We didn’t have a landline, so I needed a cell phone.
Dad’s was probably in his pocket.
Fuck.
I rolled over and sat up, splaying my arms behind me to lean against them. My back was to Dad’s body, and that was just fine with me. I took a few breaths to prepare myself, focused my mind on the single goal of getting his phone, and used my arms to maneuver myself backward across the floor while my legs dragged uselessly.
I knew I was close—I could smell it. I swallowed and then held my breath as I reached behind me and touched his leg. With a shiver, I first ran my hand up to one pocket and then the other. Nothing. Not in his back pockets, either. I forced myself to look at his shirt, but there wasn’t a pocket there at all.
“Fuck!” I yipped as his hand dropped from his leg to the floor. I quickly pushed myself away—across the study and right out the doorway, where I lay panting for several
minutes.
Okay, no phone on Dad. He must have left it somewhere. I pulled myself the rest of the way into the hall, glad for the smooth hardwood floors, and could have cried when I saw a small black rectangle lying on the floor near the entrance to the kitchen. With a couple of breaths to get me going, I pulled myself across the floor until I reached Dad’s phone.
Well…part of it, anyway.
The screen was cracked and dark, and no matter how much I poked at it, nothing happened.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I screamed. I banged my fist on the floor and stared at the shattered screen. I looked around quickly and saw a small, black mark on the wall where he had obviously thrown it.
What was I going to do now? He had hidden my phone. It could be anywhere in the whole fucking house. I had to call someone…Nicole, Greg, 911…anyone. How else could I tell someone that I was here? That Dad was…Dad was…
Laptop.
I lifted my eyes to the stairs leading up to the third floor where my laptop was waiting for me in the closet.
Three flights of stairs.
There was no fucking way in hell.
I would never make it.
I was nearly exhausted just from dragging myself from the study, down the hall, to the kitchen, and that was all one level. Upstairs? Using just my arms? I might be able to make it halfway, but then I’d have to sleep for a freaking day before I could go on. I just couldn’t last that long without help, unless…
A small black doctor’s bag caught my eye where it sat next to the PT equipment in the living room. Steven must have left it here when Dad threw him out. Again, I wondered what their argument had been about, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was he left it behind in his haste. From my experience the previous day, I already knew the collection of hypodermic needles full of testosterone and adrenaline was inside his bag.
Fifteen minutes later, I was at the bottom of the stairs with a shot of adrenaline in my hand.
As I looked up to the top of the first flight and contemplated the length times three, I couldn’t help but conjure images of Julius Caesar and hear Shakespeare’s words through his lines: “Men at some time are masters of their fates: the fault, Dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”
I was going to have to get myself up those damn stairs, no matter what.
I was going to contact my Rumple.
At the bottom of the stairs, I tried to get my breathing under control, calm myself, and figure out just how the hell I was going to shove a needle into my own arm. I mean, really, how does somebody do that? Just shove it in, or does it have to be in the right spot? Did I have to hit a vein or muscle?
I had no fucking clue.
I tried to remember exactly where Steven had placed it, and when I looked over my arm, I could still see a slight bruise there.
Well, that settled that. I would go for the same spot.
I took another deep breath.
Damn.
I wasn’t sure if I could inject myself or not, so I decided to see just how far I could get first. Then I’d do it if I needed it. I was only wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, though. I didn’t have any pockets, so I stuck the damn needle in my teeth and started up the first set of stairs.