Broken Knight (All Saints High Book 2)

On my cab ride from the San Diego airport to Todos Santos, my fingers closed into a fist around three Xanax pills. I looked out the window, willing them to crush into powder so I could slide them easily into the mouthwash I had in a Starbucks cup. The high was faster when they were powdered.

The hospital.

I was going straight to the hospital.

The cherry on the shit cake, I thought as I tossed the pills into my mouth, was Dad refusing to tell me what was up. The worst possible scenarios rolled through my mind. Mom had sounded so weak on the phone.

She really is dying.

She’s already dead.

She is brain dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

We were rich. We were healthy. We were strong. Invincible, really. So why couldn’t we stop it from happening?

I resorted to texting Aunt Em.

Knight: Just tell me she’s alive.

Emilia: She is.

Knight: Y is Dad being an asshole, then?

Emilia: Have you been taking care of yourself over there?

Uh-oh. She didn’t even give me shit for my nonexistent grammar and for cussing Dad. Not a good sign.

Knight: Tell me what to prepare myself for.

Emilia: Reality.

I hated everyone. Other than Luna, maybe, but I couldn’t talk to her before I had more information. It was the middle of the night in North Carolina now, and she had school tomorrow.

When the cab slid to the hospital curb, I stumbled out, the Xanax and alcohol already kicking it in my bloodstream. I decided it was probably a good idea to alternate between mouthwash and actual liquor when I almost threw up on the front desk while asking for Mom’s room.

The overnight receptionist directed me to the end of the hall. As I zigzagged my way there, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. I took it out, hoping Luna had a sixth sense.

Alas, it was Dixie. I sent it straight to voicemail and texted, All good, speak soon.

My dad was standing in the hallway, looking like a piece of dried toast—crumbling at the edges, completely burned out. The minute he saw me, instead of hugging me, or telling me it was good to have me back, or asking me, oh, I don’t know…how the fuck I was doing, he scowled and threw an accusing finger my way.

“You.”

“Me,” I pretended to yawn, getting near him.

Big mistake. Huge. Now he could smell the mouthwash. He wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d gone all dental-hygiene crazy in the span of a weekend.

“Nice touch, son. Showing up here reeking of alcohol when your mother is hospitalized.”

“Thanks, man. And I appreciate you keeping me in the loop as to what the fuck is going on with said mom.” I collapsed onto a blue chair outside her room.

He was right, though. She didn’t have to be healthy to know I looked like shit and smelled not much better.

“Where’s Lev?” I asked.

“At the Rexroths’.”

“Why not Aunt Em?”

“She’s on her way.”

“Look, I’m not that drunk. Can I see Mom?” I rubbed my face tiredly, closing my eyes.

“No,” he clipped, bracing his arm against the wall and looking down at his shoes.

She was asleep, then. I folded my arms, about to find a comfortable angle and call it a night. Mom could sleep for hours on end at the hospital. The shit they plugged into her, paired with the steroids, meant she went through spurts of random energy, followed by crashes and days of sleep.

I closed my eyes, mentally reminding myself to let Vaughn know I needed to bum a ride to school tomorrow morning, when Dad’s loafer kicked my shin. Not gently, either. My eyes cracked open.

“Wake up.” He balled up the collar of my shirt, yanking me to my feet.

Suddenly we were nose to nose. I narrowed my eyes at him. He’d never been physical with me before. My heart started pounding.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You’re my problem!” he seethed, baring his teeth. “Your attitude is my problem. Your selfishness, to just up and…and…leave for a girl,” he spat the word out, his breath ragged as he flung his big arms in the air, pushing away from me. “You know what my problem is? My problem is your mom is not okay, and here you are, drinking and smoking yourself to death, thinking we don’t know. Thinking we don’t care. When, put simply, I’m trying to extinguish the fires in my life one at a time. My house is on fucking fire, Knight,” Dad boomed, his voice ricocheting off the walls.

The entire hallway shook with his dark tenor. Nurses and patients peeked out of half-ajar doors, bug-eyed, and two male nurses straightened from their slumped positions against the reception booth and headed in our direction.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and say it?” I smiled sardonically, opening my arms. “You wish you hadn’t adopted me. One less bullshit problem to deal with, right? But you knew this was going to happen. She did, too. You knew we’d be here someday, and you still had us.”

Asshole, drunk Knight had struck again. I really hated my intoxicated alter ego. He had no filters whatsoever.

What was I saying? Why was I saying this? Because there was a part of me that believed it to be true. My mother knew she was going to die young. She’d still adopted me. She’d still had Lev. His name meant heart in Hebrew, but it was lungs she needed. It was her lungs that failed her. And our hearts were broken.

“You set me up for this,” I accused. “You gave me a family you knew was temporary.”

“Newsflash, Knight. Life is temporary. Your mom could’ve been perfectly healthy and gotten run over by a truck ten years ago. Just because you take life for granted doesn’t mean it is.”

“Okay, Oprah. Spin this shit to suit yourself.” I laughed bitterly, turning away and starting for the nearest door before we both exploded.

By the way my father’s face had morphed from angry to shocked, I gathered my diplomatic skills were lacking while under the influence. The nurses clapped our shoulders, ushering us down the hallway.

“Emotions are running high, gentlemen. We understand this, but you need to take it outside. Get some fresh air. Calm down. We’ll let you know if there’s any change.”

Any change? What did they mean, change? I let my legs carry me to the balcony off the first floor of the hospital. Dad and I stood outdoors, ignoring the drizzle. He shook his head, staring up at the black sky, letting the rain pour down on his face. He closed his eyes, looking half-dead. He raked his fingers through his hair and a chunk of it was left between his fingers. Jesus.

“You’re an asshole for reducing Luna to being just a girl,” I muttered, fishing for my phone in my pocket.

Dixie again. I killed the call.

Why can’t you die, Dix? Why does it have to be Rosie?

“You’re an asshole for judging your mom for having you and Lev,” Dad retorted, pacing.

I wondered what the fuck was going on, but didn’t want to ask, because I knew he wouldn’t give me a straight answer.

“I’m going to see her.” I tested the water, pretending to make my way to the door. Dad curled his fingers around my bicep, pulling me back.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because?” I gauged, assessing him coldly.

I was getting tired of being strong. Being indifferent. Being someone I wasn’t.

He took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut. “Because she’s in a coma.”

Know how sometimes people say their entire world crumbled? I never quite understood what they meant until this moment. The moment where everything in my life shattered, collapsing one brick at a time. I toppled backward, my back hitting the wall, then slid down until my ass hit the damp ground. Dad stood in front of me, his head hung between his shoulders—a lowered, defeated flag. I immediately knew this wasn’t about my drinking or the drugs. Neither Dad nor Mom knew the extent of the trouble I’d gotten myself into this year.

This is about Mom.

“How?” I heard myself asking.

“They put her in a chemically induced coma for her end-stage cystic fibrosis.”

“When?”

“Earlier today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice escalated into a scream.

“So, what? You’d fly back home thinking about it the entire time? Her hooked up to a ventilator, dying?”

“Dying?” I realized I sounded like a dumbass, but couldn’t help it.

What was I expecting to happen? For her to walk swiftly out of this place? Maybe do cartwheels all the way to the parking lot? It was too late for a lung transplant, too late for experimental treatments, too late, period.

Dad shook his head. It occurred to me that I needed to be there for him like he was there for me. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even breathe. I shook my head, stood up, and stalked back into the ICU, slapping the glass door, flinging it open. I could hear Dad’s footsteps following me.

I took out my phone, ignoring the five missed calls from Dixie, and texted Luna.

Knight: My mom is in a coma.

Her answer came not even a minute later.

Luna: On my way.

A bottle of whiskey.

Two more Xanax.

One Adderall because I needed to concentrate on shit in class. (See? Responsible adult.)

That was basically my menu for Monday, as Dad hurled me into Vaughn’s car and insisted I go to school. I fought him on it. Of course I did. What kid goes to school when his mom is in a coma?

“This one does.” Dad slammed the passenger door in my face, ignoring Vaughn, and Hunter in the back seat. “It’s chemically induced. We have the situation under control. Show up to class, do your best, come back here, and we’ll see her together.”

I opened my mouth to argue again, but clamped it shut when Hunter, behind me, said, “We’ll take good care of him, sir.”

“Hunter…” Dad dug his fingers into his eye sockets. “No offense, but I wouldn’t trust you with an ant. Unfortunately, I have my plate full right now. Just go.”

The entire way to school, Vaughn stole glances at me with his slanted, icy-blue eyes. I realized things were dire when even he was on his best behavior. Dude didn’t do pity and didn’t cut corners. He had a mean streak a mile long and never missed an opportunity to kick you while you were down.

“Not sure drinking yourself into liver failure is the best course of action right now.” He moved his gum from side to side in his mouth.

“Not sure I asked for your fucking medical opinion,” I snapped, leaning my head against the window and closing my eyes.

Hunter sucked in a charged breath behind us. Someone pounded their fists from the inside of my head to my eyes.

I was pretty sure it was Dixie.

Hunter pulled my head off of a toilet in the school’s bathroom. My face was wet. My hair dripped down my Armani shirt. I knew it was Hunter because I heard his voice growling, but I couldn’t for the life of me open my eyes.

“This is even more pathetic than dying on the toilet seat. Fuckboy literally almost drowned inside a toilet.”

Vaughn’s voice came next.

“I need to give Mr. Astalis my application. You have to deal with this mess.”

“You asshole. What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Just put him in my car.”

“You’re seriously going to have him wait like this?” Hunter shrieked.

“He did that to himself.” I could hear the shrug in Vaughn’s voice. “Call it a hard-earned lesson.”

“Can I just call you a cunt?” I wanted to say, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move my lips at all.

I heard Vaughn tossing Hunter his car keys, and Hunter catching them and hauling me up. I was dragged, pushed, tucked inside a car, and buckled.

And by the time I knew what was happening, I’d passed out again.

“You smell like shit, and you’re making my car smell like it, too.”

I didn’t answer Vaughn.

“Passing out inside a public toilet bowl. Real classy, Knight. Hit rock bottom yet?”

“Not yet,” I groaned, gaining consciousness. Everything hurt. Most of all? Living through this nightmare.

“I’m telling your parents.”

“They know.” I grinned, closing my eyes. “And they don’t have time for this crap. But go ahead. Make things more difficult for them. Oh, wait, my dad is flailing to keep himself going, and my mom is in a fucking coma. Good luck getting a response from either.”

Vaughn shook his head.

I laughed, even though nothing was funny anymore.

If I’d thought getting into Mom’s room and seeing her hooked up to chirping machines that sounded like freight trains and were programmed to help her breathe would soothe my aching ass, I was gravely mistaken. Dad held my hand on one side, Lev’s on the other. The three of us stood there, staring. Staring. Staring.

The notion that it was the end was so strong you could feel it in the air.

Not just the end for her, but for all of us.

I used to get this idea that the end of the world was happening right in front of me, since I’d learned about Mom’s disease at a young age. Sometimes I’d climb up the forest’s mountain, look at the nothingness surrounding me, and think—this is it. The end of the world. Right here. Or it was when thunder cracked, and fog descended over the roads, misting the car windows. Or when I concentrated on that thin line between the skyline and the ocean, imagining myself sliding into it and letting it suck me into another dimension.

That was how it felt right now: Like there was nothing to come after this.

No graduation.

No football.

No more kisses from Luna under her covers.

This was where I ended, and nothing else began.

This was when I lost the person who’d built my life—the person who’d claimed me when the woman who gave birth to me couldn’t.

Who was going to claim me now?

Where did I belong?

“Can I touch her?” Levy’s voice was hoarse.

He wasn’t so short anymore. He was fourteen now. I imagined it was even more difficult for him, to lose her when he was still so young.

Who’d tell him it was okay to screw up his first kiss when she was gone?

That there was such a thing as too much saliva?

Who’d give him female advice?

Take him suit shopping for prom?

Wipe his tears when Bailey broke his heart—and she was going to, I had no doubt. They were too tight not to hurt each other.

Me. That’s who. That’s what I decided, anyway. I was going to up my big brother game. I had to.

“Gently,” Dad clipped, his tone like a whip lash, making my baby brother wince.

Lev disconnected from Dad. He took restrained steps toward Mom—like if he walked too fast, he’d shatter her. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale. Purple veins ran through her eyelids like spider webs. She looked peaceful, the blanket rolled all the way up to her neck. I thought Lev was going to touch her cheek, her face. Maybe her hair. To my surprise, his fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, pulling it slowly, moving it down to her waist.

“She hates to sleep with the blanket all the way up,” he choked, looking away, at the wall. A sob ripped from his mouth, coming out harsh, like thunder.

Dad stood like a statue, refusing to cope with the shit life had thrown at us, and stared at both of them—mainly at Mom.

I snapped out of it, shook off the headache and nausea, and gripped Lev’s shoulder from behind.

“You’re right, Levy-boy. She really does.”