by K. L. Savage
“You aren’t the first rider I’ve treated. You won’t be the last. If it isn’t what the MC does, then—”
“I thought we weren’t getting to know each other. Isn’t that why you cut Rob off from saying anything else? Bring the attention back to him.”
“I-I-want-to-to-to-to-kn-know more about y-you.”
Damn it, Rob. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut?
“I won’t say why I drank, but I’ll tell you how I got my road name.”
Everyone leans in as if it’s story time and we are in kindergarten. “I always have a bottle of rum in my hand. Morning, afternoon, and night. I’d fall asleep with the bottle in my hand. I’d drink as a slut sucked my cock—”
A woman gasps from the crass language.
“Not even sex can bring me the joy of alcohol. She could suck me all day long, but it didn’t compare to the feeling rum gave me.” I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “Anyway, that’s how I got my name.”
“How long did you drink?” Flower asks, her handy-dandy little notebook out, ready to take notes.
“Long enough to be here.”
“Time doesn’t matter. We have people who have been alcoholics for six months.”
I cruelly chuckle, groaning with disagreement. “Six months? What is that, a college student? Time matters. Time always matters. Time depends on the severity of the offense.”
“And when was your offense, Pirate?”
I set my teeth in displeasure and cut my eyes to her from the hands in my lap. My eyes burn from the thought. It’s been a week since I’ve seen Macy. Over the last day, she hasn’t been on my mind as much lately, and now Flower has me thinking about her.
I jerk my head around the room, looking for Macy to appear, but she doesn’t.
She isn’t here.
Does that mean I’ve forgotten her?
“Eighteen years,” I admit, and I hate to say that it feels good to say it out loud.
“And you don’t need a new liver?” Steven exclaims.
“I was hoping I’d be dead before I did, to be honest.” I’m not afraid to admit that.
Flower and another woman speak at the same time. “Go ahead, Gloria,” Flower offers.
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Gloria!” Flower chastises.
Macy’s face pops into my head, her neck twisted, eyes ink drops, and her body lifeless. “Yeah, I have,” I say, shutting my mouth before I spill all my secrets. I don’t like group therapy. It makes me say shit I’d never usually admit. I stand and head out the door, ignoring the shouts behind me asking to me stay.
I only need one person right now, and she isn’t in this room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SUNNIE
I’m opening Patricia’s romance novel when Pirate slams open my door. He steps into the room like he owns the place. He’s standing straight, chest out and heaving, arms flexed, hands clenched into tight fists, and then he kicks the door shut.
My body jumps from the loud sound, and I lay my hand against my chest. “Why, please, come in and make yourself at home.”
“Thanks,” he says and sits right next to me. My twin bed groans from his weight, threatening to fall apart from under us.
He has to know I was being sarcastic.
Pirate lays against my bed and throws an arm over his eyes. I watch his chest expand, and my eyes roam him in a way they shouldn’t. He’s sexy in a way that’s bad for my health. Two addicts being together would be destructive. We aren’t strong enough to resist the temptations that are bad for us. And I know without a doubt that Pirate is bad for me.
I can’t stop staring at his bulge. He is by far the sexiest man that has ever been forced through these doors. I’m going to take a wild guess and say he doesn’t wear underwear. His package is leaning to the left and I’m able to see the girth and length with my own two eyes. The brim is pronounced, giving me a tease just before the width of his tip ends mid-thigh.
Good god, this man is flaccid? Imagining him hard would be like imagining him with a baseball bat between his legs. An ache forms between my legs for the first time in six months, and I bite my lip to hold a whimper in. I’ve always been a size queen. The bigger, the better, and I have yet to lay my eyes on a specimen as rare as Pirate.
He’s an alcoholic.
You’re a heroin addict.
The two do not add together to become a painted picture of the future.
“What do you want?” I finally force myself to speak, but I end up talking to his cock. I’m so thankful he can’t see me right now since he’s blocking his eyes with his arm.
“I needed a friendly face. Group therapy is stupid. Whose idea was it to do that? My counselor is a flower, literally. I’m not the kind of guy who holds hands and wants to share stories over pillow talk.”
I feign shock. “You aren’t? Oh my gosh, since when? Well, this is news to me. I don’t think we can be friends.” Opening my book again, I read the first sentence once, twice, three times before giving up and closing it. “You know, you don’t have to talk during those sessions. You can sit there and listen to everyone else.”
“I got ganged up on.”
“You got…” I pinch my nose and then slap the book against his thigh.
“Ow, what the hell was that for?” He sits up, and I have to tilt my head back to see his face.
“Do you hear yourself? You’re part of an MC, and you’re getting ‘ganged’ up on by group therapy? You have got to be kidding. You sound like a baby.”
“I haven’t been a true active member in a long time. My lips have been attached to a bottle, you know.”
“You don’t say.” I’m a little bit amused. I think Pirate is more sensitive than he lets on. “Well, what did you guys talk about?”
“Ugh, not you too.”
“You can’t come in here all moaning and groaning and not tell me why.” I fall to my side and land on the bed, propping my arm up just in time to catch myself and pat the bed. “Tell me all of your issues, and I shall judge and harp on you like a horrible person.” I rub the mattress, tempting him to lay down and for the first time since he has been here, he smiles.
A real, actual, genuine smile.
And the sight has me holding my breath.
I want to say something about it, but I’m afraid I’ll scare the feral animal into a corner if I mention it. He might not even know he’s smiling. I bet his cheeks hurt from his face muscles actually getting used instead of frowning.
He’s … breathtaking.
“Now, that sounds like just what I need,” he replies and mimics my position. He’s closer than I thought he would be, by a few inches, and my heart starts to gain speed, thumping and slamming against my chest like an angry bull trapped in a cage.
We stare at each other for a few seconds too long, and I jump further into the fog color of his eyes, getting lost again. If I keep going, I won’t be able to find my way out. I can’t afford to get lost in him without direction, and he isn’t able to give me a way of escape. He isn’t capable. At least, not yet.
Damn him and his beauty. He has no idea, and I want to show him, tell him, shake him to believe he is better than what he thinks he is.
All I can do it stare, but Pirate meets every second of my gaze. His pupils are dilated to pinpoints, the clouds of his eyes dark with specks of yellow reminding me of lightning. The whirlwind between us brews like a tornado, and I’m barely strong enough to keep myself on the ground.
Pirate’s eyes drift to my lips, and I know he is thinking what I’m thinking, but there will be no going back if our lips meet. We can’t ever go there. Two addicts together will be a disaster. There’s the chance we will let each other cave to our weaknesses, and I can’t allow that to happen to him or me.
He’s come far in the two weeks he’s been here. He’s gone from not being able to decipher what’s real and fake when he saw Macy, to seizures, to being able to walk to group therapy without help. He’s
making progress, and isn’t that what we all are? A work in progress? He’s still a bit pale, and I can tell when he gets anxiety and the itch to drink because he starts to sweat profusely and gets edgy, which is ninety-five percent of the time I’m with him.
The other five percent?
It isn’t what counts, but I see the diamond under the rough, and he is goddamn gorgeous. Pirate is waiting for someone to notice his worth since he can’t.
I tilt my head down to break the intense eye contact that has stolen my breath and take some air into my lungs. My hair falls in my face, and the electric buzz of his fingers graze my cheek as he tucks the runaway strand behind my ear. When he’s done, he skims my jaw with the calloused fingers, probably the same fingers that have been wrapped around a bottle for far too long. No matter what his hands have felt, the shivers along my skin only feel warmth and the promise of the future, not the cold dread of the past.
Closing my eyes, I hold my breath. I’m too afraid to look at him. I don’t want the moment to be broken or to end, but I need it to if I’m ever going to think straight again.
I’ve fucked lesser men with more selfish desires than I have right now. I have nothing to gain by having sex with him, and it’s confusing the hell out of me.
Finally, his hand falls, and I’m able to open my eyes.
He’s right in front of me.
Nose almost touching mine.
His scruff tempting me to rub my cheek against it like a cat, and when he leans forward, my eyes falling to his plump bottom lip, he pulls away.
I’m relieved and disheartened.
“So…” I smile, and my happiness has his eyes rolling. Pretty typical. “What happened in therapy?” The happier I act, the better I’ll feel, and the rejection stings like a million bees.
He flops to his back, and with no control, I stare at his bulge as the plain gray material stretches over his much bigger bulge now.
Jesus.
It’s a good thing Pirate isn’t perfect. How unfair would that be? Thank goodness for flaws.
“They wanted to know how I got my road name. We weren’t supposed to get to know each other today. Apparently, it was more like puff-puff pass. Say your name and move on to the next, but I say my name is Pirate and people wanted more than one puff.”
“How greedy,” I tsk with a shake of my head. “Damn people and them not sharing their puffing or passing.”
Pirate chuckles.
Oh my god.
He can laugh.
“I know,” he says. “Anyway, I didn’t tell them why I started drinking, but somehow we got on the topic of how much time makes an alcoholic, and I laughed when she said she treats people who have been drinking for six months. Six months! What the hell is that? I’ve known kids drinking longer on the tit than she said about alcoholics. Six months. What a fucking joke. If I had only been drinking for a few months, I wouldn’t be here.”
“So what happened?” my rebellious finger finds his arm, and I swirl the hair as I draw tiny circles on his skin.
“I said it was bullshit, and she asked how long I’d been drinking. I said eighteen years. A few people were shocked.”
My finger stops moving, and I turn his face to me by his chin. “Pirate, eighteen-years? That would make you … what? Fifteen when you started?”
“Fourteen,” he corrects me and lets out the heaviest, longest sigh I’ve ever heard. “Longest years of my fucking life, Sunshine.”
My chest warms when he calls me by my full name. Not many people know it, but I like it when Pirate says it. It sounds new and unique, beautiful in a dangerous, rough way that I can add to the list of things I can become addicted to.
“Does it have to do with Macy?” I dare to ask, and his entire body tenses.
I’m ready for him to get up and bolt, but he doesn’t. He lays there. “I don’t—” He swallows, and the knot in his throat bobs. He turns his head to the right, away from me, and I lay my hand on his chest. His heartbeat is strong, drumming steadily. Now that I know him, if he were to ever die, not being able to feel his heartbeat against my palm like this has my eyes swimming with tears. “I don’t want to talk about Macy. Please, Sunnie.” His voice is pleading, breaking in half as he whispers my name.
What could have happened to break a man as big as Pirate?
The familiar emotion of relatable pain wells in my chest, and I scoot toward him, nestling my body against his side again like I did a week ago. I gather my hair out of the way and push it over my shoulder, settling my cheek on his shoulder. “Okay. Whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”
He plays with my hair and the pampering, whether it’s known or not, has another little chunk of my heart gone forever, never to be found. He’s a pirate and I’m lost in his sea, and he has no idea he has taken me under siege.
I don’t know how long we lay there, but I hear a slight sniffle from above me. Is he crying? I can’t turn my head to look, or he’ll never speak to me again because men have to be macho and bang on their chest to prove their masculinity. I stay still, bouncing with every bump his chest gives from him giving into his emotion.
I can bet he has never done that before. Giving in is hard, but letting someone experience with you is even harder. My left arm circles his midsection, and I squeeze, telling him silently I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for him.
And his agony brings my own out, and the tears I thought I was done crying slip free. I think about my baby as I held her. She was so damn small, pink, and tiny. Her little body shook with withdrawal symptoms. My horrible habit, the one I sacrificed her for, she couldn’t handle it. She was born four months early. She fit in the palm of my hand.
Hope was beautiful.
More beautiful than I ever could be, inside and out.
“We are fucking saps.” He coughs.
“Yeah, but who cares. It’s just us here.” I slide my cheek against his shirt to dry my tears.
“It is, isn’t it?” he asks as if he’s just now noticing that little detail. His arm snakes around me and holds me close.
I might be falling apart, but I’ve never felt more put together in my entire life. We fall into a lull of silence. There is a muted sound of the staff working outside my door. It needs to be open. Right now, I’m breaking a rule.
Two actually.
Doors shouldn’t ever be shut, and there should never be the opposite sex in the room.
I’m never one to listen to rules. They are meant to be bent, broken, and rewritten anyway.
“She was lively,” Pirate starts.
I don’t ask who he’s talking about. I’m not dumb enough to stop him from trusting me with this information. I run my thumb up and down his side, lifting his shirt slightly by mistake, and I accidentally touch his ribs.
He’s softer than I expected, and his skin pebbles, either from the air or from me. I keep the innocent glide of my finger against his side. Even though we both know there is nothing innocent about it.
“Macy had this big personality, bubbly. She was always happy and smiling. Even when she fell and scraped her knee, she’d grin through teary eyes to be tough. She said she didn’t want to cry because she wanted to be just like her bubba.” His voice got a bit higher when he said the last word, and his breath hitches. “Nothing affected her.”
No wonder he doesn’t like me. My happiness reminds him of his sister. I don’t say a word. There are times when advice is necessary, and there are times when people want someone to listen. Advice is asked for. Listening is a privilege. Someone is trusting you to hear them without cutting them down.
“She had blonde curls that were white, way blonder than yours, and she always wore them in braids. Macy was smart.” He whistles remembering how impressed he was by her. “She already knew some basic multiplication. She was a few years ahead mentally when it came to academics, but no matter how smart she was, it didn’t take away from the girliness. She loved tea parties and makeup. It took hours to get that fucking glitte
r off. Once that shit is on you, it stays there, and it multiplies. I never complained. I’d do it to this day if she were alive. I’d wear a tiara, put on an ugly dress, and sit at a table with fake tea if she asked me to. I’d let her do my makeup if it meant she got better at putting on her own. She was my best friend. She trusted me with everything, including her life.”
I pinch my eyes shut and hug Pirate as tight as I can.
“I couldn’t get out.” He sounds far away, in a trance or locked in a memory. “I tried, Sunnie, but I couldn’t get out.”
“I know you did, Pirate. Patrick my Pirate, I know you gave it everything you had.”
“I miss her so much.”
I’m baffled that he’s telling me so much about Macy. He isn’t telling me what happened, and I’m not sure he ever will. That’s very personal, and it’s a trip down memory lane that can cause a relapse if we aren’t careful.
It’s only fair I tell him something about me too.
“I’m a heroin addict,” I hate to say. He probably thinks I’m disgusting now. “I lost someone too. My dad is the one who makes me stay here. He’s running for mayor, so he can’t have a drug addict of a daughter.”
“Heroin, huh?” he asks. “Who did you lose?”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I…” My bottom lips trembles, and the words are on my tongue, they are right there, but I can’t manage to say them.
“That’s okay, Sunshine. You’ll tell me when you’re ready, maybe when your skies aren’t so glum.”
Being with him is easy, too easy, and I know once he knows the truth about my addiction, how I got pregnant, how I fucked anyone who would give me the slightest handout. He’d think badly of me.
I don’t want to lose something that feels this good, not when I’m used to feeling so fucking bad.
CHAPTER NINE
PIRATE
Today I get to learn about the first step of ‘coming to terms’ with my addiction. Whatever the fuck that means. I had no idea there were steps. I thought it was detox, do some talky-talky, tears, boo-fucking-hoos, and then I’d get to go back to the real world and grab another bottle again.