Wait Until Dawn, Bailey Bradford [best novels to read txt] 📗

every bit of medicine and alcohol in his house had mysteriously disappeared overnight. When he’d slept peacefully, for the first time he could remember since he’d nearly been killed in McKinton.

Rich’s stomach heaved again. He coughed and groaned at the same time, which made his throat burn. Stomach muscles—already sore from throwing up until he’d nearly passed out—clenched and he moaned as hot rays of pain spread through his abs. Sweat dripped from his face and hands as he panted and tried to keep from falling over. A twitch kicked in at the corner of his left eye. If this was what a decent night’s sleep got him, he’d stick to insomnia and the nightmares he’d had when he did manage to sleep for an hour or two.

“You’re not gonna do this to me,” Rich mumbled as a vague notion of driving himself to the liquor store popped into his mind. Bracing himself on the cabinets, he stood. His head spun and black-gray dots speckled his vision. Blinking didn’t help, he discovered—it only made the dots spin and flicker into varying shades of light and dark.

Fuck it, then. I’ll walk to the convenience store down the street. They wouldn’t have any Jack or any other hard liquor, but they’d have beer and some kind of pill he could pop along with it that would surely fuzz his brain up good. He didn’t want to call a cab and wait like he usually did when he needed something.

Rich took a step and nearly gave up. It had been like trying to walk through three feet of wet cement. He could barely find enough strength to move. A second step didn’t prove to be any easier to take, and the third had him halting completely as his heartbeat escalated until it felt like he’d swallowed a dozen hummingbirds and they’d lodged in his chest.

“What do you want from me?” he cried, wiping his clammy hands on his jeans. A new tendril of panic took root and blossomed inside him. He couldn’t survive without self-medicating. The booze and drugs were all that made it possible for him to deal with the bizarre horror movie his life had become. Rich swiped at the sweat pouring from his brow. His forearm slid across his skin, doing nothing to stop the flow of moisture. He tried again, this time pulling up his T-shirt and mopping his face with it. He grimaced as he caught a whiff of himself. Rank didn’t even begin to describe it. The T-shirt reeked of body odor and vomit.

Withdrawals, he thought dully as his body began shaking, working its way up to double digits on the addicts’ version of the Richter Scale. His stomach clenched painfully as the pounding in his head increased. Rich pressed one hand to his belly and the other to his brow. “Shit,” he hissed, sliding down the wall, his vision dimming as his thoughts churned into a blend of nonsensical tripe. He welcomed the darkness that swamped him, toppling willingly into it. It didn’t matter if it was temporary or permanent, it was an escape for now, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Two

Rich came to with a pounding in his head that resonated with the pounding on the front door. He whimpered as he pried his eyes open, then gagged as he drew in a breath. How long had he been here, unconscious on the kitchen floor? Long enough that his body had tried to flush out the toxins he’d kept it supplied with. Long enough that his muscles screamed in protest when he tried to roll over and push himself upright. Rich didn’t even want to know what the wetness was his palm landed and slid in.

The banging on the door grew louder and he dimly became aware of a man’s voice shouting his name. Rich cringed as his brain put a name to the voice. He didn’t want his father to see him like this, didn’t want his father to see him at all. Hell, he couldn’t stand to look at himself. How could anyone else?

“Richard, open this door or I’ll break it down!”

Rich had no doubt his father would do just that. The problem was Rich couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. He swatted at something his hand brushed against as he tried once again to get his arms under his body to shove himself up. Rich glared at the offending item, frowning when he saw that it was an empty water bottle. He didn’t remember buying any bottled water, much less getting up from the floor and drinking any. His palms slid through puddles of…he didn’t want to know what, especially since he landed flat on his chest in the mess. Rich grunted as his chin whacked the floor, but he managed to roll to his back. The ceiling spun and rippled until he blinked it into focus.

“Rich, oh, son.” A sob from the doorway startled Rich more than the words. He’d kind of thought those were just in his head. He craned his neck so he could see his father standing in the kitchen entryway. Despite his own confusion over how the man had got inside, Rich noted the tears on his father’s cheeks. He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, to see the disappointment and pity he was sure he’d find there. His father was a retired Houston police officer, and he’d know what the mess Rich was lying in was from.

“How long?”

Rich swallowed and closed his eyes as his father walked toward him.

“How long have you been lying here? What have you been using?”

Rich heard his father’s knees pop and knew the man knelt nearby. A cool, rough hand slicked the hair back from Rich’s brow. The soothing gesture reminded him of how his father had taken care of him when he’d been a child, sick with the flu or some childhood malady. Tears stung Rich’s eyes as he cleared his throat. No one had