Chasing Magic by Stacia Kane

Author:Stacia Kane [Kane, Stacia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 0345527526
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 2012-06-25T22:00:00+00:00

“I’m sorry,” she managed—“choked out” would be a better phrase—as he wiped off her hands and face for her. “I didn’t mean to make a mess, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Ain’t give a fuck on that.” He grabbed more toilet paper and wiped around her nose, around whatever the hell was hanging out of it. She wanted to ask. Something in his reddened eyes, something in the growing sense of certainty creeping up her spine, told her not to. “Gonna be sick again? Wantin try getting into bed?”

“I don’t—” Well, no, she did have an answer, which was that she was not done being sick. She managed to lean over the toilet, at least, while Terrible held her hair back. “I’m sorry.”

“Aye, well.” He stood up, handed her a wad of tissues, and grabbed the trash can. She watched his back as he left the room. Fuck. This was bad. It had happened, hadn’t it? The thing she thought would never happen, the thing she was always so careful not to have happen. She’d lost count, she’d lost track of what exactly she’d taken, and it had happened.

She reached up to touch her clammy face, to feel the thing in her nose.

“ ’San opiate inhibitor,” Terrible said, returning to the room. His hands curled around her upper arms, urging her to her feet. “Leave it in, aye? C’mon, let’s us try putting you in bed.”

He scooped her into his arms—slowly, carefully—and carried her into the big main room, where he set her on the soft gray bed. Her stomach rumbled a warning but stayed put.

So did Terrible. Standing there, looking at her. In the faint light from the open bathroom door she couldn’t read his expression, but she had a pretty good idea what it was. “I’m sorry, shit, Terrible, I’m so sorry, I just—I lost count, I guess, I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Aye, guessing so.”

He unfastened her jeans and stripped them off her with impersonal efficiency, and fear blossomed in her stomach and chest. Fear that gurgled and rose and made her grab blindly for the trash can beside the bed so she could be sick again. Fuck, what a disgusting process. No wonder he didn’t want to talk to her or look at her—well, on top of everything else, of what she’d just done to him. And to herself, yeah, but she couldn’t have cared less about that.

When she was done he pulled the covers over her, took the trash can and walked away.

Shit, that was it. She’d fucked up, and he’d reached his limit; she’d known the line was somewhere, known that one day he’d realize he didn’t want to babysit a junkie, and she’d gone and grabbed that brass ring her very own self and pushed him into it. She’d forced his hand. She’d forced the other shoe to drop.

His shadow moved in the kitchen for a few minutes and he came back again, holding a glass of something clear with a straw poking out of it. “Here.

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