by Molly Lee
“You have two options,” she said after I’d remained silent for who knew how long, envisioning the easiest way to get out of both jail time and rehab. “One, go to jail, refuse my help, and take the time they give you. It’ll probably be at least a year with your past offenses. Unless, of course, you get out in six months because of good behavior, but let’s face it, Justin, that temper of yours? Encased and trapped behind bars and nothing but the cold concrete walls to keep you company? You’ll probably only extend your time there.”
Damn. She may not know me, but she knew me on the surface. “Rehab is just another type of jail.”
She shrugged. “Well, this one has counselors and better food. Not to mention people who have been through situations like yours…lived through it, and want to help.” She crossed the space between us and cupped my cheek. “Option number two has more perks than prison. It’s the most prestigious facility in Oklahoma. They treat all manner of addictions and mental health difficulties there.”
“And if I go to the crazy house, do my ninety days…then what?” Maybe I could do it. Get it over with. Get out and never see her again. Forget this ever happened.
“You live your life. Finally.”
“I have been living,” I said.
She shook her head. “Oh, honey. I don’t think you can remember the last time you actually lived.”
I moved out of her touch, uncomfortable with how close she hit the mark. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt complete. Even before Blake happened…something was missing. Maybe I was broken. Maybe there was no help for me. I was too dark, too twisted, with a hunger to feed the rage inside that was hard to slake with anything other than the alcohol she wanted me to give up.
“Mr. Hobbs?” The officer opened the door, a pair of cuffs in his hand. A nurse came in behind him, holding a stack of my discharge papers and my torn up shirt from the night before. I slipped it on and signed the papers before holding my wrists out to the cop, my eyes on my aunt.
“What’s it going to be, Justin?” She asked as he slapped the cuffs on me.
“Two. I’ll take door number two.”
The officer led me out of the room, each step sending another shockwave of pain across my nerve-endings. The farther I got away from my aunt and the closer I got to prison, I found it harder and harder to breathe.
Rehab wouldn’t work. I wasn’t the kind of person who could be redeemed. But I also wasn’t the type of man to survive prison. My short fuse would either kill me or someone else. Plus, I wouldn’t be able to drink there. And I could drink on the outside. Rehab or not, I’d be free after gritting my teeth for a few months. Maybe I could sleep half the time away.
Only if the nightmares stopped.
Nightmares. I wish they were only that, but what I dreamt about was real. Memories from my past, haunting me until I could do nothing but drink to erase them. Without it, I wouldn’t have a defense against them or the thoughts that plagued me on a second-by-second basis.
Fuck. It would be a long three months.
“Tell me I’ve got a trial date,” I said, gripping the ancient beige phone between my fingers. An officer stood just to my left, practically humping my leg. “It’s been three weeks in this shit hole.”
“The judge finally set a date. You’re due in court next Thursday.” My aunt’s voice was light and hopeful on the other end of the line, and my shoulders drooped.
Thank fucking hell. “About time.”
“You’re lucky we got it to happen that quickly,” she snapped.
I swallowed and ground my teeth. Damn it. She was right. I knew it. I would’ve been stuck in here for over a year if she hadn’t pulled every old connection she had from when she’d worked as a paralegal years ago.
“Sorry.” I tried not to spit out the word. Despite her help in this stupid ass situation, she hadn’t been present in my life in over a decade. “It’s not a picnic here.” I shifted my weight, completely aware of the stiff cop’s eyes on me, hanging on my every word.
“You haven’t gotten into any tussles have you?”
Tussles? Who the hell says that?
“No.” Not that I’d ever tell her but I sure as hell wasn’t going to elaborate on why my stay in state prison hadn’t been worse. My cellmate—Devlin—had made me an offer on day two I couldn’t refuse. I’d remain untouched and unfucked with if I simply pedaled his drugs to the pathetic junkies he kept on his full list of clients.
Why me? I’d asked.
Other than you’re my new best friend for an undetermined amount of time? Devlin had stood from the tiny bottom bunk bed, his massive professional-wrestler-like frame taking up more than half of the room.
Yeah. I’d shrugged, not the slightest bit intimidated by the Rock-wannabe. Hard to be scared when you’ve got nothing left to lose.
You’re an addict, so you get the score, but your drug of choice isn’t what I sell. You won’t steal my shit.
And if I agree?
I’ll make sure no one fucks with you. Word is you’re a short fuse and guys love to test the fish.
I’d stepped so close to him our chests bumped. Not a fish. And who the fuck talked to you? I’ve been here two days.
I’m in good with the guards. Got a look at your file. I know everything about you, Justin. You’re exactly what I need. Someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit about anything, who is willing to crack skulls at the drop of a douche saying the wrong word.
I’d chuckled and shook my head, taking a step back. I was sleeping on a board of a bed, eating shit food, and becoming intimate with the concrete walls because one bedazzled douche bag had called me a loser. In retrospect, didn’t really seem worth it. Still, the memory of his bone-crunching beneath my knuckles sent a rush of adrenaline through my veins.
I’ll do it. I’d agreed. Just give me the score.
“Justin?” My aunt asked as if she’d asked more than once.
“Yeah?”
“Are you prepared to sign into the facility I chose for you?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
“Perfect.” She practically giggled. “You’ll be so much happier, Justin. I know they’ll help. And then maybe we can---“
“My time’s up,” I cut her off. “See you in court.” I hung up the phone and ignored the glance from the cop who looked like he was part robot except for his one arching eyebrow. I had at least three minutes left, but I didn’t need to hear my aunt paint a future I knew wasn’t possible.
She was a means to an end.
While Devlin had made this stay in prison more functional by keeping the wrong people away from me, it wasn’t such a grand life that I wanted to stay here. Rehab would be better than this, and she was my only way out. The judge damn sure wouldn’t have listened to me, wouldn’t have trusted my assurance that I’d never disturb the public again—and for good reason. There was no lock for my temper. I’d fucking tried. It was just something I lived with—the hot, bubbling rage just beneath the surface of my soul was always a breath away—so much a part of me I wouldn’t know how to live without it, couldn’t remember a time before it.
“Sup, bro?” Devlin asked as the cop nudged me back into my cell and slammed the bars home. I winked at the cop before flipping him off behind his back, because I wasn’t so stupid to bring down the fury of the man.
“Court date.”
“When?” Devlin sat up from where he’d been laying on the bed, his massive limbs hanging well over the ends.
“Next week.”
“How the fuck you get it so quick?”
“A family member pulled a favor.” I stripped my white t-shirt over my head, dropped to the small amount of cold concrete we had as a floor, and started doing pushups. That was one thing about prison, the only thing I could do to prevent my mind from thinking about how long it’d been since I’d had a proper drink was work the shit out of it. Devlin had gotten his hands on a few bottles of NyQuil and had helped me ration it to q
uell the body-shaking withdraws that had threatened me my first night there. The syrup was nothing compared to the sharp bite of vodka my tongue wanted, but it worked.
“So the clinic deal will work?” he asked as I pushed up and down, exhaling on each rise.
“Yup. Wouldn’t be going this soon if it wasn’t in place.”
“Nice, rehab.”
I cut my eyes to him without breaking the pace of my push-ups. “Yeah, it’ll be like Disneyland.”
“Damn straight it will. Get your head out of your ass, Justin.”
I hopped to my feet in an instant, and Devlin was up and towering over me just as quickly. “You got something to say?”
“Drop back to the floor, man. You know you don’t stand a chance against me.”
I scoffed. “Fucking try me.”
Devlin smiled, sitting back down. “Really? After all I’ve done for you? Maybe you really do have an anger problem.” He chuckled and I sunk back to the floor.
“Yeah maybe,” I said. “And maybe rehab will be the answer to all my degraded little problems.”
“They will be for mine, for sure.”
“Last time I checked you weren’t an addict.”
“Nope. But they’re my business. And you’ll be reaching an entirely new market for me. I’ve wanted to expand for years now.”
I slowed my pace, holding myself fully extended for a minute before rising to my feet again. “What’s that now?”
“The rehab clinic you’re going to? It’s outfitted for the elite. Celebrities, trust-fund babies, and the like. You think they’re there because they want to be? Not a chance. They’re there to appease someone—a publicist, the public, a family member with the rights to the bank account. They need drugs, just like you needed any kind of alcohol I could scrounge up for you.”
“I didn’t need it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, ignoring the memory of the shakes that had racked my body and the insatiable thirst that had made my insides feel like they caved in on themselves.
“Please. You would’ve sucked my dick for a drink.”
I threw a punch—no thought, no breath—aimed right at his big fucking jaw. A massive paw of a hand stopped my fist cold, and he stood up from the bed, clutching my fist so hard the bones seared. I jerked my hand away from him.
“That one is free, Justin. And only because you’ll be another contact on the outside. A distributor in the clinic.”
I shook out my fingers. “Fuck you.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Your loss, I’m a beast.” I didn’t really believe that about myself, but I could fake it. Blake’s panicked eyes flashed behind my closed lids, and I raked my fingers through the hair I’d let grow too long.
Devlin chuckled, and I shrugged, the tension breaking. I really didn’t want to fight the dude, so I was happy to let the shit slide.
“You’re in, though, right?”
I sighed. “The currency has to change.”
“Ahh, the inevitable negotiations. What do you want?”
“Well, I won’t need your protection anymore.”
“Not as long as you stay in line, no.”
“You know how good I am at that.”
“And you know I have people everywhere. Outside, inside. There is nowhere I can’t get to you if you fuck me over.”
“You’re not my type,” I mimicked him.
“Good. I kind of like you even if you are an angry asshole. Now, what do you want?”
“Twenty percent?”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen. I’m taking all the risk.”
“Risk of what? Ending up right back here?” Devlin shrugged.
“This isn’t really the place I want to call home for the rest of my life. No offense.”
“I won’t be in here forever.”
I tilted my head. He was serving the front end of a ten-year sentence for trafficking.
“Like I said, I have people everywhere. Connections everywhere. I won’t see the end of my sentence. I may copy your deal and get out early.”
“You are not an addict,” I said.
“Yeah, and neither are you, right?” Devlin cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Right.” I shook my head. “Do we have a deal or what?”
He reached out his hand, and I shook the meaty paw. “Fifteen. And Justin?” He asked and gripped my hand with a fury when I’d tried to let go. “I meant what I said. You fuck me over on this, try to disappear, and I’ll search out the one thing you love, and destroy it. Understand?”
An effortless grin shaped my lips. “Absolutely.” He finally let go of my hand, and I went back to my push-ups in peaceful silence.
This would be perfect. I’d do my ninety-days, stay off the cop’s radar, and make a shit-ton of cash giving celebs their drugs when they couldn’t score from their suburban dealers. Once released, I’d figure out a new place to live, and a new bar to occupy. I’d leave Devlin and his deal here to rot. Because he could threaten me all he wanted, I didn’t give a shit.
There was nothing I loved left for him to destroy.
1
Powerless
“Hi. My name is Justin. I don’t know why the fuck you guys keep making me tell you my name. You know who I am by now. And I’ve been sober for eight days.” A small succession of claps—or what I’d like to call claps but were really more like limp hands hitting clammy skin—surrounded the circle, and once again I wondered what the fuck I was doing there.
Eight days ago I was released from prison, the judge taking pity on my aunt and her pleas, her promises that I had a real chance of turning my life around if I had treatment in this clinic. I’d agreed with her while in court. Then I went home to pack some clothes and downed every half-empty bottle of vodka I’d had left in the place. I was drunk as all hell when I returned to her immaculately clean car so it didn’t even sting when she’d told me my landlord had called her looking for rent. She refused to pay the bill, understandably, it was massive. So the moment I checked into rehab, I officially had no place to live.
“Nice of you to join us again, Justin,” Thomas, the group leader, said.
“Not like I have a choice.” I sat further back in the plush leather chair that was part of the ridiculous circle of people. Today’s group meeting was just off the billiards room, which had a sweet set up with pool tables and darts but unfortunately didn’t have the most pleasurable asset—alcohol. The thought made saliva rush in the back of my cheeks and the sharp pain between my eyes magnified.
“You always have a choice. We’re here to listen. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
I huffed, clenching my fists to try and dull the ache in my head. I didn’t have a choice. I had to be here, not only because I had nowhere else to go besides back to prison, but because this is where Devlin’s potential buyers were. I scanned the other six people in the circle, noting the difference in pain showing on all their faces—some simply looked numb, staring off into space as they shut everything out, some twitched or scratched at their skin without realizing, and some looked one word away from snapping.
“What would you like to talk about today, Justin?” Thomas urged.
I rubbed my palms on the hard fabric of my jeans. “Nothing.”
Thomas sighed but nodded. “All right, well, what about small talk? Have you been enjoying the outdoor activities in this beautiful weather we’ve been having lately?”
“The fucking weather? Are you serious?” I snapped and clenched my eyes shut. Weather was synonymous with thoughts of Blake, which directly connected with the festering sore in my chest that kept her panic stricken eyes on repeat in my mind.
Thomas shifted in his seat and adjusted his thin gray cardigan. Fucking dude was Mr. Rodgers 2.0, an eight-year sober recovering alcoholic. He also happened to be my assigned therapist for my three-month stint. There was no way this piece of granola would ever be able to understand the shit that went on in my head, and as of today,
we’d had three sessions together. All of which were practically silent, with me saying no more than two worded answers. He didn’t push but today he was trying harder with me, in front of other patients, and I didn’t like it.
“You have something against the weather? It’s been pretty calm this storm season.”
I flinched, my blood running so hot in my veins it practically sizzled out of my pores. Storm season. Bane of my existence. If she hadn’t met him, chased with him, maybe she’d be…
No. You know better.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, taking the deep breaths Mr. Rodgers had talked about in our first session. I didn’t want Blake back. I wanted to erase her. Erase our history. Rewrite it where I hadn’t become the monster and she hadn’t become the victim, but I didn’t even know where to start. It was too deep, too dark, and too twisted to uncoil. And the worst part? I hadn’t realized how bad it was until it was beyond too late.
So, the only thing I could do now was drink her—and the monster I’d become—away. Numb myself to the past that haunted me and to the future that was ripe with nothing but more disappointment.
“I lost my job,” I blurted out, anything to get him to not talk about the weather. “Anyone else here have that happen to them?” I wanted to stop speaking, and I knew the best way to do that was get someone else to unload about their own shit.
“Yeah, man. I did,” Conner said after no one spoke. He sat up straighter in his chair, his black hair dropping in front of his eyes. I raised my chin to him—a silent thank you for stealing the unwanted spotlight.
He was my “neighbor” in the room right next to mine and had offered me one of his cigarettes on day one. Didn’t ask what I was in for or if I needed to talk, simply showed me where we were allowed to smoke outside. I’d liked him instantly, and we’d taken to eating all our meals at the same table, talking about random shit, never letting it get too personal. It was a nice way to pass the time between therapy sessions and mandatory fun.
“I was four days into an all out meth-fest. Couldn’t distinguish reality from hallucination. Was certain my boss was trying to kill me. So I lashed out at him with a knife from the kitchen I worked in as a busser. Fucking meth, man.” Conner shrugged like that explained everything, and in a way, I guess it did. I hadn’t realized that was his drug of choice, but I’d had one night with the junk and would never go back. The shit it made me see…made me think…well, I was bad enough on my own. I didn’t need any more incentive to let the hungry darkness inside me consume all that I was.