“No, I’m not a prostitute. I swear.” The relief washing over my father’s aging face breaks my heart.
“What happened to you? Where did you go?” He leads me over to the couch and I curl my feet up under me as I sit down on it. The warmth of the house, his housecoat, knowing for the first time in almost half a decade that I’m safe, it’s all making my eyelids heavy.
“I ended up in Miami,” I confess, my voice thick with exhaustion. “I ended up with a man. A really bad man. Dad?” I somehow manage to pry my eyes open to look up at my father. His nose looks bigger than the last time I saw him. His ears too. My eyes start to travel over his face, lined deep with worry. Aged beyond his years. He’s lost most of his hair, too. The thin, salt and pepper clinging to the sides of his head and combed over his shiny bald spot is fooling no one.
“Are you in danger now? What can I do to help you?” Dad prods.
“I am, Dad, he is a drug smuggler. One of the biggest on the East Coast. If he finds me, he’s gonna kill me. I swear, he’s terrible. I need to get clean and I need to get help. I want to start over. I want to get off the drugs and start a new life. He doesn’t know where I am, I never told him where I came from. Plus, I parked his car at an airport to make him think I flew somewhere. He won’t look for me here. But, I still can’t stay here. Daddy,” fat tears stream down my face and drip off my chin, blotting on his robe, “I need to get real help. For drugs. I need to get clean.” I repeat and I see the realization of what I’m telling him takes hold of my father’s face.
Five years ago, if I would’ve admitted to using cocaine, hell, even pot, my Dad probably would’ve kicked me out to the very streets I ran away to. Now, I can see the years have softened him. I suppose losing not only one, but both of your children will do that. Guilt floods through me, coursing through my veins as I realize for the first time the pain and suffering I’ve put him through. I’ve put them both through.
“Ok, we’ll get you into rehab. There’s plenty of good programs out there, we’ll do some research and find the right one.” Dad nods and throws his shoulders back with determination.
“I can help pay. I have money,” I reach inside the robe and pull the wads of bills out, lying them on the couch between us.
“Where the hell did you get all of this?” Dad’s eyes flash with suspicion, no doubt questioning if I have been working the streets after all.
“I took it from him. He was beating me, Dad. He… he hurt me all the time. I couldn’t take it anymore so I left.” I start explaining.
Dad holds up his hands and I fall silent. “Ok, enough. It’s late, it’s been a crazy day. I’m sure you’re tired.”
I nod.
“So am I,” his voice grows weary as his face falls. “Tomorrow, we’ll figure this all out. We’ll get you into rehab. We’ll make a plan. For tonight, I think the best thing any of us can do is get a good night’s sleep. Ok?” His tone tells me he isn’t really asking, he’s telling me. That’s fine with me.
“Sure.” I mumble.
“Your room is still how you left it, Holly. You can sleep in there.” He instructs me.
I stand up and shuffle over to the stairs. I try not to limp on my bad ankle. I don’t want to worry my father any more than I already have. As I approach the stairs, I hear my mother scurry from the top back to her room and shut the door.
She was listening the whole time.
I make my way to my room. Dad was right; it hasn’t changed a bit. The bedding looks fresh on the single sized bed, but other than that it looks like a time capsule in here. My collection of cheap perfumes is still lined up on my dresser and my poster of Channing Tatum is still tacked to the wall. I slump into my bed and yank the covers over me, still fully dressed. Sleep quickly begins to overtake me as I relax back against my pillow.
My mother’s voice makes me startle. I can hear her getting louder as my father tries to hush her. Is she yelling? I tilt my head toward my bedroom door and listen. No, she’s crying. My heart sinks.
“It won’t change anything,” she sobs. “You can send her to rehab, you can do everything you can, but it won’t change a damned thing!” Her voice is shrill.
She’s never forgiven me. She still hates me. Blames me as much as she did six years ago, when it happened.
The day my sister died.
6
Jake
April 1st. What a day to be sent off to rehab. I guess that makes me the April fool. More like fuck-up. I watch the massive cedars slide by the window of the taxi. On the other side of the highway, the Pacific Ocean quietly laps at the shoreline. I’m not sure why the brass decided to send me to British Columbia, Canada, of all places. The United States probably has more top-notch rehabilitation centers than any other country on earth.
I watch the calm, green waves of the Pacific, mesmerized. I’ve lived and sailed on the Atlantic my entire career. I’ve grown to love her wild, uncontrollable swells and her craggy shorelines. The Pacific seems more refined, her gentle rolls hypnotically grazing the sandy beach. They’re like twin sisters, separated at birth. One reckless and free, the other reserved and shy.
I might not be drawn to the water in the same way, but it’s hard to argue that there’s a tranquility in this landscape that soothes the soul. The softly sloping mountains in the distance, the giant evergreens stretching toward the overcast sky. I feel like I’m driving through a Bob Ross painting. Now we just need to turn my mistakes into ‘happy little accidents’ and I’ll be all set.
The driver pulls into the long, curved driveway and up to the front door. I hand him the fare in American and he smiles brightly.
“You want me to figure out the exchange on that?” He nods his sallow face down to the bills in his hand.
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, man.” I pop open the door and hop out, glancing up at the sprawling brown building with the green roof in front of me.
It looks like the architect took his cue from the nature surrounding the building and made the facility the same color as the trees it’s nestled in. I grab my bags from the trunk and slowly walk toward the front doors.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I’m not some crackhead or junkie. I just did coke to feel better. To stop the slow motion replay of that night. It helps me forget.
I give my head a shake and throw my shoulders back. I’m here because this is the only way I get to stay with the SEALs. It’s just like every other training they’ve sent me on or tested me with. I just need to play the game, get through it and move on.
I pause at the door, my eye caught by the shiny black plaque on the wall. ‘For Those Alumni who have lost their lives to chemical dependency’ it reads. There must be at least a hundred names on there, and room for more. Not exactly a strong testament to the program I’m about to enter.
I sigh and push open the door. Let’s get this over with. The reception area has a pint-sized smiling woman greeting me as soon as I pass the threshold.
“Hello! Welcome to Edgewood. Are you a new patient?” Her grey eyes dart down to my bags.
“Yeah, I’m Petty Officer Armstrong. I was told you’d be expecting me to check in today.”
“Certainly!” Her words are too cheerful. Her smile looks painful. I can’t look at her, it makes me uncomfortable. “If you could just take a seat here and fill out these forms, I’ll have a counselor come out to get you checked in.
Checked in. Like I’m taking a vacation at an all-inclusive. I grab the forms and scan the room as I make my way to the expensive looking leather chairs lining the wall. The place does look like a resort or some kind of spa. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow me to get a glimpse of the facility past this reception area. Cathedral glass ceilings and beautiful red cedar wood lumber draw my attention. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. I wonder if they have a pool.
I take a seat and fill out the information. I don’t notice the short, slim man with a crooked smile who quietly sits in the chair next to me until he clears his th
roat and I look up.
“Hi, I’m John. I’ll help you get settled in here, and show you around.” His eyes blink quickly, like he has a tic he can’t control.
“Uh, great. Sounds good,” I stand up and hand off the paperwork to the woman with the pasted on smile. My fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase when John holds up his hand.
“No, just leave those.”
“What? I need them,” I frown.
“They’ll be delivered to your room, after they’ve been searched.” He answers quietly but firmly.
“Searched. Seriously?”
“It’s mandatory.”
Another sigh escapes my lips and I let go of the handle with a shrug. “Fine. Whatever.”
John swipes his ID card and the inside door clicks loudly as it unlocks for us. He opens it and holds it for me, his hand extended as an invite for me to pass through. Damned Canadians and their manners. It feels awkward to have a little man hold the door for me like we’re on a date, but I push the feeling aside and enter.
John shuffles up next to me, showing different parts of the common areas. “Over there is the dining hall,” he points vaguely toward the vacant cafeteria. “That is the nurses’ station and medication dispensary. It’s where you pick up your meds in the morning, if you need them,” he nods to the sprawling wood desk ahead of us.
“I won’t need any,” I try to answer politely, but the words come out with a razor’s edge.
I look around, where is everyone?
As if reading my thoughts, John answers my unasked question, “The other patients and counselors are in the auditorium for the morning lesson.”
Lesson? Ok then. I don’t bother asking what that’s about. I’m sure in two months, I’ll be getting more than my fill of the routine here.
All of a sudden, the eerie silence crashes around us as a huge group of people come from the hallways on either side of the desk and flood into the space. Their combined voices sound like a flock of angry seagulls fighting for scraps of food at the beach. People are mulling around with binders in their arms, like they’re in school.
I’m surprised how many of them look normal. I mean, I guess I expected people to be more disheveled and have less teeth, generally. John is saying something, but I can’t hear him. I can’t even hear the grating caws of the bustling crowd anymore. My feet stop moving and my eyes lock down.
She’s striking. Not like some photoshopped super model, perfectly made up with smoky eyes and red lips. She’s a natural beauty. I’m transfixed by her plump lips. I’m hypnotized by her perky breasts and the curve of her ass. It’s easy to see from the sparkle in her baby blue eyes that she has a wild streak I’d love to explore. In a way, she reminds me of the Atlantic Ocean I was missing before. Untamed and mysterious. I want to wrap my hands in her long, wavy brown hair. I want to kiss every inch of her milky skin. Her eyes quickly find mine and I can see she feels it too. My heart pounds as I try to stop staring.
I can’t.
I watch as the cute freckles on her pale skin crinkle up and her eyebrows knit together. She looks away from me, toward the tall, built man that is standing too close to her and talking too loudly. My fists clench and my teeth set on edge as I watch her pull her binder up over her perfect tits, like a shield. A move I’ve seen tons of women do, and never when they’re comfortable with the guy bothering them. She steps back from the obnoxious dude towering over her and he lumbers forward, refilling the empty space. Anger flashes through me and I step forward, just as John grabs my shoulder.
“Where are you going?” He tilts his head at me.
“Uh, I just need to use the toilet,” I lie, hoping he buys it.
“Ahh, ok. Well, you can do that in a bit. First, you need to follow me,” he insists.
I look back up, but the girl is gone. I don’t see her anywhere in the crowd. She disappeared.
“Ok, what’s up?” I follow John into one of the offices lining the wall. It’s instantly quieter as he closes the door.
“As you probably know, Edgewood is a renowned facility. We have a program that specializes in addictions faced by men and women in uniform.” He spouts off his talking points.
Ah, well that explains why I’m in Canada then.
“The program is difficult, but if you don’t give up, we have an eighty percent success rate.” He continues.
“That’s pretty good,” my mind flashes back to the plaque on the wall as I came in. Seems to contradict what he’s telling me, but the truth is, I don’t care. I can barely concentrate on what this guy is going on about. My mind is still wrapped up in her.
Where did she go?
“But before we get into any of that, we need to take the standard precautions to make sure you're not smuggling any drugs or paraphernalia into the facility,” he continues.
“Yeah, well, you’ve already got my bags.” I answer distractedly.
“Yes, that’s part of it. However, there’s another part. You’re gonna need to strip down and shake out your clothes for me.”
“What?” I level him with my stare, my focus suddenly sharpening to him and him alone. “Are you saying…”
“Before we can proceed, there’s a strip search,” he states matter-of-factly.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he answers.
So much for checking into my luxury spa. More like being processed for prison. This shit just got real.
7
Holly
“Holly, you’ve been quiet for the past couple of days. I know you’re still new to all of this, but why don’t you tell the group about yourself?” My group therapy counselor, Gavin, prods me. He sits tall in his chair at one end of the circle, his hair gelled into a spiky hedgehog style that was popular when I was in junior high. His mournful brown eyes pierce mine.
“Uh, sure, I guess,” I stare at my hands. I can’t bring myself to look into the faces of the strangers surrounding me. Six people from all walks of life sit around me. Since I checked in two days ago, I’ve heard them talk about their lives, their careers, their children, their dreams. Intensely personal details have spilled out of them, like they’ve known these people all their lives. Like we’ve all grown up together. Not like we’re the complete and total random strangers tossed together in a salad of sadness and sickness.
I clear my throat as my mind goes blank. What does he want me to say?
“Do you mean tell you how I got started with drugs?” I peer over at Gavin and his thin sweeping of chin whiskers quiver as he presses his lips together.
“No, we’ll get into all that. Right now, I would just like it if you introduced yourself to the group. Tell us who you are. A little bit about yourself,” Gavin’s eyes are warm, even if his tone is a bit clinical. He looks down at the pad of paper he’s holding on a clipboard in his lap and makes a few notes.
A bit about myself? What is there to tell? A whirlwind of memories flash through my mind, but every single one of them involves Knox and cocaine. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to concentrate on the question. It shouldn’t be this hard. I should be able to tell people something. Anything.
Heat flushes over my cheeks as I blush, I open my eyes and try not to let the shame radiating through me turn to tears. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know who I am.”
Gavin nods sadly and makes another note. The door to the office swings open and, lucky for me, all eyes in the room turn to see why. I watch as the guy I saw earlier today saunters inside and nonchalantly slumps down in an empty seat across the circle from me.
My heartbeat quickens as his deep blue eyes meet mine. He locks me in his gaze, and I feel like I’m struggling to keep my feet under me in a hurricane. I can feel the electricity crackle in the air between us, holding me prisoner of his stare. I press my thighs together tightly and my breathing grows raspy and erratic. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a man before. Not even to Knox.
Gavin clears his throat, ignoring our newest group membe
r entirely. The same way he did to me two days ago when I was thrown into this jumbled mess of addicts. “You were saying, Holly?” His voice cuts through the fog and pulls me back into the therapy session.
Somehow, I manage to drag my eyes from the newcomer and back to my counselor. “What? Oh, yeah. I guess I was trying to say that I’m not sure how to tell you a bit about myself because it’s been awhile since I’ve been more than, well, you know… an addict.” I admit.
I look back over to the new guy; he’s watching me closely. I’m sure every person in this room is, but his are the only eyes I feel on me. Like they’re marking my skin. His brown beard is well kept, but the same can’t be said for his shaggy hair. I force myself to focus on Gavin instead. No matter how difficult it is.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything other than be a drug smuggler’s girlfriend. For the last five years, my whole life has centered on coke,” I continue. “Selling it, using it, buying it. Everything has been focused on drugs.” I answer truthfully.
Gavin makes another note and scratches the side of his head with his pen. “Ok, but what about hobbies? Or friends? Family?” He grasps at straws as I shake my head no at each suggestion.
“I left my family when I was seventeen and never looked back. I didn’t really have a good idea of who I was when I ran away, just who I didn’t want to be seen as anymore.” My voice creaks, warning me of tears to come. “I don’t know, ok?” I push away the sadness with a burst of anger. “I don’t know what you’re looking for. I’ve told you who I am, can we move on now?” My eyes flicker back to the new guy. His pale pink lips are cocked into a half smile as he shamelessly scans his eyes over my body.
That look, that arrogance, it reminds me of…
Knox’s face flashes before my eyes. The smirk that would possess his face when he’d wrap a belt around his hand, relishing what he was about to do to me.
I push the image from my head, but the anger inside me boils up. “What about him?” I point across the circle at the mystery man who joined us. “Why don’t you get him to introduce himself instead of sitting there smiling like an idiot.”
Navy SEAL Bad Boy Page 3