“What does the program entail?”
“Well, if you agree to it, we’ve got you set up next Thursday to see a”—he rifles through papers in a manila folder before locating one and reading it—“uh, Dr. Carleigh Jacobs.”
“And how often would I have to see her?”
“Weekly. You’d have an appointment every Thursday morning. Does that work with your schedule?”
I nod. “Yeah, that’s fine. I only have one class on Thursdays, but it’s in the afternoon. I’m assumin’ I can’t drink durin’ this thing?” I ask, more concerned than I’m trying to project.
“Well, yes and no. Certainly no drugs. You’ll be piss tested every week before the appointment. You’ll want to give yourself two days before each appointment to get the alcohol out of your system as well, but outside of that, you can drink, no problem.” He sighs, his lips pinched together. “Just be careful. I would certainly keep yourself out of similar situations. You do not want to get caught up in anything else, or they will throw the book at you.”
“No problem. I can keep my nose clean.” I hesitate a moment, the idea of substance abuse counseling causing incredible amounts of dread inside me. “And this is the best option, right?”
“Absolutely. Like I said, you’d likely be found not guilty, I’m almost certain of it, but why risk it? This is an easy out. And if you’re anything like me, you could use a little help with your transition process. I have love for the bottle too. I get it. Take advantage of the program and the opportunity to end this in the easiest way possible. Does that sound good? I don’t want to force your hand here.”
I shake my head, waving him off. “No, that sounds good. Tell ‘em I’ll do it.”
He puts his hand out with a smile, and I shake it. “Good man! These seven weeks will fly by and you’ll be able to walk away, unscathed. This is a good day, Bishop.”
“Yeah …” My voice trails off, my mind caught up in the what-ifs, but still so thankful to have an out. “A great day. Thanks, Adam.”
WALKING IN THE DOOR BEHIND her, the first thing I notice about my new doctor is that this woman of cougar status is sculpted like a twenty-year-old; the curve of her ass in a thigh-length skirt steals my attention and leads me to wonder what she’s wearing underneath. I mentally scold myself for the perversion but feel it all the same.
“It’s great to meet you, McKenzie,” she says, a slight rasp to her voice that reminds me of Scarlett Johannsen. She puts a hand up toward the chair in front of her desk.
As I take a seat and she makes her way around the meticulously kept desk, I scan the office. It’s barren, except for a few certificates on the wall—no photographs.
“Bishop, please,” I say, repositioning myself in the stiff chair.
As she takes a seat, she quirks an eyebrow. I admire the age and wisdom she carries in the smile lines and faint crow’s feet, and how fucking sexy she is despite them. Or maybe because of them. Her midnight black hair cascades down in a long braid against her shoulder, making her look like Pocahontas or Lara Croft. There’s a light touch of gray throughout that I admire her for keeping. It adds a touch of wisdom to her features. An elegance I find highly attractive. Her ocean blue eyes are captivating.
“So, you like to be called by your last name?”
I shrug. “It’s an Army thing.”
“I’ve treated a lot of military members, Army included, and I can understand that attachment. So, Bishop, let’s talk about why you’re here.”
She grabs a pair of glasses from the desktop, sliding them on and feeding into the librarian fantasies I’ve already been attempting to stifle.
“I beat a kid up,” I respond, shrugging, my eyes shifting to her ring finger. Vacant, but a tan line remains.
She nods, her gaze drifting. “Well, you did a little more than that.”
“I reacted to a fucked up situation as best I could.”
She puts a hand up, looking at me over the black frames of her thin glasses. “Please, one of my rules is no cursing in this room.”
I grin. “My apologies. What are your other rules?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
She’s unaffected, leaning her elbows on the desk, a pen now gripped tightly in her hand. “That you be honest in here.”
I hold up two fingers.
“That you are open to the treatment I have to provide over the next seven weeks.”
I hold up three fingers.
She ignores my fingers, staring intently at me. “And that, by the last appointment, I see fit to pass you through this program. You must take and pass a breathalyzer and drug test before each visit, as you did this morning.”
I nod, holding five fingers up for a brief moment before dropping my hand to my lap with a smirk. “I can agree to these terms … but Doc, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Does it work the same for you? The whole honesty thing?”
She narrows her eyes at me, reading my features. “What do you want to know?”
“You have a tan line on your ring finger,” I say, and she covers her left hand with her right, her eyes falling to them.
“We aren’t here to talk about me, Bishop,” she responds.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you uncomfortable. I was just curious what happened. I figured I’d be sharin’ a lot about myself in here. Maybe it would help if I knew a little about you too.”
She sighs, but her face shows resignation. “I guess that makes sense,” she mutters, rubbing the tan line on her ring finger mindlessly. “I was married for a very long time.”
“How long?”
Her eyes meet mine again. They’ve taken on a solemn look, but they’re still so alive, bluer than blue. “Twenty-one years …” She lets her words linger. I try not to let the surprise show on my face.
“Wow, Doc, if you don’t mind me askin’… how old are you?”
She laughs. “Old enough to be your mother.”
“And how old is that?”
“I think it’s time I ask the questions,” she retorts.
I ignore her. “Have you been divorced long?”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “No more questions. Now, Bishop, I want to hear about that night. In your own words. I’ve read the reports. I want to hear it from you.”
“He hit me with a bottle.”
“I saw that. And I know you would’ve likely won this if you went to trial. Why didn’t you? Why did you choose this program?”
I think on this for a moment, my eyes shifting to her near blank walls. “At the end of the day, maybe I wanted a little help. I knew what the process of a trial would involve, whether I won or not, and I thought counselin’ might be a better option.”
She eyes me, unconsciously chewing on the end of her pen. She points it at me, the tip glistening with saliva that turns me on more than it should.
“You say you wanted the help. What makes you say that?” she asks.
I shrug, shaking my head. “I don’t know. Maybe I gotta problem with the bottle. Maybe some anger stuff along with that. This transitioning shit ain’t easy.”
“I don’t imagine it would be. Do you think this incident would’ve happened without the addition of alcohol?”
“If I would’ve counterattacked someone attackin’ me with a bottle? Yeah, I would do that sober just as quickly as I did it liquored up.”
“Okay, and what about the fight before that? The one that led to him attacking you.”
“That’s unproven.”
“Unproven, but obvious. None of this will reach the police. It won’t make it beyond this room. But he attacked you because a friend pinned you as his attacker a few weeks prior. He admitted that he didn’t remember, but the friend was adamant about it. Now tell me, did alcohol play a factor in that incident? Maybe a little of the anger too?”
I nod. “Yeah, most likely. But here’s the thing, Doc. How many times in this life are these assholes gonna get away with bein’ assholes until someone like me t
eaches ’em a lesson? People like that, they can’t get away with bein’ a fuckin’ dick their whole lives.”
“Language,” she says, and I put my hands up apologetically. “So, what led to that initial fight?”
“He ran into me. I was about to apologize, and he said, ‘Watch out, bitch.’” As I say it, I feel what she must be feeling right now, if her face is any indication; it sounds fucking stupid.
“You needed to teach him a lesson?”
“I felt compelled to, yeah.”
“Does it make you feel better to hurt people?”
I hesitate, scratching at my beard. “People who deserve it.” I shrug. “Yeah. I fuckin’ love it. Maybe I get off on it a little.”
She tilts her head. “Language,” she says sternly.
I put my hands up in retreat. “Sorry, bad habit obtained from the military.”
“I told you, I’ve treated servicemembers and veterans for a long time. I understand the desire, maybe even the need to curse, but I believe more in one’s ability to control themselves and their actions. And that there’s a time and place for everything.”
Continuing on, mindful of my words this time, I say, “Look, I take full responsibility for what I did to that kid.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Both times. But both times, you bet he deserved it. If I had ten chances to do it over again, I’d do it the same way every time. Drunk or sober.”
“As bad as you did it?”
My lips pinch tightly together and I shake my head. “No, probably not.” I hesitate, correcting myself. “Okay, definitely not.”
“Do you have a problem with alcohol?” she asks bluntly, and an awkward silence lingers after the words leave her lips. “Honestly?” she adds, filling the silence.
“I don’t drink alone often, so I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. But in social situations, yeah, I guess I go too far. But like I said, I would’ve had the same reaction sober.”
She taps her pen against the stack of papers in front of her. “And I see here you’re part of a fraternity?”
“Pledgin’ one. Delta Iota Kappa, yeah. What of it?”
“How old are you?”
I grin. “You didn’t answer when I asked you!” I say accusatorily.
She rolls her eyes and says, “I’m forty-seven.”
“I’m twenty-five, and you don’t look forty-seven in the slightest.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “We’re talking about you here, Bishop. So, tell me, why a fraternity?”
“Do you know how hard it is to transition from the military?”
“I’ve said it a few times now, I’ve worked wi—”
“No, no, I know that you’ve worked with us, but have you transitioned from the military yourself?”
Her eyes fall to the desk, and I immediately feel bad.
In a lighter tone, I continue, “I’m just sayin’… it’s really hard. Harder than I ever thought possible. My first few weeks at BSU were some of the worst in my life. I missed the brotherhood. The camaraderie. And, in all honesty, I’ve always wanted that fraternity experience. I was in the Army, dreamin’ of that chance. That traditional college life.”
“And is it everything you thought it would be?” she asks, and her words stun me. I’m taken back to my talk with Sarge about how quickly the fraternity wore on him.
How quickly it’s wearing on me.
“Is it?” she asks again, breaking me from my thought storm.
I shake my head. “It could never be the Army. I don’t know why I thought it could be.”
“You were desperate,” she says, but it comes out more of a question.
I nod. “Yeah … yeah, I was. I hate bein’ alone. I like havin’ someone. Lots of someones. Even if those someones aren’t who I thought they would be.” There’s a brief silence in the room before I add, “Though, genuinely, my pledge brothers are awesome. I feel lucky I’ve had the chance to get to know ’em. I guess I just feel like there’s somethin’ more out there. That maybe I’m regressing a little bit.”
“What do you want in this life?” she asks, catching me off-guard.
I hesitate before responding, “I thought I knew. I thought it was military all the way. I had prepared for that through three fuckin’—” I cut myself off, putting a hand up and continuing, “freakin’ combat tours.”
She waves me off. “Speak freely, if you’re speaking honestly,” she says.
“Well, I’ve always wanted to act. The adrenaline and, just, energy I felt durin’ combat, I’ve only ever felt that type of high either jumpin’ out of planes or bein’ on stage.”
“So, you want to be a stage actor?”
“I want to be in movies. I love the stage, and I’d wanna do that on the side, but guys like Brando, Sinatra, Dean… Hanks, Denzel, Bale… I mean, those guys are my heroes. Actors and movies have been somewhat of a savior in my life, especially throughout my recovery. They’ve always been that bright spot, that escape, you know? I’d love to be that for someone else.”
“Do you plan on majoring in acting?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Do you know what kind of response I’ve gotten every damn time I’ve told someone I’m thinkin’ of goin’ that route? It goes all the way back to my parents.”
“What was your relationship like with them growing up?”
I put my hands to my throat, pretending to choke it. “Constricting. Overbearing. Anti-everything. They sucked the life out of a room.”
“Anti-everything?”
“Anti-black, anti-Jew, anti-homosexual, anti-immigration, anti-fuckin’ everything.”
She nods.
“They raised me on hate. And it wasn’t until I hit my teens when I realized how much bullshit they really fed me.”
“Do you deal a lot with your past?”
I force a laugh. “The military or the childhood?”
“Both.”
“Well, I guess it’s the same answer regardless. They’re both a force to be reckoned with. A shadow attached to my ass I feel like I can’t ever shake. They’re a reminder that, as far as I run from this shit, as many years as I remove myself from it, it’s still right there, nippin’ at my heels.”
“Do you think that’s why you drink?”
“It’s why I party. I’m social when I drink. Antisocial and lonely when I don’t. So, what do I do?”
“Figure out why it is you feel antisocial and lonely when you’re sober?” she asks, shrugging.
“Easier said than done, Doc.”
“If I have to call you Bishop, then you have to call me Doctor Jacobs. No more of this Doc stuff.”
“What about a first name?”
She narrows her eyes at me, a smile tugging at her lips. “Carleigh is fine too, though I’d prefer Dr. Jacobs.”
“Carleigh. I like it.” I nod.
She chuckles. “Okay, Bishop. Let’s get back on track. How much do you drink per week?”
My eyes roam to the ceiling. I shrug. “A few times.”
“Do you get drunk each time?”
I laugh. “Most of the time. Yeah.”
“Why is that funny to you, Bishop?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t drive. I don’t harm anyone else. I’m just havin’ fun.”
She jabs a pointer toward the file in front of her. “You did cause harm to someone, Bishop.”
“He fuckin’ deserved it.”
“Language,” she says, at a volume just below a shout, her eyes staring daggers through me.
I back down, my lips curling into a grin. “I was speakin’ honestly though,” I say, and her face reads as anything but amused.
“Is it your thing, to get a rise out of people?” she asks, resignation finally taking up her features.
I immediately feel bad. Leaning back into the chair and crossing one leg over the other, I admit, “It’s my thing to challenge people, I think. If I’m really diggin’ deep, I think it’s an armor I wear. It’s somethin’ I use to protect myself.”
<
br /> “And why do you feel the need to protect yourself? To push people a little if they try to get close?”
“Because my parents were fuckin’ shit,” I blurt, putting my hands up. “Freakin’ crap.”
“You’re okay, Bishop. You know what I mean by cursing. When it’s directed at me, you’re wrong. When it comes naturally through you telling your truths, I can accept it.”
“Is that what these next seven weeks will entail, me tellin’ my truths?”
“Among other things, yes. When I sign off on this, it’ll be because I think you’ve made some real strides. That you have become more aware of your capabilities having been a decorated Army Infantryman, and what you can do to mitigate these types of situations in the future. You’re a weapon, Bishop.”
I laugh, waving her off. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I’ve read your paperwork, both military, and what you did to this kid. You can’t just go around breaking jaws. That can’t always be the answer.”
“In my life thus far, it’s been the answer a time or two.”
“Was it worth it to knock out this poor kid’s teeth?”
“Poor kid?” I roll my eyes. “He attacked me with a bottle.” I motion toward the stitches still in my head, the hair shaved around it. “A damn weapon. He could’ve done a lot more damage. I knew a guy in Germany who got attacked with a bottle. He was left with a scar worse than what the RPG left me. That”—I throw up air quotes—“‘kid’ is really an adult. Twenty years old and drinkin’ on a fake ID, if I’m to believe the police report.” I motion toward the folder of paperwork between us. “He is a, pardon my language, goddamn adult. Maybe I was drunk. Maybe I was excessive. But he attacked me first. And in the spur of the moment, instinct kicked in.”
“Do you think this fraternity may be putting you in situations, as a twenty-five-year-old combat vet who has a taste for alcohol, that maybe you shouldn’t be in?”
“Who are you to judge?” I ask
Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel) Page 23