anything. Is there a cleaner place to do this?”
He came over and set the tackle box down. Shrugging off his kutte, he said, “It’ll be fine. Everything’s sterile.”
“This room hasn’t been sterile in a very long time.”
Rather than respond to that comment, Sherlock hung his kutte over the back of a chair, pulled off his several big, silver rings, then went to the sink and washed his hands over the dirty dishes. Yeesh. From there, shaking his hands dry, he grabbed a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and came over.
Sadie eyed that bottle warily. She’d never been a drunk, but recovering addicts didn’t really get to pick and choose which mind-altering substances they could and could not use. She wasn’t sure whether drinking would reset her clock—the phrase was clean and sober, like they were two different things, right?—but everybody had cautioned her to stay clear of it all.
He opened the box—wow, it really was full of just about everything. “I don’t think I can do anything about the through-and-through except clean it up, but that gash needs stitches. I’m not a doctor or even a medic, but I’ve sewn myself up a time or two. I can do a fair stitch. You game for that?”
She nodded. No, she was not game for that, but she didn’t have many choices. She didn’t want to call Gordon about this. All of her friends were either not even in the state or…Blake. Oh, shit. She’d been so freaked she hadn’t thought about Blake since he’d made her run.
“Shit! I need to call…” She dug her phone out of her cutoffs, fighting to use her good arm crossways over her body. While Sherlock got his supplies set up, she dialed Blake—and got his voice mail. Of course. The cops would have his phone. Shit. Were they hurting him more? Had they given him first aid? Panic started to crowd in on her, and she took a deep breath and tried to be mindful.
This was a very shitty moment to be fully mindful in, however. This was the kind of moment to be stoned all to fuck in.
She took another deep breath. And then Sherlock held out two little pink pills on the palm of his hand. She could see the callused grooves in his skin.
“What are those?” She laughed as she asked; she knew exactly what those were.
“Oxy 20s. You want to swallow these down with the Jack before I get started.”
Now she laughed harder. Her fingers throbbed with the desire to grab those little pink beauties. “Yeah, no. I’ll be okay.”
“No, you won’t. You do not want to get stitched up without painkillers.” He pushed his hand closer to her face, and she closed her eyes. “Trust me. I know.”
“No.” She kept her eyes closed and took another deep breath, counting steadily to herself as she released it.
He was quiet for an awkwardly long time. When she opened her eyes, curious, she found him staring at her. His eyes were so… fierce that she flinched.
“How long have you been clean?”
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself. They both knew he didn’t need to.
No point in prevaricating; maybe if he knew, he’d stop waving temptation in front of her. “Three hundred and ninety-three days.”
He turned and dumped the Oxy back into its bottle. “That’s good. Is it Oxy?”
“Opiates in general. Started with E, actually, but Oxy and H are my personal monkeys.”
Nodding, he opened a sterile package and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Meth rides my brother. He hasn’t managed a month clean in probably ten years.”
“Shit. That’s tough. Meth is a bastard.”
“Smack’s no picnic, either.” He undid the bandana from her arm and started cleaning her wounds.
“Ah, fuck,” she muttered at the sting of the antiseptic.
He stopped and met her eyes. “This is going to suck like nobody’s business, doing this straight. You know that, right?”
She managed a smile. “You told me you wouldn’t
He came over and set the tackle box down. Shrugging off his kutte, he said, “It’ll be fine. Everything’s sterile.”
“This room hasn’t been sterile in a very long time.”
Rather than respond to that comment, Sherlock hung his kutte over the back of a chair, pulled off his several big, silver rings, then went to the sink and washed his hands over the dirty dishes. Yeesh. From there, shaking his hands dry, he grabbed a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and came over.
Sadie eyed that bottle warily. She’d never been a drunk, but recovering addicts didn’t really get to pick and choose which mind-altering substances they could and could not use. She wasn’t sure whether drinking would reset her clock—the phrase was clean and sober, like they were two different things, right?—but everybody had cautioned her to stay clear of it all.
He opened the box—wow, it really was full of just about everything. “I don’t think I can do anything about the through-and-through except clean it up, but that gash needs stitches. I’m not a doctor or even a medic, but I’ve sewn myself up a time or two. I can do a fair stitch. You game for that?”
She nodded. No, she was not game for that, but she didn’t have many choices. She didn’t want to call Gordon about this. All of her friends were either not even in the state or…Blake. Oh, shit. She’d been so freaked she hadn’t thought about Blake since he’d made her run.
“Shit! I need to call…” She dug her phone out of her cutoffs, fighting to use her good arm crossways over her body. While Sherlock got his supplies set up, she dialed Blake—and got his voice mail. Of course. The cops would have his phone. Shit. Were they hurting him more? Had they given him first aid? Panic started to crowd in on her, and she took a deep breath and tried to be mindful.
This was a very shitty moment to be fully mindful in, however. This was the kind of moment to be stoned all to fuck in.
She took another deep breath. And then Sherlock held out two little pink pills on the palm of his hand. She could see the callused grooves in his skin.
“What are those?” She laughed as she asked; she knew exactly what those were.
“Oxy 20s. You want to swallow these down with the Jack before I get started.”
Now she laughed harder. Her fingers throbbed with the desire to grab those little pink beauties. “Yeah, no. I’ll be okay.”
“No, you won’t. You do not want to get stitched up without painkillers.” He pushed his hand closer to her face, and she closed her eyes. “Trust me. I know.”
“No.” She kept her eyes closed and took another deep breath, counting steadily to herself as she released it.
He was quiet for an awkwardly long time. When she opened her eyes, curious, she found him staring at her. His eyes were so… fierce that she flinched.
“How long have you been clean?”
“What?”
He didn’t repeat himself. They both knew he didn’t need to.
No point in prevaricating; maybe if he knew, he’d stop waving temptation in front of her. “Three hundred and ninety-three days.”
He turned and dumped the Oxy back into its bottle. “That’s good. Is it Oxy?”
“Opiates in general. Started with E, actually, but Oxy and H are my personal monkeys.”
Nodding, he opened a sterile package and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “Meth rides my brother. He hasn’t managed a month clean in probably ten years.”
“Shit. That’s tough. Meth is a bastard.”
“Smack’s no picnic, either.” He undid the bandana from her arm and started cleaning her wounds.
“Ah, fuck,” she muttered at the sting of the antiseptic.
He stopped and met her eyes. “This is going to suck like nobody’s business, doing this straight. You know that, right?”
She managed a smile. “You told me you wouldn’t
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