Cody McCall woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a bus—and dragged along behind it. What on earth could have happened to him?
In addition to every bone in his body aching, he could never remember being so thirsty. Gently, he coaxed his tongue down off the roof of his mouth where it had been apparently super-glued. He tried to swallow—big mistake. Had he tried to eat broken glass? He knew he’d been drunk—make that super drunk, epically drunk, more-drunk-than-anyone-had-ever-been-in-the-history-of-the-world drunk—but he wouldn’t have tried to hurt himself, no matter how depressed he’d been. Would he?
Moaning, he managed to pry one eye, then slammed it shut at the sudden influx of sunlight.
“Aahhkk.”
Had that sound come from him? It sounded like the noise his cat made coughing up a hairball, and it would have alarmed him if he hadn’t had so many other things to worry about at the moment. Like the fact that he had to pee like a fucking racehorse and that for some reason he couldn’t seem to be able to move his arms.
Panic-stricken, he used muscles in his face that he’d maybe never used before to get his eyes all the way open, blinking rapidly at the blinding light blasting him from the window across from his bed. He looked down at himself.
His arms weren’t paralyzed, thank Jesus, just tethered to the bed rails by leather straps. He let that idea drive for a moment and take a quick spin around his brain. He was strapped to the damn bed. He kicked out his legs, which were still blessedly free, and rattled the bed rails by moving his arms agitatedly back and forth.
“Better be good, Cody, or Nurse Ratchet will come back in here and strap your legs down too.”
Cody turned his head in the direction of the deep voice and relief flooded him as he saw Jake Rogers, his best friend and his partner in the Fulton County Police Department, sitting on a chair by the bed. He thought he must be dreaming because Jake was back in Atlanta, and Cody was still down in Florida on vacation. Wasn’t he?
“Jake, thank God,” he tried to say, though it came out more like. “Aakk. Aa-Aakkk.” Yep, definitely broken glass, chased down by a little drain cleaner.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “J-aakke.” He jerked his head toward the pitcher of water on the nightstand beside him. “Wa-water.”
Jake Rogers unfolded himself from the chair by the bed and stood to gaze down at him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in way too many hours. Without saying a word, he poured water into a plastic glass, stuck in a straw and held the straw to Cody’s lips. Cody sucked down the blessed liquid, wincing at the burn even the cool water caused his throat.
“Wha-what happened?” He looked up at his best friend and saw a virtual stranger looking down at him. Jake’s eyes were cold and hard, without the twinkle Cody was used to seeing. He’d never noticed before how blue those eyes could be—frigid, arctic blue.
“You don’t remember?” Jake’s voice, like his demeanor, was hard and cold. Cody could almost imagine frost forming on the walls behind him.
“No,” he said, shaking his head then wishing he hadn’t. The muscles in his neck were sore. If only he could put a hand up to touch his throat.
“Damn these straps! Why are they on me, Jake? Let me out of them.”
Jake shook his head. “I can’t. Not until the Psych doctors come in to talk to you.”
“Look, damn it, I’m dying to piss.”
“Then go ahead. You have a catheter.”
“A what?” Cody craned his neck to look down at himself, but he was covered by a sheet. “Wait a minute. Psych doctors? What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that the psychiatrists want to speak to you about why you tried to kill yourself yesterday.” Jake stared directly into his eyes. “I’d kind of like an answer to that question myself.”
“No, I-I never tried to kill myself. That’s crazy. You have to believe me, Jake.”
Jake’s gaze remained
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