Page 134 of Just Wait

When it comes to condoms, the guys should probably pick those if they want them. I don’t want to grab the wrong size and have it be a disaster.

Noise comes from behind me, and my head tilts as Riser stops at the end of the cart.

“Heating pad, pain relievers, heat patches, in case you want something to wear when you can’t plug in the heating pad.” He holds out his left arm, and a bunch of shit falls into the buggy. He moves to his right arm next. “Small garbage can with a foot pedal and lid, solely because I realized we’re disgusting human beings who don’t have a trash can in the bathroom. Then bags for said garbage can.”

I grin, shaking my head.

People judge this man based on the exterior package, and they have no idea what they’re missing out on.

Too bad.

Their loss is my gain.

Mr. Hawthorne’s office calls back while we’re in the SUV on the way to the bus after picking up the laundry.

My heart stutters as I answer the call, unhooking my seat belt to move closer to Riser. He frowns, grabbing the middle strap and buckling me back in as I wait for the receptionist who always calls to transfer us to the lawyer.

“Sorry, beautiful.” Riser tosses his arm around the back of the seat. “I know it’s weird, but in an accident, you’d go right through the front window.”

Mr. Hawthorne comes on the line, and it gets hard to breathe.

“Lay it on us,” Riser says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. His arm is still around the back of the seat, which helps me catch hints of his chamomile scent. Unfortunately, it’s not helping me relax.

“Overall, it’s good news,” Mr. Hawthorne says. “We have a new offer. They came in at nine thousand per song where you are owed full writing credit. Three thousand for collaborative effort—that number is low, but since only two songs qualify as such, I focused on upping their offer on the songs that fall under primary writing credit.”

My brain short-circuits.

Seven songs at nine thousand dollars each, plus two songs at three thousand…

I’m not the best at math, but I could normally figure that out in my head. I flip over to the calculator on my phone, and I swear all the air in the SUV disappears.

That’s almost seventy-thousand dollars.

“Holy shit,” I whisper as my mind starts spinning.

“Are you happy with that?” Riser asks.

I nod frantically.

Even with Hawthorne taking a cut, that’s as much money as I would make in a year.

I’ll be able to pay off my old apartment complex, get into a new place, pay all the utility deposits with no trouble, and I might even have enough to cover rehab for my dad.

He has really shitty insurance and couldn’t come up with the difference between what they would pay and what the facility fees were. There was also a deductible or something.

Shit.

My brain is done for.

Alcohol withdrawals are one of the most dangerous. They can actually kill a person, which isn’t true for most substances. There are, of course, a few others like opiates that can be serious, but in the majority of cases, it just sucks. A person feels like shit and has cravings, but alcohol withdrawal can cause hallucinations, fatal arrhythmias, and some other really dangerous stuff that I can’t remember because I’m too frazzled to think properly.

My dad was so bad off when I saw him last that his kidneys were shutting down. He had to have a paracentesis to have the extra protein-fluid drained off his stomach. It was gross and scary, but even then, they wouldn’t keep him in the hospital to medically supervise his withdrawal. So as soon as he went home, he was drinking again.

It was my breaking point, and it happened only a few weeks before Theo was signed to Ruined Records.

My relationship with my dad has always been strained, and I felt guilty, but I couldn’t stay in Florida just to watch him drink himself to death. If I were being truthful with myself, I’d probably admit that it was a big reason why I agreed to go on tour with Theo.

“I want to take the deal,” I choke out.