Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,6

table with burn marks in the laminate surface. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

He didn’t move.

“What?” Was he going to demand better accommodations?

“You’d leave if I asked you to?”

Somehow, I bore up under the strain of his gratitude. “Yes.”

“Okay. You can stay.”

I didn’t thank him for giving me permission, although I think he wanted me to. Little asshole. He had always pushed and pushed. Always.

I had plenty more pushback in me these days. If he only knew.

Chapter Four

I tried not to worry while Tug showered, but some nebulous skin-crawling fear dug its nails deep into my bones. Whether it was the sketchy guy at the front desk, or the easily accessible ground floor room’s easy-to-break into windows, or the fear of having to kick down another bathroom door and finding Tug dead on the other side, my anxiety ratcheted up several notches.

I once read that ordinary people who have to perform CPR or make other life or death interventions get pretty traumatized by the event. Maybe the pressure messed with my head.

The only thing that helped was knowing that Echo and Gayle were on their way. My cousin and I had been close growing up, and she had the credentials to back up her plan. That Gayle was coming with her was almost a miracle.

Mentally, I felt like I had no margin for error here.

Thuong the kid bore no resemblance to this closed-up, damaged man. Seeing him like this felt especially painful because I’d known him. I’d liked him. But when a person uses, it changes their brain chemistry and their personality and their priorities. They can go right back out and overdose an hour later. A very rare few got and stayed sober.

The Tug that returned from the motel bathroom seemed to have lost volume and battery life. Without the baggy clothing he’d been wearing, without the chunky leather boots, he looked frail. He wore only a bath towel and slid beneath the covers on the bed before I had a chance to see much. He shook all over. The air in the room was far from cold—even with the AC going—but Tug was clearly chilled.

“Give me your wet towel.” I held out my hand. When he narrowed his eyes at me, I said, “I promise not to peek.”

He snaked out of it under the covers and dropped it over the side of the bed. I retrieved the quilts and covers off the second bed and draped them over him.

“This will help.”

“Th-th-thanks.” His teeth chattered.

“Tug?”

“Mm?”

“After Echo and Gayle get here, is there anything you want me to get for you? Clothes or personal stuff? I didn’t find anything in the library bathroom but your rig.”

He blinked. “Backpack.”

I pictured the bathroom, the area surrounding it, the tables, and study carrels. “I didn’t find a backpack.”

He shook his head. “I hid it.”

“Where?” Had he left drugs in my library? Motherfucker. What if a child found it? “Somewhere kids could get hold of it?”

He shook his head. “Empty locker in the employee breakroom.”

Wait, what? “How did you get in there?”

“No one else was around. I saw an opportunity and stashed my bag.”

“That room is kept locked.” The system required a mini key card. I kept mine on my key ring.

His gaze slid away. “People sometimes leave their keys lying around.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” He glanced away. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Not everyone wears a belt bag. How many times had I seen a ring of keys next to someone’s desk and given it no thought at all?

“Luke?” he asked a few minutes later. “Can you bring me the trash can from the bathroom, just in case?”

“Are you feeling sick?”

“It’s not that bad yet.” He let his head fall back against the pillows.

“You want some music?” I asked after another long stretch of silence.

“Sure.” He turned his head. “What have you got.”

“Just my phone.” I opened iTunes and searched through my playlist. “Or I could turn on the television.”

“Don’t want to open my eyes right now.”

I picked a relaxation playlist and hit play. “Orrinocco Flow” by Enya throbbed into the room.

“Oh my God,” he groaned. “That’s the musical equivalent of your fanny pack.”

“Shut up, it is not. Relax. Clear your mind.”

“Fuck you.” He rolled over to stare at the wall.

I let the playlist continue. He might have dozed. We sat that way until Gayle texted me they were outside.

Gayle: We’re here, which room?

Me: I’ll come out.

Outside, the night’s warm air held the scent of tire rubber and diesel exhaust from the freeway. A brisk breeze stirred the