CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  Rick and Travis helped Jordan to his feet, and the crowd began to drift away from the spectacle.

  "Let's get you cleaned up." Sarah led Jordan by the arm toward the house. As Jordan walked with her, he turned and looked back at Travis. No words were exchanged, and it lasted only a second, but it was a second longer than Travis would have liked.

  Was it possible he'd recognized the pills? He was sitting pretty high up...and he was drunk. But the pills were bright blue against a black box. Fuck. Jordan Pratt, the construction mogul who had the reputation of not leaving so much as a finishing nail exposed in one of his hotels, had caught him in the act — and from a clear bird's eye view, no less.

  Travis watched the two of them walk away, their conversation fading into the distance as Sarah told Jordan how dangerous it was and never to do it again. Travis felt the Valium kicking in, a protective bubble shielding him from the outside world, but what Jordan may have seen kept him from swimming in its comfort.

  Travis followed them into the house, but went straight into the office and shut the door behind him. He removed a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a tall grey file cabinet standing in the corner. He pulled Jordan's medical file and ran a finger down the list of meds he had been prescribed while staying at Crystal Heights.

  What he read stole a heartbeat from him. There it was — Valium; screaming at him in the doctor's sloppy handwriting, just like the damn pills had no doubt screamed at Jordan up in the tree. And he was certain Jordan's prescription hadn't been filled with a generic; it was the same brand, the same color, and the same goddamn shape, with the little 'v' in it.

  Oh, that goddamn detox doctor. Dr. Haycock, suck my cock, sharp as a marble motherfucker! He was always prescribing the same damn course for all his detoxes. No surprises there. Mr. Predictable, one trick pony. He should fire his ass. He was going to fire his—

  There was a light knock at the door and Sarah entered. "Nurse Abby is looking after him now. What a lucky break, huh? Or, that there wasn't one." She took a seat at her desk and whipped her blonde hair back into a ponytail.

  Travis sat calmly opposite her, holding Jordan's file in his lap. "He has to go."

  "What? No way, Travis."

  "I want his bags packed and a taxi called to the house within the hour."

  "Why? He's gonna be fine. I know it was a bit nerve wracking out there, but he won't do it again. He promised me."

  "I don't care. He could have seriously injured himself or even died out there. He's too much of a risk — too much liability. I'm not taking any more chances with him."

  Sarah stood up and closed the blinds to the office window, making the room feel more private. She took her seat again and spoke in a relaxed, reasonable tone. "He's a repeat client, Travis. He's never pulled a stunt like this before. We know we can handle him. Aside from his hide and seek today, he's one of the easiest clients we've ever had. Believe me, he's going to be so embarrassed tomorrow that he'll follow every rule from now on."

  "I don't care. You're the one who's always telling me I'm too soft. That I'm always letting clients get away with everything."

  "Well, almost everyone." She leaned forward in her chair.

  Travis picked up a glass paperweight on the desk, ignoring her comment. He slid the half dome across his palm and studied the distortion of his fingers through the clear glass.

  "He's already paid for two months up front, Travis. It's guaranteed money. And he's great chemistry for the house. Everyone loves him." She shook her head. "Don't do this."

  "He can have his money back. I'd never steal from Mr. Pratt. Just prorate it." Travis could legally keep Jordan's full two-month payment if he wished. His behavior was a breach of contract, but he would consider it a severance package to keep him quiet.

  "Mr. Pratt? What is this? You're going to let that scumbag dog killer stay, but make an example of Jordan?"

  "Tell you what... I'll give Jordan until morning. He can sober up and have dinner in his room tonight. But he leaves first thing tomorrow — before breakfast."

  Sarah rose from her chair and leaned over the desk toward Travis, reading him with arms locked and elbows fixed. "What's going on? You've never done this before. Why now — and why Jordan? I thought you liked him."

  "I've already made my decision. He's out before breakfast. End of discussion."

  "Then you tell him."

  "No, you will, as I'm going to pay Mr. Devon Cunningham a visit right now."

  Travis replaced the paperweight on the desk, and then reopened the blinds Sarah had just shut. Outside, he saw that the pool man had just arrived. The man tossed his hose into the water. Travis waited there with his back to Sarah until he heard her exit the room.

  He replaced Jordan's file in the cabinet and then pulled Devon's from the accordion. He back tracked and read a week's worth of therapy notes Helen Ross had written about their sessions. It suddenly came to him that she still wasn't even aware Little Jack had died. He picked up the phone to call, but then immediately put it down again. He kept reading.

  Their most recent sessions seemed to revolve around Devon's hatred for his father, and how he felt it was impossible to live up to his expectations. Then there was a larger piece devoted to his parental neglect and how Devon had never felt loved as a child. He'd been a single child caught in the middle of an ugly divorce. He'd become irate in one session while recalling how his mother had only used him as a pawn for more alimony and then disappeared once she had cashed in; the cops found him sleeping between the booths of a movie theater. He'd somehow managed to hide inside the cinema for two days.

  Travis was just about ready to close the file, tiring of the typical rich family ending (the once united and eventually divided), when he caught a damning piece of evidence in one of their last sessions. Only three days ago, Devon had confessed to Helen about his recent urges to hurt small animals. It was right there in black and white. His 'inexplicable urges' is how she first described it, and then she went on to hypothesize a possible explanation that went over Travis's head.

  It wasn't a smoking gun to be held up in court, but Travis was convinced the filthy trust-fund baby had killed Little Jack. He picked up the phone and dialed Helen's number. It went straight to voicemail. He tried a second time. Her sweet recorded voice came on again: If you're getting this message, I'm either in a session or getting pampered at the salon. This was a hundred percent accurate. She was a big promoter of people rewarding themselves for any accomplishment, and if she wasn't doing her Jedi mind tricks, then she was almost certainly at the salon.

  Travis considered calling her a third time, but gave up and continued reading Devon's file. It was the thickest of any client who had come through his doors. At only twenty-four years of age, Devon had the history and record of psychoanalysis of a veteran struggling with lifelong addiction.

  Devon Cunningham was a spoiled child void of responsibility or accountability who had been sent to Crystal Heights at the order of his father. Blake Cunningham was a high-profile corporate attorney who made regular guest appearances in legal debates on CNN, but sometimes wandered into the other bright spotlights of BBC and Fox News. It was a public forum with no room for his degenerate son and his appalling meth habit and sixteen-hour-a-day video game addiction. Devon was pushed as far back into the shadows as possible. And Crystal Heights was it: a private, high-priced babysitter that kept his son hidden from the slightest of wavering limelight.

  Devon barely held a high school degree and his one attempt at college, only made possible by his father's contribution to a newly erected music hall, was futile and ended before the first semester; he'd nearly been arrested on campus for verbally assaulting a female student. His father's first solution was to set him up in a three-bedroom condo in an affluent neighborhood in Malibu, where Devon drew the heavy curtains and conversed with a PlayStation for most of his waking hours. The only distractions were repeated hits off the meth pipe and potato chips for dinner. This lasted for an inten
se stretch of three months before his father finally intervened and sent his personal assistant over to pack his son's things and check him into Crystal Heights.

  Two weeks into his program (following detox and being completely stripped of his PlayStation), Devon started the real work with Helen Ross — during which he became extremely agitated and violent toward himself. Helen watched him repeatedly punch a bedroom corner wall until he fractured his hand in nine places. It required a trip to the emergency room, where he was given the prescription of painkillers he so desperately sought. It was the last frantic attempt of a drug addict who needed to get away from himself. He was given a week's worth of regulated Vicodin, held in the safe at Crystal Heights and administered by staff, only to begin his second detox the following week.

  Travis had called Devon's father at that point and strongly suggested another facility that could offer more appropriate care for his son — one specializing in psychiatric treatment. It became quickly apparent his father didn't care whether Devon made any progress in his personal transformation or not, as another facility was simply not an option as far as Blake Cunningham was concerned. The reputation of Crystal Heights suited his high-profile lifestyle; a psych ward did not.

  When Travis pushed harder for his discharge, Blake Cunningham threatened to sue for discrimination on the grounds that the words 'psychological evaluation' were on the company's website, thus Crystal Heights was advertising itself as a psychiatric facility. Travis explained that the term referred to evaluation only — not treatment. Regardless, Devon's father backed Travis into a legal corner. Although Blake Cunningham won, he chose without request to pay an additional five thousand a month for his son's care, in an effort to keep the peace. Travis accepted, but knew his program didn't have the means to meet his needs; they were nothing more than a Band-Aid over a bullet wound, and Little Jack's death was proof of Devon's broken mind.

  Devon had been admitted for an undetermined amount of time, and even though it was financial security for the rehab, Travis felt it was a stain on the reputation of his program. He needed to get him out, and somehow do it without poking the beehive that was Blake Cunningham's lawyers.

  Before paying him a visit (and before Sarah came back to the office), Travis dipped into the massive upright floor safe in the closet that held all of the clients' medications. He pulled out a large zip-lock baggie with DEVON written across it. Inside the bag, rifling through dozens of pill bottles, he pulled the one labeled Adderall. If clients were on Adderall, their usual dose was ten milligrams. Devon was taking thirty milligrams — sometimes twice a day. Travis opened the bottle and helped himself to thirty milligrams. The Valium he'd taken earlier was making him feel submissive, and he needed a shot of superhuman focus. A voice nagged and reminded him to be careful while using the artificial means to heighten and diminish his moods.

  Passing Jordan's open bedroom door, Travis caught a glimpse of Sarah sitting next to him on the bed talking to him, her hand on his shoulder. He quickened his pace toward Devon's door.

  Knock, knock, knock. No answer. Three harder knocks... still nothing. He could hear the murmur of the TV.

  "Open up. It's Travis," he called out and pounded the door twice.

  Travis watched as the outside doorknob turned itself slowly, as if a ghost were opening it for him. Devon's pale, anxious face was gradually revealed from behind the door. The meth and lack of sunlight had given him ashen skin and the dark circles around his eyes looked tattooed. Travis thought they would fade in time, but they would serve as a permanent reminder of his past. There was a despicable mess in his room, the floor littered with candy wrappers; potato chips ground into the carpet; pens, paper, and pillows on the floor. A couple of wet bath towels had been thrown in the corner, a dirty hand print was streaked across the TV, and it looked like a junk drawer had been tipped over onto the bare mattress.

  "This place is a goddamn mess." Travis entered. "The maid was just in here yesterday. I've told you many times now! This is also part of your program — keeping a clean and livable environment."

  Devon kicked several DVDs out of his path while making his way over to the bed, then slapped a few magazines off and took a seat.

  "The maid will only be here again tomorrow. Who gives a shit," he said.

  "Who gives a shit? I do! You're living like a pig in here. And I won't have it, goddamn it. You want your independence? Or do you want to live here your entire life? Because your father will see to that."

  The mere mention of his father lit him up. "Fuck him," Devon said, staring at Travis like a disobedient child.

  Travis walked to the door, clicked it shut, and then stood over Devon. "Fuck him? No, fuck you." He pointed a finger in his face. "You're under my roof and the only reason you're here is because I let you stay here. Don't forget that." Devon had no idea his father had threatened a lawsuit, and Travis made sure he believed it was out of Travis's own genuine concern and sense of moral obligation he was allowed to stay.

  "You want to rot in a psych ward?" Travis kept at him. "You'll think this place was Disneyland in comparison. I can have Helen 5150 you in a heartbeat. Don't test me, kid—"

  "What the hell'd I do? I didn't do nothing wrong." Devon began chewing at a disgusting fingernail. His fingers were twisted and distorted from the constant hammering of a video controller.

  "I know your secret," Travis said, and turned his back to him, looking over the mess on his desk. It was silent; not even a creak came from the bed — telling Travis everything he needed to know.

  On the desk were a few sheets of printing paper, separate from the clutter, not lying completely flat. Travis peeked under the paper without Devon noticing. Hidden underneath were three Ambien sleeping pills. He's stocking up, Travis thought, and tucked them discreetly into his pocket.

  Hung off the back of the desk chair was a heavy-duty drawstring sack printed in grey digital camouflage. A purchase most likely inspired by any of his favorite war video games: Call of Duty, Black Ops 2, Assassin's Creed 3, and Battlefield 4. Devon had checked in with dozens of games that were now locked in the safe. The drawstring sack was filthy, most of the digital camo marred by dirt and grime, like it had been dragged around rather than carried. Some kind of hard red candy had melted into one corner and seeped through the polyester. With a cautious finger, Travis peeked inside and saw a half-dozen or so cherry-flavored Jolly Ranchers huddled in the corner, partially wrapped and waiting to run with the heat again.

  "I know what you did," Travis said. He turned back to face him again. Devon refused to make eye contact. "And it's okay. I know a man has his needs, has his urges. It's only human. We can't help that. Hell, it's only natural. You've been locked up here for months now. And I understand why you did it."

  Devon sat motionless on the bed, silent, staring absently at nothing.

  "Talk to me, Devon. I need to hear it from you. You won't be in any trouble. But I need to know so we can help Nathalie the best we can. We both know what she is, and I need to know what happened."

  Devon's demeanor changed to one of confusion. He scanned Travis from head to toe, then back up to meet his eyes again.

  "What do ya mean? What she is?" Devon asked curiously.

  "Come on, Devon. We know you're a lot smarter than you play. And we know her babe-in-the-woods routine isn't fooling any of us guys."

  "What the fuck you mean?"

  "Just come clean, Devon. We already know everything. So you might as well just tell me."

  "What she is?" he asked again, his two fists pushing down into the mattress at his sides.

  "Come on, Devon. You know! She's a sex addict."

  "A sex addict?" He looked mystified.

  "That's right. She's a sex addict, Devon. There's no fancy medical term for it, but that's exactly what she is. She can't help it. Of course you could have, but being a man and having a woman throw herself at you like that... Anyone could understand it was bound to happen. Hell, I would have probably done the same thing."
Travis thought he may have gone too far with the last comment, but wanted Devon to feel he was completely in his corner.

  "A sex addict? There is such a thing?"

  "Oh yeah. It's more common than you may think," Travis said and paced slowly about the room, looking for any other contraband. "And their libidos skyrocket after a detox. Suddenly they'll do just about anything to have sex again. And with just about anyone. Nathalie is no exception."

  "I had no idea," he said, looking around the room.

  "Really? Come on. She's a beautiful woman with a great body. You think she has real feelings for you? That you can be her boyfriend? Give me a break, man. She was only using you."

  "That ain't true," he answered quickly.

  Travis stopped his pacing and stood in front of him again. "What ain't true?"

  "We ain't done nothing anyway."

  Travis wanted to slap him after hearing the double negative. "Don't play with me, Devon. You want me to make that call to Helen? I'll bounce you out of here in a straitjacket before you have another chance to tell me the truth."

  Devon engaged Travis in a brief staring contest and then finally broke. "She said we'd be secret boyfriend and girlfriend. That's it," he said.

  "That's not it. There's more. Tell me! You fucked her, didn't you?"

  "No!" He turned away.

  "Look at me, Devon. Look at me!" Devon cowardly looked at him from the corner of his eye. Travis continued. "We need to help her. If you care anything for that girl, you tell me now. Did you or didn't you?"

  "I want my PlayStation back!"

  "You'll have nothing of the kind," Travis laughed. "No chance in hell."

  "Why not?"

  "Why? Because you know damn well that PlayStation is your trigger. The only time you stopped playing it was to hit your pipe. Now imagine if we gave you the game back. You'd be back to square one. And I care too much about your recovery for that."

  "Helen said maybe I could start having supervised play time."

  "Oh, did she? Well, then I'll have to take that up with her. Now tell me! Did you have sex with Nathalie?"