Page 4 of Shade
You know a few things about me by now. Professional badass. Loyal to a fault. Fucking hot. Yeah, so I threw that one in there for the hell of it.
My point here? You’re probably wondering why someone like me does this to himself?
You’re shaking your head and thinking, dude, why do you keep coming back to a cracked-out lost cause when you know she’s toxic?
I wish I knew. It’s not like I don’t realize I need to walk away. I should let her live her own life and deal with the consequences without me there to bail her out and fix her messes she’s created.
It’s actually kind of ironic if you think about it. I’m constantly coming to her rescue because of her addiction and her inability to stay away from what she knows is bad for her, but in theory, I’m doing the same thing by not walking away when I know Rhya is bad for me.
In some ways, I’m just as much an addict. Rhya is my drug, and she’s slowly taking me down with her.
My Ducati screams down I-10 as I head into the city. At least it’s the direction of the airport and I won’t have to back track to get to my flight on time.
Doesn’t really matter though because all I keep telling myself is that I shouldn’t be going there. I shouldn’t be speeding through traffic headed to try and fix whatever mess she’s created. Again.
It takes me twenty minutes to get to her place. I park my bike on the street.
Drawing in a deep breath, I stare at her window on the second floor. The one with the black sheet hanging off the window to block out the southern California sun.
Still, you’re wondering why I’m here, aren’t you? You’d think someone like me, a guy who on the outside has it all together professionally, shouldn’t be wasting his time with her. You would think that, but then you’ve never had a lifelong friend addicted to substance.
It’s a fact that most people at some point in their lives have made bad decisions. The difference between those people and people like Rhya is that they learn from those mistakes and walk away. Not Rhya. No, she makes a bad decision, and she learns nothing. She just keeps on making them. The same ones over and over.
I think that humans in general make most of their mistakes when they’re alone. Without human contact, touching, feeling, making eye contact, some of us are incapable of making good choices. Over the phone you can say anything you want because there’s nobody standing in front of you to answer to. You have no regard for what you’re doing to the person because you don’t see it.
This is why I had to come here. She needs to see what her choices have done.
Even with this reasoning going through my head, there’s still a good part of me that’s telling myself,don’t go in, man. Just fucking walk away.
Do I listen?
Nope.
She’s going to fucking explain to me why she fucked me over yet again.
Rhya lives in a studio apartment I rent for her in Los Angeles with the attempt to keep her off the streets. Sadly, she takes no interest in making it any kind of home. It’s bare in the sense she doesn’t have photographs on the walls or furniture. She’s got a mattress on the floor and a broken lamp that sits on a beat-up table next to the kitchen. Her apartment is just another part of her that exists. Nothing more.
I don’t wait for her to answer the door, I throw my shoulder into the center, grunting when it connects with a solid hit. A sharp pain rips up my arm. I quickly consider I could have just destroyed my shoulder.
Do I care? No.
“Open thefuckingdoor, Rhya! I know you’re in there.” When she doesn’t respond, I kick it and slam my fist against the wood. Scuff marks from my foot mark up the gray paint, and I hit my fist against the door once more. “OPEN IT, GODDAMN IT! I won’t leave here, and you fuckin’ know it.”
She does know. I’m a relentless shit when I want to be.
Within minutes she whips open the door. She’s not hiding from me but she’s not welcoming me either.
“Stop pounding on the door,” she mumbles, yanking it open with a jerk.
Do you see the girl before me? The one whose hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed in a week and is wearing nothing but a T-shirt that barely covers her ass? The one whose once freckled nose and rosy cheeked complexion is now an ashen gray with red-rimmed eyes that look like she hasn’t slept in days? That’s Rhya Morgan.
With narrowed eyes and thinned lips, she backs away and leans into the wall when I enter the studio apartment, drowning green eyes focusing on the floor. She tugs at the hem of the shirt. “Why are you here?”
It’s as if she has no fucking clue. The worst part here? There’s a fifty-fifty chance she doesn't remember our conversation from twenty minutes ago.
“What the fuck do youthinkI’m doing here?” My heart pounds, blood raging with nowhere to go. Breathing in deeply, I pinch the bridge of my nose, preparing myself for the truth I’ll see at the sight of her eyes at a closer look. “Was Gage here?”
Waiting on an answer I know I might not get, I let my eyes drift to hers. She looks like shit, hair pulled up in a messy bun now, oversized T-shirt, red marks marring her neck and arms, and she’s as skinny as a fuckin’ rail.
