Page 39 of Devil Inside

“I’m not there yet,” I say. “Soon.”

“You can’t live like this forever.”

“News to me.” I take a sip of my beer. It’s flat. Or maybe it’s just me. Everything is stale or room temp or ash. Ever since the accident, all of my senses have deadened themselves, somehow, going uncomfortably numb. My nerve endings are all fried. I barely taste anything anymore. Food is nothing but sustenance.

What I wouldn’t give to feel something again. To burn. A ghost pepper to the soul. A hot coal against my heart. A lighter under my tongue. Another night with Lilith.Anything.

“Bunch of us are beginning to wonder if you’re gonna saddle up again,” Deak says.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Killing me...”

“That makes two of us.” The fact that I was technically dead for two minutes isn’t lost on me, and it shouldn’t be lost on him. The ensuing coma is just icing on the cake.

Who am I now? Just broken bones, barely mended. Set and reset.

How the hell am I ever supposed to heal?

Every time I touch my bike I’m launched right back to the accident. The darkness on the other side. It’s waiting for me whenever I grip the handlebars. I feel it resonating through the bent frame. My bike’s become a tuning fork for hell, vibrating in the void.

I can’t go back. Not to The Drop. An express elevator straight down to hell. And now, insult to fucking injury, I’m seeing things. Hallucinating faces doing shit faces shouldn’t do.

“You’re keeping it clean with your meds, right? No overstepping?”

I can’t help but laugh at this. I wasn’t expecting Deak of all people to be on my case about abusing my prescription meds. Didn’t have that on my bingo card tonight.

“Laugh all you want,” he says. “I’m serious.” The Saddle Sores all chipped in what they could, kickstarting a courier crew fundraiser just for me. It barely covered the toilet paper I used while I was in the hospital, but that’s beside the point. When one of us gets hurt, we do what we can. We help out. But there’s no way I’m ever getting my head above water with all the medical bills I’m drowning in. The best I can hope for is...what, exactly?

What’s left of me? What the fuck am I even alive for?

“I’m clean,” I say when I realize he’s not going to let go until I say so. “Scout’s honor.”

“Look, man...” Deak gets all serious. I can see it brewing from miles away. He’s not making eye contact, more focused on his own hands. His beer. The grain of the table. Anything but me. “We care about you. We do. We just want what’s best for you.”

“Let me know when you figure that out, ’cause I’m coming up empty.”

“What about a girlfriend?”

That’s rich.“A relationship’s the answer to all my problems?”

“I’m serious,” he says between sips. “You got to get back out there.”

“That’s your friendly advice?Get back in the saddle? Start dating?”

“You’re spending way too much time alone, Jordan. You need... I don’t know. To open up tosomebody. You’re bottling all this shit up and it just seems to be weighing you down.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, doc.”

Bateman takes a break from bingo and starts DJing. He’s brought a crate of records with him. Dusty vinyl. Classic ’90s R&B. A blissful mixture of Misfits and Herb Alpert. He’ll blast his Tijuana Brass LPs for about a half hour, a little Bell Biv Devoe—That girl is poooison—before the next round of bingo. Richmond’s good for crate-digging. Hit up the flea markets and find those rare LPs. The holy grail of vinyl is waiting out there, somewhere.

Deak leans over so he can ask, “Ever think about getting back together with Jenn?”

I can’t be sure if I heard him right. Too much brass hissing in my ear. “Come again?”

“You and Jenn. You guys were good for each other.”

“That ship sailed.”