Nothing But Trouble (Malibu University 1)

In the pocket of his track pants, his phone rings. He takes it out and hits the red Decline button without even taking a moment to see who may be calling.

“What I was going to say before everyone stuck their noses in our business is that I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry and––”

His phone rings again. Frustrated, he looks at the screen and pauses, eyes widening in surprise, when he sees the name. “I’ve gotta take this. Don’t go anywhere,” he orders. Then he hits Accept. “Hello? Hi, Foz…what…where is he?”

He rubs his brow, tips his head back. I watch his throat work as he swallows. Something’s very wrong. It’s in his body language, his voice.

His attention returns to me, expression troubled. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he says, watching me as he speaks. “Don’t let him leave, Foz…okay…yeah. Thanks for calling. See you soon, man.”

Ending the call, he stuffs his phone back in the pocket of his track pants. “I gotta go. I’m sorry. It’s my brother. Can I call you later?” His voice is quiet, subdued.

“What’s wrong with Brian?”

“He’s at the hospital. Someone cut him. One hundred and twenty stitches…I gotta go.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. This hospital is in a bad part of town.”

“I’m coming with you.”

He shakes his head, jangles his car keys nervously. “It’s not safe for you.”

“We’re wasting time.”

He exhales, looking momentarily lost. Then he nods.

Chapter 19

Reagan

One hundred and twenty stitches to his face. I’m so tired of worrying. It’s hard to explain how exhausting loving someone with an addiction is. There are times when you just want to let go, cut ties. But that kernel of hope is always there, reminding you that maybe this is it, the time he finally hits bottom and turns it around. And there’s always someone to feed your false hope. That person that knows someone who knows someone that beat it. So you keep going, keep praying. But that day never comes. Only more disappointment.

I drive to USC medical center on autopilot. I’ve been there so many times I could find it blindfolded by now. Alice doesn’t say much and I say less. She seems to have called an intermission on our spat so I guess that’s good.

By the time I park the Jeep in the lot, it’s dusk. The top is down. This is the kind of neighborhood that if it weren’t for the guys guarding the lot, it wouldn’t be here later. We enter the emergency room and I immediately regret my decision to bring her. It’s packed. Children crying. One old woman sitting alone in a wheelchair wails. Huddled in their plastic chairs, everybody else pretends they don’t hear her.

And the odors…Jesus. A putrid mix of ammonia and vomit.

“I’m sorry I brought you here,” I say to her.

She looks up at me with concern. I know I’m being selfish. That I only agreed to let her come because I feel better when she’s around. Seeing her here now, though, among all this misery, I don’t feel any better. It makes me want to put her back in the Jeep and drive her to safety. Where none of this can touch her.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m tougher than you seem to think. Let’s find your brother.” She walks away, headed to the nurses’ station.

“Foz Whitaker called me,” I tell the nurse behind the counter, a middle-aged black woman.

Foz is my brother’s long-time substance abuse counselor. Over the years, I’ve met more addiction counselors and therapists than I care to remember, and he’s one of a few that truly wants to help. Foz is also the one who picks me up every time I’m close to throwing in the towel.

“He said my brother was brought in. Brian Reynolds.”

She purses her lips and gives me a sharp look. “He’s here. Punched an orderly in the face and broke his nose. It took three of us to restrain him.”

Shame washes over me. She’s not happy. I get it. Her job is already difficult, and Brian made it dangerous. I wouldn’t want to work an ER in this neighborhood, either. As I say this, EMTs rush in with a gunshot victim. While I’m watching hell break loose, a hand sneaks into mine. Alice squeezes and lets go.

“Third bay on the right,” the nurse informs us.

We find it at the end of a long hall. “I’ll wait out here,” Alice murmurs and I nod.

Behind the curtain, I find Brian strapped to the gurney, bound by his arms and legs. The gash runs in a semicircle from his temple over his eyebrow down his chin and ends at his jaw. It’s a miracle he didn’t lose his eye.

He picks his head up. “Rea?” Eyes wild, voice stressed.

They already stitched him up, shaved his face to do it. Which is startling because the top half is a deep brown color and the bottom is white. He looks younger with his face clean-shaven but not by much. His eyes are empty. Dull. The rest of him is still filthy. At least he still has the sneakers I gave him.