Can I call you?
Call him? Reese wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Brantley’s voice. Not right now while the memories were so fresh in his mind. However, if it pertained to Travis, he wasn’t about to say no.
Rather than respond, he hit the button to place the call.
“Hey, man,” Brantley greeted, his voice sounding strained.
“You okay?”
“I … uh … yeah. Just a headache.”
He’d thought Brantley had been acting off earlier. It had seemed to come on suddenly, while they’d been eating pizza. Reese had noticed his quick smile had dimmed and he’d started to retreat from the conversation. Now it all made sense.
“Did you take somethin’ for it?”
“Not yet. Will. Once I can.”
Reese sat up straight, staring at the dark television in front of him. “What does that mean?”
“I get ’em all the time. Compliments … of the mission gone sideways. Nothin’ to worry about.”
Reese wasn’t buying that, but he didn’t say anything.
“Just wanted to tell you I’m sorry ’bout earlier. I shouldn’t’ve said the things I did.”
Brantley’s words were slurred, but not like he’d had too much to drink. Reese could hear the pain in his voice.
“Are you at home?”
“Yep.”
“Is Cyrus there?”
“Sent him away,” Brantley muttered, followed by a whispered mumble that sounded oddly like, “Not you.”
No, he wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole, but he did say, “I’m comin’ over.”
Brantley didn’t respond, but Reese could hear him breathing, knew he hadn’t hung up.
“I’ll be there in ten. Stay where you are.”
A grunt was the reply he heard before the line disconnected.
Reese got to his feet, tucked his phone in the pocket of his athletic shorts. He took the time to snag a T-shirt from his dresser, pulled it on, then tugged on a pair of Adidas he kept near the front door. He didn’t bother with socks, instead grabbed his keys and locked up.
He made it to Brantley’s in just under ten minutes, pulling into the drive to see the house was dark and only Brantley’s big Chevy was parked in front of it.
Hoping the door was unlocked, he double-timed it up the porch steps, yanked open the screen, tried the knob. He was grateful it opened because it meant he wouldn’t have to pick the lock to let himself in.
Rather than shout his presence, he kept his voice low, warning Brantley not to shoot him.
He found the man in his bed, a blanket pulled over his lap, his chest bare. The room was dark save for moonlight that slipped in through the cracks in the blinds over the two single windows on each side of the bed.
“Where’s your meds?” he whispered, placing a gentle hand on Brantley’s shoulder.
“Bathroom,” came the mumbled response.
Reese set his keys and phone on the dresser, made his way to the bathroom. He found a prescription bottle in the medicine cabinet, skimmed the label. It was prescribed for pain and appeared to be full.
Looked as though Brantley had an aversion to pain pills. Probably fucking sucked in times like this.
He shook out the correct dose, then headed to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water. He cracked the lid open on the return to the bedroom.
“I want you to take this,” he urged, keeping his voice low.
Brantley didn’t move, but Reese could see his face was pinched with pain.
Easing onto the edge of the mattress, he slid one hand beneath Brantley’s neck and lifted him so he could get the pill down him.
He knew better than to ask questions because noises alone would make his situation worse. Reese had witnessed his mother enduring migraine headaches for years and he remembered the debilitating state she’d be in during an episode.
Good thing he didn’t need to talk to do a few more things to help the guy. The pain pill would hopefully do the trick. The problem was, it would take time. Until then, he needed to keep Brantley comfortable, ease him somehow.
Then he recalled his mother putting cold soda cans against the back of her neck. He remembered asking her why the first time he’d witnessed it. She’d said something about the pressure and the cold provided more relief than anything else she’d ever done.
Reese made another trip to the kitchen, found an energy drink in the refrigerator. Figuring it would work just fine, he returned to the bedroom and into the attached bath. He grabbed a washcloth out of the towel closet, got it wet with cold water, then wrung out the excess.
This time when he returned, he didn’t say a word. He walked around to the side Brantley was on, maneuvered him until he had the cold can beneath his neck, the pillow adjusted to allow his neck to rest against it, then placed the washcloth on his forehead, ensuring it covered his eyes in the event the moonlight was too much stimulation for his battered head.
