Free The Switch by JC Emery Page B

which isn’t a whole lot. I find an old rag on the back of the counter. It isn’t much, but it’s going to have to do for now.
    I chance a look back at Shelby and see her filling up her glass with more bourbon. Her hands shake as she pours. I turn away and look out the small window over the sink. There’s a line of trees marking the edge of the woods, just about fifty yards from the back of the cabin. I look to the left and see a small lake. On the other side, set back at least a few hundred yards, is a palatial home with a gaudy, Mediterranean style that looks completely out of place amongst the thick woods surrounding the property.
    “Chase?” Her voice sounds small, apologetic even.
    “Yeah?” I say without turning around.
    “Can you let my dad know I’m here? He must be worried.”
    While I wait for the water to boil, I dig her phone out of my pocket. In her contacts list under D is DADDY. I send a quick text.
    AT CABIN. BRING PAIN MEDS.
    It’s just a hunch, but if Shelby’s dad is worried about her, then he likely knows what kind of shit she’s gotten herself into and will be out looking for her anyway.
    Once the water is at a full boil , I drop the rag in and let it sit in the boiling water, constantly checking to make sure it’s fully submerged. After a few minutes, I turn off the heat and wait for it to cool down while I stare out the window. For a moment I consider checking on Shelby, but then I remind myself why it’s better I keep my distance. With her ever-changing personality, I could easily become sucked into her shit storm. And I refuse to be sucked in.
    I wash my hands with the dish soap as thoroughly as I can, making sure to clean under my nails, before pulling the rag out of the water and wringing it. From the basic medical training I received in the academy, I at least know that I’m not supposed to set the rag down on a dirty surface. With one hand holding the rag, I use the other to refill the pot and set it back on the burner. Once the water is starting to heat, I walk over to Shelby and see that the bottle of bourbon is lighter than it was when I began my tasks.
    “You have a pretty chest,” she says, her words slurred and her smile a little dopey. She’s a goofy drunk, it seems.
    I look down and realize I’m not wearing a shirt. I had to tear mine up to stop her from bleeding out.
    “Thanks. I’m sure you have a pretty chest, too.”
    “I’m hot,” she whines as she struggles out of her brown leather jacket.
    I poke through the first aid kit and find a place that might not be too awful to set the rag down. With my hands free, I take the glass from Shelby’s hand and set it down on the small table.
    “Stop struggling.” I reach over and hold her hand. It’s clammy. I reach up and feel her forehead , which is practically dripping with sweat. I gently push the sweat back into her hairline and stare into her eyes. She looks so helpless, so incapable of caring for herself.
    “How did you get yourself into this mess?” I ask. Because underneath the insanity, I can see the fear in her eyes.
    She looks up at me with a hundred questions at the forefront of her mind. But she doesn’t manage to ask a single one. She just shrugs her shoulders.
    “That’s it?” I ask. I’m pushing more for my own curiosity than anything else. I’m sure Sarge would like some information , as well, but this right here isn’t about me being a cop. This is about a guy wanting to know how this chick’s life has spiraled out of control so bad she winds up squaring off with a drug kingpin.
    “I have awful taste in men,” she says. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and works on it. I’m beginning to recognize this as a sign of worry. And just when I think she won’t continue, she does. “I always pick the wrong guys. Becca’s the one who sees trouble and walks the other way. I see trouble and I hone in on it. My mama says I’ve been sticking my nose in trouble since birth.”
    “But