Murder in the Arts District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries Book 7) by Greg Herren

Author:Greg Herren [Herren, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626392632
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2014-10-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

It was four in the morning when I woke up with my back in agony.

It felt like I had been stabbed in the lower back with a red-hot poker that was now being twisted slowly. I was gasping, barely able to breathe, as I reached out for my nightstand. I kept my prescription bottles there for just such an emergency.

I groped around in the dark, not caring which bottle I grabbed, only caring about making the fucking pain go the fuck away. The pain was so intense I would have done anything in that moment for relief. I was vaguely aware of the red numbers glowing on the digital clock as I finally managed to close my hand on one of the bottles. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the goddamned child-proof cap off. I swore under my breath as I fished out a pill with my index finger. I dry-swallowed it, tears running down my face, and took a deep breath. I was now wide-awake, and any chance of going back to sleep was negligible until the pain went away.

As I ground my teeth together, waiting for whatever pill I’d just taken to kick in, I became vaguely aware of someone snoring softly beside me in my bed. Who the hell is that? flashed through my mind before the pain crowded it right out again. This attack was one of the worst I’d had so far. In that moment I would have sold my soul to the devil to make my back stop hurting. I clenched my hands into fists so hard I could feel the nails cutting into the skin of my palms. I focused on my breathing—it’s always about the breathing—making sure to inhale as deeply as possible, holding it for a moment before letting it all out and starting over again.

I was never sure if the breathing worked or was simply a way to distract the mind from the pain. But on the other hand, I’d been panting so rapidly it was also possible I could hyperventilate, and that wouldn’t help at all. So I focused on controlling my breathing since I couldn’t control the pain.

It felt like hours before the pain began to subside, but a glance at the clock showed it hadn’t been more than three minutes.

Funny how pain can affect time, I thought, turning my head to look at the person sharing my bed. I had no idea who it was, but logic—now that my brain was capable of thinking logically again—told me it had to be Tom Ziebell. I racked my brain, trying to remember what happened the night before, with no luck. I couldn’t remember anything past dinner, no matter how hard I strained my brain. The Vicodin / red wine combination had apparently erased everything from that point on.

Note to self, abstain completely when on pain meds. This is why the prescriptions come with a warning about drinking. I just hope I didn’t make a complete jackass out of myself.

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