I can’t have it in the house. I’m sure you can put the rest of the pieces together.”
“Are you in danger?” Tristan looks at me intently, his brow furrowed in concern.
I shake my head. “He would never hurt me. No matter how…offhe gets. It’s not like that. Obviously, I can’t say the same thing about the rest of them, but we’re both powerless in that respect. All we can do is hope for the best. Tadhg I can at least help.”
Tristan sighs, and it’s a bone-deep sound.
“Okay, well, I’m sorry but this is all I have,” he says as he hands me a few one milliliter amber vials.
I turn them over to look at the label. “What the fuck? Are you seriously telling me you can’t find anyone to sell you normal sedatives in this drug-addicted town?”
“I told you, I’m doing this shit to pay off my debt so I can live my life. Not so I can lose my career when I get busted for buying street xannies from some undercover cop. If you wanna go out there and risk your own license, be my guest. Otherwise, you can take whatever weird expired shit I’m able to pocket or get from my veterinary contact. Besides, it’ll definitely put him to sleep.”
“Yeah, and give him an abscess in the process.” I keep turning the vials over in my hand, wondering if this is worth it. “This is gross. I don’t even like using promethazine when it’s not expired. It literally fucking burns the tissue where you inject it.”
“Well, it’s non-addictive, it’ll send him to sleep and most importantly, it’s not controlled, so it won’t send either of us to prison for the rest of our lives. You’ve got to pick your battles here, kid.”
“Fine.” I sigh again but stash the vials and then some syringes that he hands me in my scrubs. “Thank you,” I add as an afterthought, because he doesn’t actually have to help me with this and he’s doing me a huge solid.
“You’re welcome.” Tristan stares at me for a minute while he tucks the gun in his waistband and then makes sure his shirt is covering it. “Call me if you need me, okay? I know we weren’texactly besties before, but this is a weird situation. There’s not a lot of people you can ask for help, and I’m one of them, so don’t hesitate to reach out. I’d rather get inconvenienced once or twice than get a call here when I’m on shift and find something I don’t wanna find, you hear me?”
I nod. “Same to you. Now go home and snuggle your man.” I only met him once, briefly, but he was like 6’5” and stacked. I bet he snuggles the shit out of Tristan, the little hussy.
He just laughs and opens the door, leaving as quietly as he came.
It doesn’t take me long to look up a dosage for the medication on my phone and then pull up a dose for Tadhg. Mentally, I’m cursing and second-guessing myself the entire time. This isn’t a good medication. It’s basically a jacked-up version of Benadryl, but the risk of doing damage to your tissue when you inject it, especially when you inject it into a muscle like I’m about to, is pretty substantial.
It seems risky. But on the other hand… Tadhg is already full of damaged tissue and that can heal. He can’t heal from a hole in the head.
He hasn’t been sleeping. I’ve suspected it for a while, but now I’m sure. The thing I don’t understand is why, though. It’s like a switch was flipped. He slept so well for a while, and then suddenly he became erratic, irritable and always seemed like he was just half a step out of sync with the world around him.
I’m sure he knows more about what’s going on with him than he’s telling me, and his stupid fucking macho pride is threatening to be the death of him. Maybe if I can just get him to rest, lower the cortisol in his body a little and let him take a breath, he’ll be more rational. Then I can talk him into telling me the truth, so we can find a solution.
Whatever it is, I know I can help him. And a hell of a lot more effectively than I’m doing right now.
One look at his face when I walk back into the room confirms it. He sits up immediately, like I’m calling him to attention, even though his movements are sluggish. He needs to rest, and he can’t be left alone. He’s too high-risk right now. His skin is chalky, looking pallid in contrast to all his dark tattoos. The clothes I bought for him seem to hang off him, even though he’s barely been here long enough to lose weight, and the expression he’s giving me is lifeless.
At least he’s looking at me.
“How do you feel?” Stupid question, but always worth asking to see what answer will float to the surface.
He shrugs, and his gaze flits to the ground.
My stepbrother sits on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders slumped and his body seeming to weigh him down into the ground. I move forward, the medication in my pocket for now, and stand between his knees. So far, I’ve figured out that the best way to get his attention when he’s dissociating or out of it is to get into his personal space. Touch him, talk to him, put myself in his field of vision.
