by Jade Allen
“What’s the issue with the dealer?” Mary asked, uncrossing her arms and folding her hands on her lap. I tried not to think about her thighs underneath the jeans she was wearing, about the spot between her legs just inches away from where her hands rested.
“He thinks I stole half his product,” I said with a shrug. Mary raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t,” I added. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Mary continued to stare at me in silence for a moment.
“So, you’re just killing time until what—he gets arrested?” she glanced at the door; the rest of the inmates would be filing in soon, ready for their daily dose of affirmation and the sharing of the tales of woe.
“Arrested, killed, or finds out who actually stole his stash, I don’t fucking care as long as he’s not on my back anymore,” I said, shrugging again.
“Have you considered the fact that if you weren’t involved with him in the first place, you wouldn’t be here? And that probably you’ve been in the ‘wrong place at the wrong time’ a bit frequently for a guy who claims to have no problem?”
I clenched my teeth. “The drugs themselves are not the problem,” I said slowly. “I like to have a bit of fun, take some E on the weekends, smoke some pot during the week. It gets the creative juices flowing.”
“You were detoxing from coke, Alex,” Mary said sharply.
“Before I landed here I was playing five shows a week; you want to tell me you wouldn’t take some fucking recreational chemical help for that yourself?” I glared at her. “I did some coke. I did some E. I smoked pot. I drank. Yes, I’m a filthy, disgusting wreck of a human being.”
“Never said that,” Mary said with a little, wry smile. “Just wanted to point out that pretty clearly you don’t have your shit as under control as you think.”
“I know that,” I told her, looking down at my hands. The “Free” inked on my fingers was mocking me; I wasn’t really free, even if the pamphlets for this place said that I could, technically walk out on my own whenever I wanted. I had to stay until the situation cooled down a bit, at least. “But the drugs aren’t the problem. My life is.” Mary shrugged. People started filing into the room, looking jumpy or zombie-like, depending on their stage of detox and whatever they’d been on.
“We’ll talk more later,” Mary told me quickly. “I’m not finished with you yet, and that’s a fucking promise, Alex.” I made myself smile; there was something so cute about the glare at the back of her dark eyes, even though I knew for a fact that I would probably stop smiling the minute she got me alone again. Mary turned to the new arrivals and I watched her assemble her trademark sardonic grin, the welcome beacon that had brought so many of us addicts over to her side, confiding everything. Hell, I just confided in her. She’s fucking converted me, even. I decided that no matter what anyone said or did for the two-hour group session, I was keeping my mouth shut until lunch. My stomach lurched inside of me, reminding me how shit-stupid I was for skipping breakfast when we’d probably have to hear all about Ben’s issues with his mom, or how Claire’s dad never really loved her in spite of the fact that he’d put her through school and grad school and bought her not one, but two Mercedes-Benz SUVs in the last three years. I moved to give Gerard the spot next to me on the couch, and when Mary’s gaze fell on me I tried not to react at the rush of cold and then hot that flowed through me, the promise in her stare. I knew she wouldn’t forget her threat; I could only wait for her to spring the trap on me.
CHAPTER THREE
A few hours later, before Mary could waylay me or get me alone, it was visiting hours; since I’d managed to last my first week, I was actually allowed to have visitors—not my parents, who’d retired to the Gulf Coast and who didn’t want to dirty their hands in my life, but my band mates. “North!” one of the orderlies behind the front desk called out. “You got some folks here for you.”
I’d been sticking with the group, hanging with Gerard and his newfound buddies, overseeing their game of dominoes; anything to avoid being in a situation where Mary could comfortably pull me aside to talk about my reasons for rehab. “Been a good boy, Alex?” one of Gerard’s friends, a fifty-something man named Juan, asked me archly.
“Must’ve been, if they’re letting me see something other than your ugly mug,” I said with a smirk. “Maybe one of my adoring fans is here to show me her tits and remind me of what I’m missing.”
“Or smuggle you some coke,” Gerard commented, clinking dominoes on the table.
“I’m not that fucking lucky,” I replied, standing and walking to the front desk. On the other side of the security glass, I saw Mary at a desk, working on some paperwork. She glanced up and from the dark look in her eyes I could tell she hadn’t forgotten her earlier promise to me. “Where do I go?” I asked the orderly who had called me up.
“Outside,” the man said, giving me a little grin. “Hot as hell out there, so grab a bottle of water. You get an hour.” I nodded. The orderly searched me quickly, giving me a pat-down to make sure I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything out and I didn’t have anything like cash on me to pay for drugs someone might have sneaked in. After a minute or two, I was able to go down the hall, through the doors into the little courtyard area, my pack of smokes in my pocket with the scarred lighter I’d brought with me.
“Yo,” Nick said as I came into the sauna heat and bright sunlight. The other guys in the band looked up, waving me over to the table they’d taken. It was one of only a few that offered any shade, so I rushed over to it gladly.
The guys stood up, slapping me on the back and squeezing my shoulder as we exchanged hellos. “God I’m glad you assholes came,” I muttered, reaching into my pocket for my pack.
“Missed us?” Jules asked, smirking.
“Extra cig break,” I replied, bringing a Parliament up to my lips and flicking my lighter to life. I took a drag and exhaled, looking from one face to another. They all looked the same as they had a week before, but also weirdly different; there was a look of fear in Nick’s eyes, and Mark glanced around, tapping the edge of the table in an unsteady staccato. “So, tell me the news,” I said, taking another long drag of my cigarette.
Jules shrugged. “The label put out something about the canceled shows last week, and supposedly we’re in the studio culling songs for the album,” he said, looking away from me. “Bunch of people on the site have figured out you’re in rehab though, and they’re putting together a care package for you.” I rolled my eyes, though I had to admit that it was at least a little bit touching that the hardcore fans we had hadn’t abandoned me.
“What else?” I asked quietly. Nick fished his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up.
“Big J has people out looking for you,” Nick told me in his quiet, slightly accented voice. “He doesn’t believe you’re in rehab; he thinks the label’s got you socked away in some hotel like they’ve got us.”
I nodded. “What happens if he finds out I’m here?”
Dan, my bass player, gave me a level look. “He flips the fuck out is what happens,” Dan said reasonably. “Probably sends someone in to kill you.” I swallowed against the dry, tight feeling in my throat. I wanted to say that there was no way a guy like Big J could smuggle someone into the rehab place the label had sent me to; but I knew better. Big J was in charge of meth, coke, and E for most of Miami. He hadn’t gotten that position by being afraid to flip off the system.
“I almost wish I had taken it,” I muttered, finishing my cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray before lighting another one. “Then at least I’d have had a good time before I got locked up here.” Nick rolled his eyes.
“You’d have OD’d and we’d be without a lead singer,” he countered. “You’re sure you didn’t steal it, North?”
I shook my head. “No idea who did, but it wasn’t me. I had just bought enough to last the weekend; what the hell would I want to go stealing more for?”
“Germany,” Jules said flatly. I cringed;
he was right. We’d played a few festival shows in Germany the year before, and I had nearly landed myself in the hospital on cheap, easy coke.
“I learned from that,” I told him, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t overdo it anymore.”
“So, you mean you’re not getting clean in here,” Dan said, his voice making it almost but not quite a question.
I shrugged. “I’m sober now. They gave me benzos for the first week and took me off ‘em two days ago.”
“Not a bad place to clean up,” Nick said, looking around. I saw his gaze come to a stop and followed it as his lips curved in a smile.
“Fuck.” He was looking at Mary, who was seated oh-so-innocently at another one of the tables, paperwork laid out in front of her. Nick glanced at me with a grin.
“You don’t like her? Looks good enough to eat to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “She wants to get me alone and plumb the depths of my addiction,” I said, taking a hasty drag of my cigarette. “I’m not interested.”
Nick glanced at her again and then looked at me with wide eyes. “Maybe sobering up was a bad idea, if it makes you turn down something that good.” Mark snickered and Jules smirked.
“She’s my counselor,” I protested. “She’s not even interested in me like that, and even if she was, she’s a total basket case.”
“So, then you wouldn’t mind if I got her number to keep personal track of your recovery?” I glared at Nick.
“How do you know she’s a basket case?” Dan asked, and I realized every single member of my band was staring at Mary. I rolled my eyes.
“She told me. Her mom’s an alcoholic, relapses all the time. Anyone who sticks by that has to be fucked in the head.”
Jules turned his head to look at me, his lips twisted in a wry grin. “We’re sticking by you, aren’t we?”
I slid my tongue along my teeth and took another drag of my cigarette; I didn’t really have anything to say to that.
“Point is that you need to stick around here, and you should probably tell the pretty counselor to keep the staff on the lookout for a plant,” Mark said, looking out from under the mop of intense, inky curls that fell around his face. “Ron is trying to figure out how to either get the money to Big J, or get him off your case, so hold tight.”
I nodded. “Not like I have much choice,” I pointed out, glancing at Mary. “Unless she gets me kicked out, I’m stuck here for at least thirty days, whether Ron can get the heat off me or not.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Dan suggested. “Been working on anything in here?” I shrugged, and the conversation turned to the album that we were due to work on as soon as I was able to come back to the band. In the back of my mind, I thought about what the guys had said; they’d been surprised that I hadn’t taken the opportunity to actually get clean, instead of just being sober for as long as it took to get out of the jam I was in. Even after Mary’s comments, I hadn’t really given it much thought. After all, I’d never really had a big problem until the situation with Big J had come up; the Germany incident was in my past, and I’d never come that close to OD-ing again since.
We talked about the album, about the shows the guys had gone to with their sudden time off; I’d missed a Mission Veo show, one of the rare few that happened in Miami since half the band had moved to New York to be closer to the label. I’d missed a great after party—though Jules had given Mark a look when Mark started to mention the weed Jonny had managed to scrounge up for the occasion from his brother in California. Life was going on without me, even if the fans were worried and the label wanted me out as soon as possible.
“North! Almost time to say goodbye!” I looked up resentfully at the orderly; I’d almost managed to forget the situation I was in, joking around and chatting with the four guys I had spent the past ten years practically living with. I got in one last cigarette, and told the guys to come back next visiting day if they didn’t have anything better to do.
“Hey, man,” Nick said, pinning me down with his bright blue eyes. “You should think about actually getting clean in here. Not that we don’t all love a party, but I think we all know that you’d have ended up in hot water somehow, even if Big fucking J hadn’t gotten involved.”
I shrugged. “Nothing’s in my system besides nicotine and caffeine right now,” I said. I could hear the defensiveness in my own voice and muttered curses in my head; some of the group work about denial patterns and deflection had filtered into my brain whether I’d wanted it to or not. “We’ll see what happens at the thirty-day mark,” I said more quietly. “Maybe I’ll enjoy being clean and healthy.”
“Eating salads,” Jules joked with a little grin.
“Oh yeah, I’ll go totally raw vegan on your asses. Nothing but juice and dehydrated lettuce.” Dan and Mark snickered; Nick was still watching me intently. “And hell, if you want to bang my counselor, give her your number. I’m not supposed to fuck anyone until after I’m out anyway, and she’s probably dying for a lay.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “You saw her first,” he said, shrugging his broad, skinny shoulders. “I’m not going to break up the band over a girl you clearly want.”
“I don’t want her,” I insisted. “Go for it. Seriously.”
Nick grinned. “Taking any suspiciously long showers, North?” he asked me with a raised eyebrow. “I can see it all over your face, dude. Don’t even fuck off about it.”
Jules nodded sagely. “You want her, whether you want to want her or not.”
With that, they rose and gave me a few more back slaps and shoulder squeezes, and I was alone at the table, a half-finished cigarette between my fingers.
CHAPTER FOUR
As much as I tried to avoid her, Mary eventually caught up to me. I was in the “art room,” tuning a guitar and hoping the aging strings still had enough juice in them not to snap, when I heard the door close. “You’re missing snack time,” she said as I looked up.
“Always sounded too Kindergarten to me,” I told her, plucking the G string and tightening it a fraction.
“It’s part of a plan to get you guys to eat regularly,” Mary said, coming further into the room. She took up a stool a few feet away from me. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what a problem addicts and alcoholics tend to have with not eating.” I shrugged, twisting my arm to look at the F-hole tattoo permanently painted there, a souvenir from my first Festival gig that I’d gotten at Love Hate almost as soon as I’d left the stage.
“I eat like a fucking pig,” I said quietly, turning my attention to the B string. I cringed at the sour tone. “You know, if you expect anyone to make anything of these instruments, you should probably keep them tuned.” I looked at Mary. She smiled slightly.
“You’re probably the only one we currently have here who’s capable of playing a guitar decently,” she told me. “The rule is if you can tune it, you can play it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You could at least get some fresh strings.”
“It’s low on the priority list, but I could see if we could get some, if it fits in the budget.”
I went back to tuning, carefully not looking at her. I finally settled the B string and moved on to the bottom E, closing my eyes to catch the tone as it shifted. This was a tricky one; the three bottom strings were all likely to snap—but the high E was the likeliest of all. After a few moments, I got it in tune and opened my eyes.
“So,” I said, strumming a quick chord. “I take it you’re here to follow up on my situation?” I shifted my fingers on the strings, moving into another chord, and began to idly pick out an old Elliott Smith song. This is the place you end up when you lose the chase/ where you’re dragged against your will from a basement on the hill…
“I was checking up on you, sure,” Mary said, watching my fingers moving across the neck of the guitar, my other hand plucking the strings in the familiar melody. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?” I shrugged, humming the vocal melody to myself for a moment. If it
’s your decision to be open about yourself/ be careful or else, be careful or else… I decided it was good advice.
“My lead guitarist thinks you’re hot,” I said with a little smile. “Did he get your number? He was going to try.” I knew Nick had given up the idea; but his words—his suggestion that I was into Mary—still rankled.
“Was he the tall one who looks a little like a bird, with the long hair and the blue eyes?”
I nodded, shifting into a different song; Frank Turner’s “Fisher King Blues.” Lovers don’t be sparing with the truth/ break their hearts if that’s what you must do/ Fill them with remorse, tinged with hope of course/ and let their baser instincts pull them through…
“He’s cute enough, but he knows it already.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Yeah, he’s definitely aware.”
Mary took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, looking down at her hands.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
She looked up sharply. “Why do you ask?”
I took a brief break from strumming and picking to spread my hands, indicating the ink marking my own skin.
Mary glanced away, her lips twisting into a wry grin. “I do, actually, but you’re not likely to ever see them.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a challenge to me,” I pointed out. We were born without reason/ We’ll die without meaning/ and the world will not shrug all that much at our passing/ you can try and try and try, but no one ever makes it out alive…
“It’s not,” Mary said flatly, and I smirked to myself as her cheeks flushed pink. “I got them in specific places for specific reasons and part of that was so that I could cover them up easily.”
“Where are they, then?” I stopped strumming, trying to decide which song to play next. My fingers were starting to ache from the strings; I hadn’t played for a couple of weeks before being admitted, and my calluses were almost all gone.