Ruckus (Sinners of Saint #2)(115)

"I'm going to get the girl," I muttered, transfixed on the vision of Vicious doing something nice for once in his goddamn life.

"Even if it means you need to stop drinking?"

"Even if it means I need to stop living," I corrected, breathing hard. "Yes. I'm getting the girl."

I grabbed my coat from the hanger and bolted through the door, leaving my dad to sit there, surrounded by oracle silence.

I am coming to get you, Rosie.





What makes you feel alive?

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.



EVERYTHING HURT.

I couldn't even distinguish what ached less and what burned more. My whole body was a knot of agony. There was an oxygen mask clasped over my face. I looked over to the nightstand beside my hospital bed and saw a little makeup mirror Mama must've left behind. Picking it up with the remainder of my energy, feeling its weight on my fingers, and checking my reflection through sleepy eyes … I looked yellow. Had my liver stopped working?

I wanted to cry, but I was too physically exhausted.

I wanted to scream, but it felt wrong to do something so vivid when I felt so lifeless.

And I wanted Dean, but he was not here.

He made the last few months the best of my life, so it was only fair that he contributed to the ending of it.

There was no one in the room, but I did hear muffled voices behind the door, in the hallway. I didn't know how long they'd been there, but there was always someone with me. Tending to me. Whether it was Mama, Daddy, or Millie. No one spoke to me about moving back to Todos Santos, and for once in my life, I felt sad about that. Not because I wanted to move back, but because I knew they didn't believe I would survive long enough to have the option.



       
         
       
        

Elle came for two visits, but it was difficult for her to make the trip from New York to the Hamptons, so she never stayed too long.

I waited. Impatiently. Tapping my fingers over my thighs on what was supposed to be a sigh, but no air came out of my lungs. Staring at the turned-off TV, I didn't know how much time passed, but I did notice it was nighttime. Nights in the Hamptons were very different than in New York, I pondered as I stared out the window. Less pollution. More stars.

Where the hell are you, Earth, and are you doing okay?

It was annoying. To sit there and wait for someone to put me out of my misery and boredom. Sitting by myself did not make me feel good. In fact, it opened a door to that dark place inside my head. My anxiety attack returned in full swing. I mean-why not? My boyfriend was ignoring me, wherever the hell he was. I was clearly doing bad. The doctors said very little, and Dr. Hasting kept asking me to get some rest, as if I was planning to run a marathon this Christmas.

You are going to die.

Disappear. Suffocate, in a grave.

He will move on.

And find another girl.

He will move on.

And it won't be you.

He will move on.

But it won't hurt. Nothing will anymore. Because … you'll be gone.

A sharp knock on the door stopped my thoughts from swirling in my head. The intensity of it suggested that whoever was behind the door had been trying to get my attention for long minutes. I knew it wasn't my parents or Emilia, because they never knocked before they came in. I didn't want to be filled with hope, but couldn't help myself either.

"Yes?" I cleared my throat, biting my lip to suppress a cough. My eyes clung to the door, desperate, begging for it to be him.

The door opened.

And someone walked in.

It wasn't him … but it was second best.





I didn't say a word to Vicious as he maneuvered the vehicle through the rain on our way to the hospital. He parked, walked around, opened the door for me, grabbed me by the collar, and threw me against the nearest wall, growling in my face. That caught me off guard, and my mouth hung open.

"What the fuck, Cole? I thought you said you had this shit on lock. She is dying."

"I know," I hissed, pushing him away. The weight of my actions threatened to crush the remainder of my sanity. It clutched my lungs, preventing me from getting all the air she couldn't breathe. "I fucking know, okay? I'm trying to make it right."

"Stop drinking," he barked, but there was no need for him to tell me that. I already knew my love affair with alcohol was over. It was over the minute Rosie told me she would take care of me. All I ever had since were relapses brought on by circumstances. 

But no more relapses.

No more fucking up.

From now on,

I was going to be good. If there was someone to be good left after this was all over.

"So let me tell you what happens now, Ruckus," Vicious spat my childhood nickname, his breath fanning my face as his hold on my collar tightened. I let him have his moment. I kicked his ass on a weekly basis when we were teenagers. I got it. I fucked up. Atonement was in order.