“Shit,” he muttered. “Yeah, that’d do it. Bet it still hurts.”
I hummed in agreement.
“I’ve got something that might help,” he added casually. “If you need it.”
My head snapped up.
“What?
Ghost took one last drag and dropped the cigarette to the pavement, grinding it out beneath his boot. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small orange bottle.
“I meant to offer yesterday,” he said, like this was nothing. Like he was offering gum. “But Thump showed up with beers and a joint, and it slipped my mind.” He held it out to me. “Brought them tonight so I wouldn’t forget.”
The plastic bottle rattled softly in his palm, and suddenly, the night didn’t feel so cool anymore. I reached for it with hands that weren’t quite steady. My fingers curled around the smooth surface, and I had to fight the urge to snatch it from him. Under the streetlight, the label caught just enough glow for me to read it clearly.
Tramadol. One hundred milligrams.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. My mouth went dry, then inexplicably wet.
It wasn’t the painkiller I was used to, but it was an opioid nonetheless.
“Where—” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Where did you get this?”
“Broke my ankle on tour a few years back,” Ghost said easily. “Never healed right. Doctors keep throwing that stuff at me.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
“I don’t really like it,” he went on with a shrug. “Makes me feel foggy. Drowsy. I keep it around just in case, but honestly, it’ll probably do you more good than me.”
I nodded too fast, eyes burning.
I knew I shouldn’t take it. The version of me that wanted to stay clean, that wanted to be better, knew exactly what I should do. Hand it back. Say no. Be honest. Walk away.
But there was another part of me too. Quieter, meaner. The part that had never really gone away, no matter how many weeks I’d stacked together in recovery. That part told me to keep it. To slip the bottle into my pocket and save it. For emergencies. For nights when the pain crawled up my side and settled into my bones.
The ache flared as if on cue, spreading slow and hot through my hip. And it scared me that I couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the craving began. Whether what I wanted was relief or oblivion.
“Well,” I said, my voice thin. “Thank you.”
I tucked the pills into my pocket. They felt impossibly heavy, like they were dragging me downward, anchoring me to the choice I’d just made. The wrong one. Because the right one would’ve been easy to identify, even if it wasn’t easy to do.
But I was still human. And even the demigod Hercules cracked under pressure.
“Just be careful, okay?” he said, pulling a pack of chewing gum from his pocket. “I’ve heard they can be addictive.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “I will.”
I followed Ghost back inside, telling myself that if I did take them, it wouldn’t mean I’d failed. Not really. I hadn’t broken my sobriety yet. They weren’t Oxy, and this time I’d use the painkillers properly.
Medicinally.
One a day. Two at most.
Just to take the edge off. Just for the pain in my hip.
I slid back into my seat beside Bodhi, trying not to shift when the bottle pressed into my thigh through my shorts. Trying not to think about it at all. He turned to me, smiled, rested his hand on my leg and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Guilt flooded my chest.
