Seconds later, the man groans again, his voice a low rasp. “H-help.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Vincent steps to where he lies, looming over him like a shadow from hell. “You see, when you cheat at my casino and get aggressive on the gambling floor”—he looks to me, smiling, before getting back into the man’s space—“we have no choice but to contain you. And if you think to add any other details to this story?” Vincent bends over lower, pulling his gun and pressing it to the side of the man’s head. “I’ll kill you.”

Piss leaks from the guy’s pants, making a small puddle on the carpet.

“The doctor is on his way,” I add for good measure, pulling out a beer from the glass bar. “Make sure to get housekeeping up here, too. Can’t stand the smell of piss.”

“Oh, the places you’ll go,” Vincent says as he drops the gun back into the holster around his waist.

We laugh, talking shit to each other.

The phone rings. I answer.

“Doctor’s here, sir.”

“Send him up.” I hang up as it dawns on me that I’m low on meds.

After saying bye to Vincent, I pull out my phone and text Lion, the president of the Death Crusade MC. He’s been asking me to gather some information for his club. Most of his boys are veterans, so we’ve known each other for a few months now. I’ve never agreed to helping him out, but now, he’s got access to something I need.

I quickly type out the text, not reading it over before pressing Send. Moving my phone into my back pocket, I realize just how fucked up I’ve become. The good ole boy of my youth has been replaced—for now. Just until I straighten out. Soon, I’ll be back to myself. Soon.

5

Lauren

I came back to my apartment this morning and immediately showered under a scalding hot spray. My shoulder feels tender, but physically, I’m fine. The rest of my day was spent watching reality TV. Just needed to forget about my own life, if only for a little while.

My parents are over now, having brought dinner. My round glass dining table is packed with food—my mom’s way of making life better. Unfortunately, my favorite Iranian dishes taste like cardboard in my mouth.

“Do you want more?” My mom points to a plate of saffron lemon kabobs.

I want to say no, but Slade was right about one thing. A full stomach does in fact help level out stress. My freezer, once full of ice cream and now empty, is proof.

“Yeah, okay. Just a few though.”

She stands, adjusting her cream-colored pencil skirt before adding a few more pieces of chicken to my plate. Her thick black hair is styled straight to her shoulders, skin flawless and perfectly unlined, and outfit beautifully matched.

“Did you speak to your boss?” My father rolls up the sleeves of his blue-and-white-checkered button-down shirt before my mother pours a ladle of hot tomato stew, overflowing with mushrooms and eggplant, over a bed of rice on his plate.