one person I was supposed to turn myself over to completely and let her guide me to sobriety—knew I was pushing drugs in rehab. Oh, Conner was right, everything was changing.
Fuck. My. Life.
4
Fearless moral inventory of myself
“ T his all you got ?” The guy—God, what was his name again? I tried to remember but came up blank. Huh, so much for sobriety making you sharper. The only thing I could remember about him was that he made money playing guitar for some emo band I would never listen to even if someone paid me…then again, Blake would probably love them.
I shook off the familiar jolt of pain every time I thought about her outside the context of what I’d done to her. When I only thought about her as the person she was, the friends we used to be—instead of the possession I’d treated her like toward the end—it was like looking at two different people, the man I’d wanted to be, and the one I had been. And now? Well, now I hoped I was reinventing myself, but the jury was literally still out on that one.
“For now,” I finally answered him.
He sank back into his oversized leather armchair, his hands smacking the armrests like a toddler at the beginning of a tantrum. “I’ve got plenty of cash.”
“That’s nice for you.” I pocketed the wad of twenties he’d given for a few pills of valium. The dude was lush in the finance department, his band doing everything—including throwing money at him—to keep his situation quiet. That’s why they’d chosen a rehab center in the middle of Oklahoma City as opposed to a fancier one in L.A., or so he’d told me fourteen times already. Guess druggie guitarists for a new band climbing the charts was out this year.
“Fuck, man. What will it take? You gave me three . I said I wanted twelve.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Exactly. And how do you think it would look if the orderlies found you in here, sprawled out on your bed, dead from oding on the drugs that you’re here to get over?”
He huffed, rolling a guitar pick back and forth between his fingers. “Thanks for the faith.”
I shrugged. “I’m not in the business of killing off my customers. Three will be plenty until Thursday. Unless, of course, overdosing is your goal.”
“Of course, it isn’t. Shit, I just don’t want to see you that much.”
I laughed. “You and me both, man.” I loved that we could be honest about our true dislike of each other but still do good business. “Same time in three days?”
He jerked his head in what I took to be a nod, and I walked toward the door, my hand pausing on the knob. “I don’t have to come back, you know?”
He cut his black eyes to me.
“Not being a dick,” I said quickly. “I meant if the program is working for you, or you plan to make it work for you, just say the word and I’ll disappear.”
“You would?” He put the pick between his teeth.
“Yes.” I wouldn’t have said that during week one. I would’ve kept pushing the hard sell until I’d convinced him he needed me to deliver pills every week. Now, five weeks in, sober for thirty-four days,I could honestly say I didn’t wish addiction on anyone. Not that I was free from it. Hell no, I craved vodka like I craved water. The need was constantly there, tapping on my shoulder, whispering how good we used to have it.
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said, dismissing me.
I nodded and shut the door quietly behind me.
“Making friends, I see.” Charlie’s voice boomed in the quiet hallway, and I jumped.
“Fuck, make a noise. You’re like a cat.” Yes, that was accurate—a very sexy cat in today’s choice of leggings which looked like the galaxy, the sections of deep blues matching her hair.
“Meow,” she said, curling her fingers into claws. She flashed that smile of hers, the one I only ever saw her give me, and I again wondered if she felt the connection I did…or if I was delusional and just wishing for something more when there was nothing
Fuck. My. Life.
4
Fearless moral inventory of myself
“ T his all you got ?” The guy—God, what was his name again? I tried to remember but came up blank. Huh, so much for sobriety making you sharper. The only thing I could remember about him was that he made money playing guitar for some emo band I would never listen to even if someone paid me…then again, Blake would probably love them.
I shook off the familiar jolt of pain every time I thought about her outside the context of what I’d done to her. When I only thought about her as the person she was, the friends we used to be—instead of the possession I’d treated her like toward the end—it was like looking at two different people, the man I’d wanted to be, and the one I had been. And now? Well, now I hoped I was reinventing myself, but the jury was literally still out on that one.
“For now,” I finally answered him.
He sank back into his oversized leather armchair, his hands smacking the armrests like a toddler at the beginning of a tantrum. “I’ve got plenty of cash.”
“That’s nice for you.” I pocketed the wad of twenties he’d given for a few pills of valium. The dude was lush in the finance department, his band doing everything—including throwing money at him—to keep his situation quiet. That’s why they’d chosen a rehab center in the middle of Oklahoma City as opposed to a fancier one in L.A., or so he’d told me fourteen times already. Guess druggie guitarists for a new band climbing the charts was out this year.
“Fuck, man. What will it take? You gave me three . I said I wanted twelve.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Exactly. And how do you think it would look if the orderlies found you in here, sprawled out on your bed, dead from oding on the drugs that you’re here to get over?”
He huffed, rolling a guitar pick back and forth between his fingers. “Thanks for the faith.”
I shrugged. “I’m not in the business of killing off my customers. Three will be plenty until Thursday. Unless, of course, overdosing is your goal.”
“Of course, it isn’t. Shit, I just don’t want to see you that much.”
I laughed. “You and me both, man.” I loved that we could be honest about our true dislike of each other but still do good business. “Same time in three days?”
He jerked his head in what I took to be a nod, and I walked toward the door, my hand pausing on the knob. “I don’t have to come back, you know?”
He cut his black eyes to me.
“Not being a dick,” I said quickly. “I meant if the program is working for you, or you plan to make it work for you, just say the word and I’ll disappear.”
“You would?” He put the pick between his teeth.
“Yes.” I wouldn’t have said that during week one. I would’ve kept pushing the hard sell until I’d convinced him he needed me to deliver pills every week. Now, five weeks in, sober for thirty-four days,I could honestly say I didn’t wish addiction on anyone. Not that I was free from it. Hell no, I craved vodka like I craved water. The need was constantly there, tapping on my shoulder, whispering how good we used to have it.
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he said, dismissing me.
I nodded and shut the door quietly behind me.
“Making friends, I see.” Charlie’s voice boomed in the quiet hallway, and I jumped.
“Fuck, make a noise. You’re like a cat.” Yes, that was accurate—a very sexy cat in today’s choice of leggings which looked like the galaxy, the sections of deep blues matching her hair.
“Meow,” she said, curling her fingers into claws. She flashed that smile of hers, the one I only ever saw her give me, and I again wondered if she felt the connection I did…or if I was delusional and just wishing for something more when there was nothing
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