by Sadie Grubor
I inhale sharply and Sid grabs for my hand. The realization of how close to death he'd truly been makes my chest ache.
"However, I need to thank a very, very special person for helping me during my darkest time." His eyes grow intense and my heart beat pounds in my ears.
"I'm forever indebted to you, snake charmer. I plan to thank you wholeheartedly."
My hitching breath gets caught in my throat and I cough. I'm coughing on air for Lord's sake.
"You okay?" Sid asks.
I nod.
"Good. Now, be quiet. I'm pretty sure he's talking about you." She turns back to the screen, and mutters, "We're totally discussing this snake charmer thing, too."
Jackson continues speaking into the camera.
"I want to apologize for disappointing my family, my friends, and the fans. Being the cliché of a rock star isn't the type of person I want to be. I hope you'll give me the chance to make it up to you."
Sitting back into his seat, he brings his mother's hand to his lips. She grins, pride radiating from her.
"Mr. Shaw will take a few questions," Una says, straightening in her seat.
His name is called out until he nods to someone in the crowd and the camera turns to them.
"Jackson, can you tell us what led you to drugs?"
Rubbing the back of his head, he leans forward.
"I'm afraid I was tempted in some convincing ways to partake, and, unfortunately, it became an addiction. Stress and circumstances led to bad decision making."
"Is it because of your breakup with Laney?" a reporter asks before being selected.
His face darkens for a moment before he shakes it off.
"No." His voice is assertive and final.
The crowd begins to chant his name once more before he nods to a small woman.
"Can you elaborate on the friend who helped you? Is it the same person in the pictures that have surfaced online?"
I squeeze Sid's hand tighter, praying he won't say my name, but it's Una who takes control of the question.
"Out of respect to the parties involved, we have no comment at this time. We aren't here to make them a headline."
"Okay." The small reporter nods. "Can you at least explain your statement that you were single?"
Jackson looks a bit confused by the question.
"Are you referring to me being single when I came to California?"
She nods. "Yes. You said, and I quote, 'I can assure everyone I was a single man when I arrived in California', which insinuates you are no longer a free man. Can you elaborate?"
His mouth forms an ‘O’ and I see the wheels turning before a mischievous expression paints his features.
"I'm not a free man," he confirms.
"So, you're involved with someone new? You aren't single?" she presses.
It's hard to breathe, to swallow, to process why this affects me so much.
Releasing his mother's hand, he leans his elbows on the table.
"I said I'm not a free man and if I think about it, I suppose I'm involved, but I can't make that decision for her." His smile is lopsided, teasing.
The reporter grins. "I guess we aren't going to get a straight answer."
He laughs, but says nothing more.
"Will there be legal charges for the illegal substances?" a round man asks, pushing up to the front.
"All the details have been handed over to the police," Una answers smoothly. "They are reviewing the information to see if or what measures need to be taken." She places a hand on Jackson's forearm. "I can assure you, Mr. Shaw is not trying to sweep this matter under the rug. He is taking full responsibility for his actions and working very hard to mend things."
The reporters all try to speak at once, but Una stands from her seat.
"We appreciate you all taking the time to see us this afternoon, but we must be going. Mr. Shaw has prior obligations." She nods to the crowd.
Leaning forward, Jackson looks up at Una and licks his lips before speaking.
"Thank you for being politically correct, Una." He turns to face the reporters. "I have my first AA meeting to attend in thirty minutes and don't want to be late. Thank you, everyone, for coming out to listen to me."
He stands and is genuinely caught off guard when a few of the reporters start clapping. With a hesitant grin, he gives a wave before the camera cuts to a local entertainment reporter.
"There you have it. Jackson Shaw has confirmed and denied a couple of the allegations. We wish him all the best and commend his honesty about seeking sobriety. Now, we go to—”
Sid closes the laptop, turning her attention to me.
"Snake charmer?" Her brow raises.
I shrug. "I don't know."
"Yeah right." Her eyes narrow.
"I really don't. It may not even be me he's—”
"Yeah right." This time, it's Kel.
Whipping my head around, I purse my lips at him.
"Don't you have dishes to finish drying?"
He chuckles but leaves the couch toward the kitchen.
"Well, regardless, he's not finished with you, snake charmer." Sid's voice holds too much amusement for my liking, but I can't say my body isn't burning and my heart isn't banging in my chest.
Chapter Sixteen
Jackson
"So, this is it?" I ask Dr. J while looking out the tinted window at the small, brick building.
"This is it," he responds, and then adds, "It's not the place that makes the difference. It's the people, the message, and how you participate."
"Yeah," I breathe out the word.
I exit the car with Dr. J right on my heels and we enter a set of steel double doors.
"You gonna make sure I stay in my seat?" I tease.
"No, Jackson. The meetings are private and for you, not me." He stops just outside a single metal door at the end of a beige hallway.
With a deep breath, I reach for the door handle.
"I'm proud of you Jackson," Dr. J says to my back.
Surprisingly, his words mean enough to warm me.
"Thanks, Doc," I respond without looking back.
Inside, a group of people mull about. Some stand, chatting in groups, others near a table with snacks and drinks, and a few sit silently, looking through their phones.
"Jackson?" A baritone voice comes from my left.
Turning, the short, thin man is not what I expect to find.
"You are Jackson Shaw, correct?"
Facing each other, I nod my confirmation.
He reaches out a hand, expecting mine. I hesitate. Years of fans and being approached making me cautious.
"I'm Greg. Greg Martin?" His hand still lingers between us.
"The sponsor." I nod, taking his offered hand.
"Yes." He smiles. "I was pretty certain it was you, since…well, you are Jackson Shaw."
"I guess I'm easy to identify."
Releasing his hand, I look around the room once more. Most of the eyes are on Greg and me.
"Yeah, most of them will know you, too."
I sigh. "It's to be expected."
"You can rest assured everything here is private." His serious tone draws my attention to his face.
"Thanks." My response is awkward. I've been exploited so many times over the years; it comes with the celebrity status.
"I'm serious." His face is frozen in stern sincerity. "You need to be comfortable enough to share your story and ask questions. While most will know who you are, it will stay inside these walls."
"What happens in AA stays in AA?" I ask with a grin.
He smiles. "Should be a t-shirt."
"If you make them, I want two," I say, holding up two fingers.
"Let's get started."
"What's first?"
He looks at the silver watch on his wrist.
"We have ten minutes before the meeting officially starts, so I'd like to run through a couple things about the program and being your sponsor."
"Okay," I relax m
y stance, putting my hands in my pockets, "hit me."
"First, you'll have people introducing themselves, stating their addictions, their stories, and so on. It stays private and we don't judge. We support everyone. Even if they've had a transgression."
I nod and he continues.
"Second, if you are comfortable enough today, you are welcome to contribute or you can just watch. Third, if you choose to accept my sponsorship, I'll expect weekly check-in calls. You can call more than that, but I at least need a weekly update of how you are doing. I want you to be honest, too. Brutally honest."
"All the dirty details?"
He gives one short nod.
"I can do that."
"Good." He takes a deep breath. "Do you have a girlfriend, boyfriend, significant other?"
I narrow my eyes.
He puts his hands up, palms out toward me.
"I only ask because we suggest you don't start any new relationships during the first year. If you're already in a relationship, then we suggest your partner get involved in a support group as well."
"My girlfriend has to come to meetings, too?" My body tenses. I fold my arms across my chest, raising one brow.
"We suggest a support group for spouses, not require it, but we find it helps them to have somewhere to go to talk about their struggles of being with an addict."
I drop my brow, relax the tension from my shoulders, and swallow. A fucking year. There is no way I can stay away or leave her alone for a year. Not when every part of me screams out for her.
"My relationship is new, but it's not going anywhere."
"New relationships are a challenge, Jackson. You need to make sure this is the right time to proceed." His eyes are soft, understanding.
I shake my head and drop my arms.
"I don't know if it's right, but I'm not walking away." My statement leaves no room for argument.
Instead of pressing further, he concedes with a nod. Side stepping to a small table by the door, he returns with pamphlets in hand.
"These are for you to read over. Learn the steps and rules of the program." He hands over three more. "These are for your girlfriend. There's information about support meetings for family and spouses, along with some general FAQs."
Taking the flyers, I slip them into my back pocket.
"How does this work when I'm not around for this particular meeting?"
"Good question. You can find a meeting in almost any town. Given your resources, I'm sure someone can find a local meeting. All I ask is that you let me know about the meetings."
"So you can keep track of my attendance?"
The sound of people moving takes my attention from Greg. He touches my arm and motions for me to walk toward the group, each of them claiming a metal chair in a circle of seats.
"I won't lie. It's a way for me to know you are doing weekly meetings and adhering to your sobriety goals so I can be an effective sponsor." He motions for me to take a seat.
"Makes sense. Thanks."
The metal chair is cold and uncomfortable, but surprisingly, the meeting isn't. By the time the fourth person has contributed, I feel connected to this group like I never imagined.
"This week marks my seventh month of sobriety," Adam, the current speaker, announces.
Praise and congrats rings through the group, but Adam's face stays somber.
"It also marks the third anniversary of my partner's death." He drops his head, pressing the fingers and thumb of one hand to his eyes. "I was supposed to be watching the back door during a domestic violence call, but I was too shaky and distracted. I hadn't been able to shoot up for a few hours and needed my fix. When the shot fired, the first place my thoughts went were to my stash in back in the patrol car." His body begins to shake, voice breaking. The person next to him places an arm on his shoulder. "It was my fault." He sucks in a breath, straightens, and gives a humorless laugh. "You'd think losing my partner of eight years would be enough for me to realize I had a problem, but it wasn't. I buried myself deeper in heroin and anything else I could get my hands on. I lost my job, friends, and some of my family even gave up on me."
His tale, his journey, is like a knife between my ribs. The warmth of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Adam and the others have lost so much more and been through hells I could never fathom. I feel like an asshole for sitting here with my pathetic story.
"Jackson?"
I jerk my head up, my eyes locking with the meeting leader, Dave.
"Would you like to contribute?"
I open my mouth and close it. Taking a deep breath, I grow a pair and speak.
"I feel like an asshole with the pitiful excuses for my addiction."
"Start from the beginning," Dave encourages.
"Hello, my name's Jackson, and I'm a drug addict."
"Hi, Jackson" and "welcome" ring out from the group.
I share the story of my first taste of cocaine in the back of a limo and all the gory details that follow. I'm used to vultures circling my secrets for a hit of their own addiction—gossip. But this group is different. They listen to every word, nodding and understanding. There's no judging and in the end, I feel lighter.
The group bows their heads and does a prayer I'm not familiar with, so I listen as they pray. When they finish, Dave stands at the center of the circle.
"Before we go, I want to acknowledge a couple people." He turns to Adam. "Adam, thank you for sharing today. I know it's hard. Let's celebrate your sobriety. Congratulations on seven months." He holds out a small key tag.
The group claps as Adam hesitantly takes the tag.
When Dave's eyes land on me, I sit up straighter.
"Jackson, thank you for joining and sharing during your first meeting. I also want to commend you on your sobriety." He holds out a white key tag.
Reaching forward, I take the tag and read the gold print: 24 Hours of Sobriety.
"Thanks," I whisper.
The key tag is cheap, but worth so much. I clasp it in my fist, fighting back tears.
Dave addresses one other person in the room before closing the meeting.
A few people approach me, asking for an autograph and asking about the band. These are questions I'm used to and answer with ease. Greg and I exchange cell numbers and with a large thank you, I leave him to linger with the rest of the group.
Upon exiting the room, Dr. J stands from a row of metal chairs against the wall. I expect him to ask me about the meeting, but he remains quiet, walking with me to the building’s doors and into the waiting car. We pull from the curb and ride in silence until we reach our destination.
"Are you comfortable with the meetings?"
"Yeah."
The limo door opens.
"Good."
Nodding, I exit the car and come face-to-face with Sam. He steps back, allowing me a clear path to the entrance of the hotel—the hotel I hope to be out of in a couple days if Julia and Una come through. Dr. J slips out of the car, following me inside.
"I thought I'd be waking your ass up." Christopher barges into the bedroom of my hotel suite.
"Nah, couldn't sleep." I drop my pencil onto my notebook and lay my guitar on the bed. "What's up?"
Shrugging, he sits on the edge of the bed.
"How're you doing?" He focuses on the notebook and not me.
"Fine." I keep my answer short, but relish in the discomfort he obviously feels.
Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out some paper and unfolds it.
"I've been playing around with this."
I take the paper he's offering and look over the words.
Intoxicated by your mouth,
You fascinate me.
I want to taste the red of your lips.
"This is my—”
"Yeah, I know," he interrupts. "It really works with some of the music I've been working on."
I look over the arrangement he's put together from what I wrote. Words inspired by Liza cover the page while my brother's musical genius
has composed lyrical gold.
"It's good." I smile and nod.
"This is her, isn't it?"
Looking up from the paper, I lock onto his sharp blue eyes. No words are necessary to confirm his suspicion. Chris nods and looks away.
"You need to tell her." His voice is soft, but frank. "Don't let her go until she knows."
"I don't plan on letting her go," I say, my voice just above a whisper.
He gives one firm nod. "Good, 'cause when you feel that," he gives the paper in my hand a pointed look before meeting my eyes once more, "it changes everything."
"I know," I breathe out the words.
"I was afraid she was just a rebound, a distraction you didn't need."
I open my mouth to protest, but he puts one hand up, stopping me.
"Stop," he clips out. "I know, I was wrong. Kristy was definitely all of those things, but this girl…" he gives his head a shake, "she's your angel, your Mia."
I grin. "She's my snake charmer."
"I don't think I want to know what you fucking mean by that." His grin matches mine.
"Probably not, unless you want to talk about my dick." Placing my arms behind my head, I lean my head back against the wall.
"You're the dick." Chris chuckles. "Now, tell me you're good with writing the song."
"I'm good."
"Thank fucking God. I've got so many things I want to do with this." He snatches the paper from my lap, stands from the bed, and begins pacing. "I want to taste the red of your lips," he reads, and then looks up at me. "That's fucking sexy as hell and completely relatable."
"She wears red lipstick," I confess, dropping my arms and picking up my guitar.
"Hungering to wear the fragrance of your skin?" He raises one brow.
"She smells like sin, and what can I say? I like to sin." I strum the guitar.
"Yeah, she's definitely your Mia." Chris grins wide, turning back to the paper and reading lines out loud.
Three hours later, we have the first draft of our latest song, Intoxicated, and some ideas for another two playing around in our heads.