by Zoey Oliver
I swallow, taking a step toward him.
“Hi,” I say, cursing myself for how stupid that sounds.
“Hi,” he says back, his voice empty of any emotion.
“I’m really sorry for—”
He holds up a hand. “Have you reconsidered going to rehab?”
That familiar prickle of indignant rage roars up inside me, but I force it down. I’m not entitled to that anymore. When you’ve been arrested twice, it’s kind of hard to deny you have a problem.
I turn, and Onyx is right there on my other side, looking just as serious. “It’s the right thing, Tor,” he says.
“I already called the place in Malibu if you’re interested in a spot there,” Serge says, his voice gentler, less like he’s barely holding back his fury.
I think about what the tabloids will say, what the internet will say, how the fans will react. But then I stop. Who the fuck cares? It’s worrying about all those things that got me to this point in the first place. So instead, I think about the people that are most important to me. Onyx, and Serge, and even Kamala. I think about what they’d want from me, and unlike everyone else in the world, they’re not just interested in me for the entertainment value I provide. They care about me for me. And they want what’s best for me, even if I don’t see it all the time.
I let out a slow shaky breath and nod.
“Yeah, I’ll do it. I guess I really need to, huh?”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how much better you feel,” Serge says, his voice warming.
“And you meant what you said? You’ll come visit me and call me and all that?” I ask, already in a mild state of panic thinking about not being able to hear his voice or see him. When did I grow so attached to Serge? When did these feelings become such a fixture in my life? I should probably be more worried about that, but I know Serge is good for me and I don’t really have a habit of liking things that are good for me, so I decide that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t rebel. Just this once.
“Of course,” he says, his voice dipping another octave.
Onyx clears his throat and the both of us look at him like he just materialized. “We should probably get Tori back to her place to pack a bag, then.”
“Good idea,” Serge says.
I go along with it because I don’t trust myself to make my own decisions anymore. Maybe this rehab thing will be like a reset button. Maybe I’ll finally figure out how to be a functioning adult and member of society. Or maybe it won’t do anything and Serge will realize I’m the lost cause I’ve always known myself to be.
I don’t know how it’ll go, but I know right now that I’m determined to try. I know that I like Serge enough that it’s worth wasting some of my time to ensure I’ve still got a chance with him, even if there’s no way I deserve it anymore.
We get back to my place and it’s a disaster. I guess I didn’t realize how bad it was because I was sloshed, but there’s shot glasses all over, there whole place reeks of tequila — probably because the bottle’s tipped on its side and mostly emptied on my couch — and while I’m trying to get to my bedroom, I find the carpet littered with half-smoked cigarette butts and ash.
I can’t believe I didn’t realize what a mess I was, but this is a total wake-up call. Seeing this sober, fresh out of jail, through the eyes of the guys that care about me makes me realize how fucked-up it really is.
So I try to pack a bag as quickly as possible, shoving things into a suitcase without paying much attention to what any of it is. I don’t want them lingering around too long, looking at my destruction and judging me even more. Though from the way they’re looking at me, they’re not judging me. I think I’m just doing that to myself. Wondering who the hell this girl I’ve become is, because I don’t really recognize her.
It started off small, I guess, and just snowballed, but slowly enough that I never really noticed how big the snowball was getting until it was right on my heels and I tripped and it crushed me.
Or something like that.
“Okay,” I say, shoving the last of my toiletries into my bag. I’ve also packed chargers for electronics and my tablet and laptop, stuff to keep me occupied because from what I’ve gathered, these celebrity rehabs are basically just glorified vacations. I’m not really sure how that’s supposed to help me overcome using drinking as a crutch, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it’ll make Serge and Onyx happy.
The drive to Malibu takes about an hour, and it’s completed in total silence. I’m in the front seat next to Serge and Onyx is in the back, in the middle, just watching me through the mirror. No one ever says anything and it just feels intensely awkward. I feel like I should say something, but I have no idea what, so I keep my mouth shut.
And then the GPS is telling us we’ve arrived, at the gate to a big white mansion, flanked by palm trees and glittering fountains.
“Looks nice,” I mutter, clutching my bags a little tighter. Is this really what I want to do? As soon as the word gets out that I’m in rehab, it’s all over. There’s no more denying. It’ll just be asking for the public’s forgiveness forever.
Is that really what I want?
I don’t get to think about it, because as soon as the car stops, an attendant is opening the door and offering me a hand. Serge tosses the valet his keys and hurries around the car to take one of my bags from me, settling a hand on my lower back as he leads me in through the pristine sliding doors.
The atrium inside is spacious and airy, and a glass dome set in the ceiling paints the space with natural light. There are more potted palms inside, and miniature water features sprinkled around the room make it sound like we’re surrounding by a babbling brook. It’s definitely relaxing, but for some reason, that just has me more on-edge.
“Hello and welcome,” a pretty blonde behind the reception desk says, her teeth perfectly white and straight, her voice with that soft, detached quality of AI servants in sci-fi flicks.
“Hi,” says Serge, pulling out his wallet. “My name’s Serge Davenport, I’m an alumnus.”
“Back for a tune-up?” she asks brightly, like he’s a Civic or something.
“No, not me,” he says, trying to smile though it comes out as more of a grimace. “I called about my friend here, Tori Winters. I was told there would be space made available for her.”
When he says it like that, I feel like I’m getting preferential treatment I don’t deserve. Truth is, I probably am. Probably through this whole thing. From the first DUI all the way up ’til now I’ve been experiencing the privilege of my fame,while moaning about how unfair life is.
It’s weird the kind of mental clarity that comes with giving up on the justification gymnastics. Like now that I have all this mental processing power free, my brain’s taking the opportunity to point out exactly how much of a dick I’ve been about everything.
“Okay, for a voluntary check-in, we just need you to fill out these forms,” she says, passing me a clipboard with a silver pen. “Would you like a glass of cucumber-lemon water while you fill that out?”
“No, thank you,” I mutter, scribbling my information on the form, skimming all the fine print.
“Wait, it says here the minimum stay is fourteen days with no outside contact?”
“Well, other than designated visiting and phone hours,” she answers brightly.
“What if I don’t need fourteen days? What if I just need a couple of days and I’m good?”
She laughs in this condescending way that makes me grit my teeth together. Serge must be able to sense that I’m getting ready to bail because he rests his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be over before you know it,” he says.
“It’ll be good for you, Tor,” says Onyx, nodding.
My phone rings and I’m hoping and praying that it’s someone calling to save me from this decision, but I frown seeing my lawyer’s name pop up.
“Hello?”
“Tori, I’ve heard you’re
going to rehab, is that true?”
“Uh… How did you hear that?”
“Doesn’t matter, is it true?”
“I’m looking at the sign-in right now,” I say.
“Great. Just keep your nose clean and get through the program. I got your judge assignment and this judge loves people that show they’re trying to get clean. If you can get your counselor to testify on your behalf, you’ll probably be able to avoid jail time all together.”
“Great,” I mumble, the words on the paper in front of me swimming. “Guess I’ll talk to you in two weeks then.”
Seems like the universe is really trying to convince me to do this. Maybe it really is the best thing. I sign the paper, my eyes screwed up tight the whole time, and shove the clipboard back at the smiling robot lady.
“Awesome. Now, we’ll just need to confiscate all of your electronics. We’ll put them in our safe, don’t you worry.”
“I can’t even keep my phone?” I ask, clutching it to my chest, thoughts of texting Serge every moment of every day slipping out of my grip.
“Phones in rehab are a naughty no-no,” she says, clucking her tongue. I glare. I’m not a fucking child.
“You’re really going to make me stay here?” I ask Serge and Onyx, pouting.
“It’s for your own good,” Onyx says firmly, his arms crossed. Serge is gentler, he smiles and takes me by the shoulders, placing a soft whisper of a kiss on my lips.
“Behave yourself.”
And then they’re leaving and me and my bags are being search for contraband. Even though I know they don’t get much say in the matter, it hurts when they just abandon me without looking back.
I guess this is what I get.
Chapter 13
Serge
Two weeks didn’t sound like such a long time when we were dropping Tori off, but a whole week goes by without me being able to see her or talk to her or anything and it makes me a little crazy. I’m surprised at how much I miss her. Surprised that she’s still this present in my mind, filling my every waking thought, popping up in my mind at the most random of times.
But really, I’m not surprised at all. Because I know the truth. I know I’m falling for Tori and I’m falling hard.
The fact that she’s actually in rehab, actually trying to get her shit together only makes me want her more. It takes a big person to admit they have a problem that they can’t face alone, and it wasn’t easy for Tori, but she’s doing it. She’s making the effort. I just hope she’s doing what she said she would.
Because I haven’t talked to her in a week. A lot can happen in a week. She could be totally working the program and be a different person, or she could be resisting everything and be worse than she was when she went in. She could decide that being with another person in recovery is dangerous to her sobriety — I know they’ll tell her it is — and she could decide she doesn’t want me anymore.
But even if she does that, I tell myself it’s worth it because she won’t be waking up in the hospital after nearly dying.
Or not waking up at all if she isn’t as lucky as Ian and I were.
So as I’m making the drive to Malibu for our first visiting day, I’m nervous as hell. My hands are damp on the steering wheel, my foot’s shaking anxiously the whole way, traffic’s annoying me more than normal, and I’m just trying to envision the look on Tori’s face when she sees me again.
I pull through the front gate and I’m hit with a wave of memories of my own months spent here. Months and months and months. And after that, I did it again, just to make sure it really stuck. It wasn’t cheap, that’s for sure. Most of my fortune went to rehab bills and lawsuits from broken contracts. These days, I’ve got enough money to get by, but not much else. That’s why I’ve had to call Ian a few times for help at the center. I don’t know what I’d do at this point if I did need a ‘tune-up.’ Find another rehab, I guess.
It’s way busier inside than it was a week ago, but that’s because it’s family day. There are moms and dads and husbands and wives and even kids all bustling around, catching up with their loved ones, some having tense talks, others laughing and joking. It’s a different process for everyone, for every family. I wonder what it’ll be for me and Tori.
“Serge?” I hear her voice and spin on my heel, finding her on a plush couch, sitting by herself with a glass of lemon-water in hand.
“Hey,” I say, not sure if she’s happy to see me or not.
But then she puts her glass down and stands to give me a long embrace. “I didn’t know if you were coming,” she says, the relief evident in her voice.
“I told you I would.”
She holds on tight, clinging for a long time.
“How are things?” I finally ask.
“Good,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She releases me and we both sit back on the couch, facing each other. “Yeah, it’s actually been really good. I’ve had a lot of time to think about things, about things I’ve done, things that have been done to me, things I want to do…”
“This place is good for that kind of stuff.”
She smiles, and it’s a warm genuine smile that goes all the way to her eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
I take her hand. I don’t want to sit here just to say I told you so. I want to support her. I want to know what she’s struggling with to see if I can help.
“I think losing the label might have been the best thing to ever happen to me,” she says.
I chuckle. It’s pretty common in rehab for the thing that landed you there to later become ‘the best thing that ever happened.’
“Part of what we’re doing here is making amends. So I need to apologize to you. I lied to you to get you to play with us. Our drummer was never a no-show, I just didn’t hire one because I wanted you.”
“You minx,” I grin.
She smiles, but shakes her head. “It was manipulative and I have to learn to recognize that and stop it.” I nod. I know how it goes. It’s not like the rules here have changed in the last few years.
“And I’m sorry for ruining the kids’ day. All that shit at the competition was ridiculous and they deserved better.”
I nod, squeezing her hand. She sighs.
“And I’m sorry for blowing up at you when you suggested I come here. I was in denial and lashing out.”
“I know a little something about that,” I say, having already forgiven her. It’s not like I can really be mad at her. Addicts aren’t themselves when they’re using, and right now, she’s desperately trying to be a person that doesn’t use. So I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. I have to give her another shot. She’s done everything I’ve asked of her.
“So what’s your plan when you get out of here?” I ask, my throat tightening with anticipation. I rehearsed this a bunch of times on the drive over, but I’m still sure I’m not going to get it right.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to take it one day at a time, and that’s seven days away,” she says with a grin.
“I see,” I say.
“Why?” she asks, brow arched.
I shrug. “No reason. I was just thinking that maybe you’d want to come stay with me. I remember when I first got out of rehab how hard going home to an empty place was, no one around to keep me honest.”
“You’re asking me to come stay with you?” she asks, her voice light and teasing. This is a different Tori. Still sharp and funny, still clever and quick, but calmer, more focused. She seems more at peace with herself, and it’s amazing what a difference a week of top-tier intensive therapy can do.
“Well, not if it’s too much for you to plan that far in advance,” I tease back.
“No, I’d love to. It’ll give me something to look forward to.” She leans forward and gives me a soft, chaste kiss. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”
I grin, pulling her close. “You make it awful hard to.”
She laughs at that, shaking her hea
d. I know she doesn’t see it the way I do, but it’s the truth. There’s something about Tori. Something about her that calls to me and won’t stop. Something about her that pulls me toward her and won’t let go. So what’s the point in fighting it? I’m crazy about the girl, her problems and everything included. I don’t care. I just want her.
“I was doing some thinking about what I’d do when I get out of here,” she says softly.
“You rule-breaker!” I gasp.
She chuckles softly and shakes her head again. “My therapist wanted me to. He wanted me to make an action plan for what I want to do. It’s so that when I get out I’m not open to bad suggestions, because I’ll have a plan.”
“Sounds smart.”
“Did you do something like that?”
I nod, my fingers tracing lazy circles on her upper arm. It’s so damn good to be able to hold her again. Even if I’d rather be able to yank her pants down and lick her pussy until she forgets her own name. Seeing this new side of Tori does something for me. More than even the bad girl side of her, which is surprising as hell.
“Yeah. I decided I wanted to do something that helped people.”
“Me too,” she says, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth. “So I was thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think it would be cool if I put in more hours at the community center? Like… a lot more.”
“I think that would be awesome.” The kids love Tori and she’s better with them than she gives herself credit for. And there are so many other programs at the center, so many other kids that don’t come to choir that she hasn’t had the chance to meet and fall in love with yet.
“Yeah? You don’t think you’ll get sick of looking at me having me at the center and your place?”
I glance her way, taking in her sultry eyes, her pouty lips, the intricate tattoos on her smooth skin that make me want to trace every line with my tongue. No, I don’t think I’m going to get sick of looking at her.
“If I do, there’s always doggy style… Or a paper bag over your head,” I joke.
She smacks me on the arm, hard, but she’s grinning. “You asshole.”