PERCHED

PERCHED
Adam's Pov

What if. . .?

My mind replays everything from the last time I saw him, the look on his face as I turned away. I mean, it still could be that he is avoiding my calls, and he's sad enough to also be avoiding other calls too.

It's definitely possible so what if that’s it?

“No,” I whisper out loud, shaking my head. Something in my chest tells me it's not.

I call him again. It rings once but again he doesn't pick up. So I bring up his location, find out where he is, stalking him yet again.

His little dot blinks to life on the map. He’s somewhere downtown, beside a place called Mrs Smith Bar and Club. This establishment is in a sketchy side of town, not anywhere near the lakes, and rollercoaster parks.

My pulse quickens as I zoom in. I think that's an alleyway. And he’s standing still, not moving in that alleyway.

Why isn't he moving?

“Emerson,” I whisper like he might be able to hear me. “Are you alright?”

I watch the dot, willing it to shift, to twitch an inch. It doesn’t.

My thoughts scatter, tripping over each other. I don't like this, I don't like this at all. Is something holding him there? Someone?

I should call the police—

Wait. Another thought shoves its way in, and I pump the breaks.

Emerson delivers. I swallow. Not pizza, not packages but. . . drugs. So what if that’s what he’s doing right now? I can see the people in that area ordering some and if I call the police and they find him mid-deal, he’ll go to jail.

Is that maybe why he isn't picking up? Because he's working?

My mind spirals again, mapping out every possibility, every consequence. Jail. Fines. Probation. The way he would feel if he found out I was the one who called. Fuck, I know the feeling.

“Okay,” I say to myself, sitting up. “Okay, think.”

How long does a drop usually take? Thirty minutes? An hour? I don't know. But it can't be longer, except they're doing the drugs right there and then.

“An hour,” I decide into the empty room, my voice shaking. “I’ll wait an hour. Then I’ll call him. If he doesn’t pick up. . . I’ll call the police.”

It sounds like a plan, something solid to cling to. I hope I'm doing the ring thing. But I can't just ignore it, because what if he needs help in that alley?

Time stretches. The seconds pass slowly and I even begin to doze off. But I force myself to stay awake. I keep checking the app; refresh, blink, refresh.

He's still there, still unmoving and the feeling that I'd be making the right decision climbs. What if the person he bought drugs to hit him upside the head because he didn't have any money and now he's beading to death?

I drink water, but it doesn’t help. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I don't wait for an hour before I call him again.

It goes straight to voicemail and I call the police.

I don’t know how long it’s fucking been when the door finally slides open.

The sound jolts me out of the fog. My body feels brittle, like frozen glass. I turn toward the noise, but it hurts because my neck feels stiff, my muscles aching from being in this position too long.

I need water. I need food. I need Adam. And fuck, I’d take any one of them right now.

I must look pathetic with my lips cracked, and heavy eyes, eyes that must reflect some hope at their footsteps. I don't have the strength, the willpower to hide it.

It’s him again, the one I've taken to calling the ringleader. Things must still be going well from them because he still moves with the confidence of feeling no one can stop him.

This time, he isn’t alone. Another man follows; younger, quieter, carrying a metal tray that smells faintly of something warm on a low stool. My stomach twists at the scent, growling its hunger.

“Sorry about that,” the ringleader says, his tone casual. “Had to make sure they actually took the bait before I wasted money on food for you.”

He grins, and it hasn't lost its ability to make my skin crawl. “Hope you like oatmeal.”

I don’t. Adam likes oatmeal. He used to make it as a base to add on his fruits, enticing me to eat it with the promise of sugar and chocolate in mine.

I hear him take his seat as the other man steps forward. He sets the tray with the stool down, then picks up the tray and slides it onto his lap as he sits on the stool.

Settled, he scoops up a spoonful. The texture looks thick, and very fucking lumpy. He doesn’t give me time to react before forcing the spoon to my lips.

A surprised sound falls from my lips as they open up. I swallow because I have no choice. It's food.

The goopy oatmeal scrapes down my throat, too hot. And before I can catch my breath, another spoonful is there, waiting.

He barely waits for me to swallow before shoving it past my lips again. My eyes water, and I roll the hot glob in my mouth. But I don’t complain. I don’t flinch. I don’t do anything that might make him stop.

I swallow it down. Because this, as miserable and tasteless as the mush is, it's definitely better than fucking nothing.

When the bowl is finally empty, I open my mouth to try and cool it down. My stomach twists as it tries to adjust, but the ache of hunger has dulled.

The younger man stands immediately he's done, and so does the ringleader. He reaches out as he passes, patting my shoulder like I'm an animal l who took his shots without fuss.

“Get some sleep,” he says, managing to make those words sound sinister. “It’s going to be a busy day for you tomorrow.”

A busy day? What? That the fuck does that mean?

They're already at the door as I'm contemplating whether or not
to ask. I don't, and the moment passes as they lock the door behind them, sealing me in again.