“Slade? Dude! Are you in here?” Chuck’s voice echoed through the house. Too loud. Too fucking loud!
“In here!” No way Slade’s voice carried to the front door. Footsteps led to his bedroom anyway.
“Slade! Where the hell are you?” Chuck appeared in the doorway, mouth dropping open. “Dude! What the fuck happened to you?”
Slade fought to keep his eyes open. “Chuck?”
“Yeah, man. You didn’t answer your phone. Your neighbors and the animals you call friends hadn’t seen you, so I figured I’d better come check. Thank God, you gave me a key.” Chuck stepped closer to the bed, wrinkling his nose. “Damn. How long have you been in this bed? You stink.”
One week? Two? “I think I’m dying.” Or maybe he’d already died. Hell, even those few words wore Slade out.
“You look like week-old roadkill. Buzzards aren’t circling, so there’s hope. You shoulda called me.” Chuck’s expression hovered between a glare and near horror. “Come on. Let’s get you out to the truck. I’m taking your pitiful ass to urgent care.”
Slade barely registered cussing while Chuck dragged him into a sitting position on the side of the bed. “Damn, man. Help me out here, okay?” A cool hand touched Slade’s forehead. “You’re burning up!” Slade listed to the side. Chuck managed to get a T-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops on him. “You’re not gonna be in any fashion magazines. I think this might be all I can get on you.”
Tired. So tired. “Let me sleep.”
“Hell the fuck no.”
Slade attempted to rise. His legs barely held, the scars from his old motorcycle accident shooting agony through his calf and thigh. His stomach churned. Nothing left in there to throw up.
A muthafucking drummer pounded away inside his head.
“What the fuck happened?” Chuck slipped under Slade’s arm, taking some of his weight. “Did you take something? Don’t bother lying!”
“Nope. Ain’t even ’ad a joint.” Unless someone slipped something into Slade’s drink. No, he’d not been out in weeks, and if Moose or Badger managed to find anything good, they’d keep the stash for themselves, selfish bastards. A blessing, in the long run.
Chuck stopped Slade by the hall mirror. Hair wild and everywhere, two weeks of beard growth, and…
Bloody tears tracked down Slade’s face and neck. What the ever-loving hell?
“Slade, you’re my bro, and I love you, man, but if I catch some weird disease, I’m kicking your ass.” Chuck got the words out on grunted breaths as he half dragged, half carried Slade to the truck.
The neighbors were probably looking out their windows, laughing their asses off, thinking Slade fell off the wagon.
Somehow, they got him into the passenger seat of Chuck’s truck. Chuck buckled him in and closed the door. Slade leaned against the door, eyes closed. Ah, the window, cool against his face. “Kill me, now,” he groaned. Everything hurt. He’d never felt this bad. Not when he’d nearly lost his leg totaling his first Harley, or in his dumb, stupid days when he’d taken way too many pills.
Chuck slipped under the steering wheel, patting Slade’s leg. “You hang in there. Fuck urgent care. I’m getting you to the emergency room. I’m betting you get admitted to the hospital.”
Good. Doctors. Men in white coats carrying lovely, lovely prescription pads, leading to precious drugs to make at least parts of Slade stop hurting. “No narcotics,” Slade reminded his brother.
“I’ll kill ‘em if they try.”
Slade managed to open his eyes. “Urgent care is closer.”
“Fifteen minutes more for the hospital. You can hang on for fifteen minutes, right?”
Slade groaned in answer, dropping the seat back. Chuck talked in frantic tones to somebody else, not him. Based on the one-sided conversation, he’d called someone on his phone.
Gradually nausea faded. The pounding in Slade’s head slowed from heavy metal to reggae. “Thirsty,” he croaked.
“I got a Coke there in the console. Help yourself.”
Slade found a canned drink in the console. Drawing on energy reserves, he lifted the drink to his lips. Oh, so fucking good. The cool liquid splashed over his parched tongue. He nearly choked in his hurry to drain the can. A loud belch escaped. He felt… better. Better enough to sit up. “Where are we going?” They’d left town behind for some back road.
“I’m taking you to Evans. I called my buddy over there, and the wait time is shorter than here in Brooks. Another ten minutes driving saves us a three-hour wait to see a doctor.”
Slade turned to face his brother. Wow! Moving no longer hurt. “What’s in the Coke? I’m feeling one hell of a lot better already.”
