High Class Harlot (Switching Tracks Series Book 2)

by Delia Steele

  “Thank you, Dexter.” She pulls back.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” She tilts her head, making her look even more innocent. I roll my eyes and answer.

  “Because I feel like I’m in a laboratory waiting for a mad scientist to use better parts to fix me. Like the tin man, I need a new heart.” She smoothes my hair back from my sweaty brow, and I cringe. I bet I’m a sore sight for the eyes.

  “Amandolette, you are beautiful, and I’d bet my paycheck that your heart matches your face. Your heart doesn’t need to be replaced; it just needs a jump-start. I will get you there. However, if you relapse, you may need to get a new liver.” She smiles and steps back, picking up something off the tray.

  “What’s that?” I ask curiously.

  “This, doll, is benzodiazepine. You should have already had it, honestly, along with vitamins for this treatment. It will help with the withdrawals because you are starting what a lot of people call DTs. The term is often used improperly, but I am sure you understand the meaning. I’ll keep a watch over you, so get some rest.” As she heads to the door, she stops and turns towards me. “And for the record, Miss Riaz, I am a reader. I love my Kindle. I’m not sure what it is a ‘reader’ looks like, but in my eyes, you look extremely smart and could pass for a book worm. A kinky one, maybe, but they sell smut on e-readers, and others are none the wiser to what you are actually reading.” I notice the glint in her eye just before she disappears behind the metal door. That educated little slut reads porn on pages.

  I. LIKE. HER .A. LOT!

  After a restless night of sleep and breakfast, I am let off the bed to shower and get in a little movement. It doesn’t last long, though. I want a drink, I get angry, and then I think I see people I am angry with. I swing on someone without realizing it and end up back on my board. Apparently, it’s not OK to run around beating up other drug-dependant nincompoops.

  I get another lecture on commitment, hard work, and follow-through, and a few days later, I’m done with detox. I only tried to knock a scab out one other time, and once the shakes and fever were gone, the need to end anything breathing went with them. I don’t feel good, but at least I’m not trying to go grim reaper on folks anymore. #cleaningup #nomoreshankingsluts

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two weeks in, and time is moving at the pace of snail mail. It’s driving me up the wall. We aren’t deprived of anything here, aside from drugs and booze. We have TV, outdoor activities, internet, and we can go out for personal items, with the help of the treatment center workers, of course. It’s smart on their part—keeping us active in the world while training us to not crave our drug of choice to survive the day. This is why I chose this center. That, and the non-12-step program they use. Their method is different, as am I. However, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m in desperate need of a drink right now… #devilonmyback #gottashakehisass

  I’m not sure what she wants from me. I didn’t come here to converse. I want my system clean, strong, and able. Her knowing my mind won’t fix anything. Talking isn’t my problem—drinking is.

  “Amandolette, why do you refuse to talk to me? Your stay here at Lake-Lynn will not be complete without this. Just tell me why you feel the way you do. What drives you to drink?”

  This woman makes me so mad. Like crazy mad. I want to rip her face off. If I were a zombie, she would be the first person I’d eat. See! She drives me so mad she has me thinking about zombies. I guess that’s a start…zombies versus alcohol. It’s still fucktarded, though. I roll my eyes at her and go back to picking at my nails, yawning in boredom, and bobbing my head while mouthing words to some random song. It’s what I always do. It’s been two weeks, and I still want my vodka. Or a beer. Honestly, I’d even take a fruity little cocktail at the moment.

  Thinking about cock and tail makes me think about sex, and when I think about sex, I think about Clay. I really miss Clay. The thought of him and how things were left hurts my heart. I’m so afraid he’s moving on, while I sit here with this maddening, zombie-bait woman. I want to tell him to wait for me, but I can’t ask that of him. I’ve wasted so many years of his life already, and he deserves more. So I set him free. It was the least I could do for him after all he’s been through for me. When this is over, whatever is meant to happen, will.

  Doc Zombie Bait is still rambling her textbook mind games when I decide I’ve had enough. “Just stop talking to me. I hear this from you every day. You want me to talk to you, to trust you? Yet you sit here and spill the same lesson plan to me that you feed to every person before me. Let me explain one thing to you, Dr. Campbell: You want something from me? Nut up and show me you’re worth my time. I am paying you a lot of money, so I expect you to put the work in as well. I’m here because I want to put the work in, but not if you’re going to sit here and treat me like an incompetent fool.” I stand from the chair and walk to the door. “Tomorrow, I’ll be curious as to how you feel.” I drop my head and walk out. If her game plan doesn’t change soon, mine will.

  I make it back to my sterile, white room. They say it’s to keep us calm, but it makes me feel like a caged tiger. I’m not a prisoner, but I prefer not to mingle with the pity parties that wander around this place. They either feel sorry for themselves for being weak, or they’re focused on their next fix. It seems pointless to be here if they don’t have the right mentality. I want a drink, but I won’t give in. I want to leave and know I can move forward. I want my life back. Hopefully, a better version than the one I left behind.

  I wonder how my mom is coping with Balt being locked up. I think about how he is doing, but I honestly don’t care. Just curiosity. #dukepackeddouche

  The idea hits me to finally check my e-mail. When I make my way to the common room, I see there are two laptops available. I sit down at the makeshift desk and slide my finger across the touchpad to open up the browser. I sit, watching the screen come alive, but the more I sit and watch, the more I wonder if I need to do this. If my mom or Clay has e-mailed me, it’ll hurt to see what they are thinking. I’m sure Mom’s won’t be so bad unless she is lonely and hurting. However, what scares me the most is that Clay may not have sent me anything at all. What if he decided to move on? I want him to be happy, but I’m aware of how bad it will hurt if he finds happiness with someone who isn’t me. I close the top on the laptop and wander back to my room. I can’t face it today. I’m such a bipolar basket case.

  I jolt to a stop as I enter my room. On my dresser lays an envelope addressed to me. I want to read it, but I can see from here that it’s Rory’s handwriting, and just like I’m not ready for Clay’s rejection or absent e-mail, I’m not ready to get my ass handed to me by Rory yet either.

  Staring at my ceiling, I recall some of Dr. Campbell’s long-winded bullshit and her going on and on about families going through shit too while I’m here. Things like emotional changes—mental and physical also. They have to learn to readjust themselves in life, and they have to learn to be more sensitive to my raging need to drink and constant fight against it. It actually makes sense. Though I hate admitting she’s said something credible. #ShrinkSmartypants

  After two weeks of sitting in this office with this…this woman looking down her nose at me, I am over it. I am so sick of “How do you feel?” or “Do you want to talk today?” Seriously, I have nothing to say. I just want this urge to binge drink to go away. I want to wake up and not think about the last time I felt the burn of fermented, clear liquid.

  I watch out the window as the other addicts wander around outside, enjoying the sun, but I have no desire to go out. I can’t even bring myself to do my hair. The only thing I do every day that is normal for me is slide my feet into my red and gold heels. They look ridiculous here, but I am grateful to have them back. They took them from me during detox because they make a beautiful, sleek weapon. Now, I wear them as a reminder. If there were ever one person I would do this for other than myself, it would be Gran. I never want her disappointed in me again. I hate feeling s
o indecisive and unfocused. Do it for me. Do it for Gran. I wish I could clear my mind. #foggyasfuck #canttakeawaymylettos

  If she asks me one more time how something makes me feel, I am going to show her how she makes me feel.

  “Amandolette, can you tell me how that…” I jump to my feet and lose my religion all over Dr. Campbell’s fancy-ass office. I start screaming in a weird battle cry and pulling out my hair, jerking my head back and forth. Then, I drop my hands, look her right in the eyes as my anger over powers me, and scream with more power than an air horn. If there is one thing I exercise, it’s my mouth and lungs. Without warning, I flip around and go straight to her perfect bookshelf. I rip off books, throwing them left and right. I grab her stupid cat figurines and slam them down, but it’s not enough. I need to release this anger before it consumes me. I run over to her desk, and using my arms, I push everything off into the floor. I grab the phone and throw it at the window. I expect the nurses to rush in and stop me, but no one comes. Tears are pouring down my face, and my chest is heaving, but no one ever comes in. I look over at Doctor McThinks-I’m-crazy, and she asks, “How does that make you feel?” She slides up to the edge of her chair with her notepad in hand, glaring at me over her glasses. “Do you feel better now that you’ve destroyed my office?” I watch her to see if she’s livid, and when she doesn’t seem to have anything else to say, I smile a menacing smirk.

  “Ya know, actually, it makes me feel fucking great! I mean, I could have picked up big bad Herman Melville there and slapped you right across the face with some Moby Dick! Then I’d be the one asking how you feel.” I sit in my chair and slide back, happy with my answer. With my eyes, I dare her to ask me something else. It’s the truth; I do feel better. All that stored up anxiety just poured out of me all over her little sanctuary, and I feel light as a feather. Too bad I’m not free as a bird right now.

  “At least you are now expressing feeling. It’s better than this anesthetized attitude you’ve had for the last month. Anger is our gateway emotion. It will be easier to move on now that you’ve actually opened that door. Congratulations, Amandolette. You’ve had a breakthrough today. A small one, but one nonetheless.” She opens her desk drawer, pulls out a pink sparkle notebook, and hands it to me. “Let’s try something different for our next session. Instead of beginning the session with me asking you a question—since you obviously aren’t a fan of that—I want you to write a session starter in this notebook and bring it with you each time we meet. It can be one word or five pages, however much you want to write. Whatever you are feeling and want to get out…write it in here, and that’s where we’ll begin from. What do you say?” She holds out a pen, waiting for my decision. I take the pen from her, open the notebook, write down what I’m feeling at this moment, and hand it back to her. When she cuts her eyes at me, I start to think this exercise might be fun. I take the notebook back from her and walk out without another word from either of us. Guess she wasn’t a fan of my #youreaquack session ender.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Halfway. I’ve made it halfway. I won’t lie, I am so fucking proud of myself for all of it. I mean, the people here are still weird and nasty, but I’ve learned to move around them and not speak. They think I’m a stuck-up bitch, but that’s not the case. I don’t talk to the others because I don’t want to surround myself with people who have addiction problems. They are like cancer. In order to remove the entire problem, you have to remove the bad people helping promote it. Which is the second reason I picked Lake-Lynn Treatment Center. They don’t push you to do support groups. Something about meetings keeping us chained to our past with problematic behavior and being powerless victims mentally. I agree with this because sitting listening to someone cry about their life and problems wouldn’t benefit me, just depress me tremendously. I haven’t worked my butt off to become a strong, powerful person and slap my addiction to sit around and listen to someone weaker make me feel guilty for it. This isn’t a program for everyone. I’m aware the 12-step program is a biggie for some people, but I am not one of those people. Pity pisses me off, weakness pisses me off, and I am sick of being pissed off. I want to stand and bang on my chest like a gorilla because, right now, I am winning this battle. I am finally stronger than the chains of addiction, and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel restrained.

  I have also gained my weight back. It’s odd I hadn’t even noticed how much I had lost. I’ve been small but curvy my whole life, but I had dropped two pant sizes. Now, after just forty-five days on the inside, I have my curves back and I feel awake, not hazed out. #welcomebackhotmama

  Pushing the door shut, I take my seat in the blood red leather chair and tuck my feet underneath me. I hate the smell of this room. Hell, I hate the big round bronze buttons on this chair and all the old books filling that huge bookshelf against the wall. I look across the coffee table that separates me from Dr. Campbell and think about the first time I sat here. I just shot daggers at her with my eyes while I dreamed of the burn I craved. I don’t want to remember the day I destroyed this room. I am still ashamed of that day. On second thought, I actually don’t hate this place as much as I did. Dr. Campbell has grown on me. She understands where I’ve been and where I am trying to go. And she is helping me help myself get there.

  I hand her the notebook that contains my session starters. At first, I would just write down insults or things I thought were funny. Venting my frustration. But she took it well, and I think that’s what really helped me open up. Even though the notebook is filled with things like: #fuckfeelings, #fuckthisshit, #fuckyou, #fucklife, #fuckATL, #yousmelllikedollarstoreperfume, #yourglassesarehideous, #ineedbooze, #vodkawhore, and #fixme. And, of course, the session ender of every meeting: #youreaquack. But she took it in stride and built upon it. Sometimes I would answer her questions aloud, and other times, when I felt uncomfortable, I’d write things down instead of speaking. Now, my session starters are more positive and meaningful. And less offensive.

  “Amandolette, tell me how you are today. How do you feel?” She looks at me over the glasses that are about to fall off the tip of her nose. I smile because, sixty days ago, I would have told her to go eat herself. Today, even though she’s read my session starter and still asked the dreaded feelings question, I talk. I have been the last thirty or so days, and it feels good. I can tell her anything, and she isn’t going to judge me.

  “Well, I want a drink. And I’m aware that I am not in control. First, my dad was controlling my life, and now, the devil known as vodka has its paws on me. I want to be wasted and drift away. However, today, I can admit it; and that, I think, is a start. I’m taking my life back. One step at a time.” I shift my body and pick at the gold button on the arm of the chair and take a deep breath. My session starter today was #honestadmissions #goloudorgohome, and I’m determined to stick with it. “I know I shouldn’t want a drink, but I do. I want just one more, even if it’s something as weak as a beer. I’ve lost precious moments, days…” I plop back against the chair, feeling defeated. ”For fuck’s sake, I have lost the last year of my life to this urge, this addiction.” I start to scream. “I feel like I am and have been losing everything and everyone I love! I just want a shot! It seems so simple to me. Just throw it back and float away. And when I get that shot—that lack of feeling—the price I pay seems worth losing the pain. The bottle is always there for me. It consumes me and makes me forget. But then I lose so much. I pay the ultimate price, yet I want it!” I sob a nasty, snot-filled, uncontrollable cry and put my face in my hands. “I just want to be OK. I want to go home. And I want home to be Clay, not Monroe Falls. I want my life back. I want to be happy and free of this addiction. My past was a lie, but my future…that’s real. I want to be me again. Just better. I want to be worthy of Clay.”

  In that moment, something snaps. I jerk my hands down and look Dr. Campbell right in the eye.

  “I can absofuckinglutely do this! I can!” I jump to my feet, causing the ugly chair to move back. St
anding at my full five-foot-four inches, I hold my shoulders back with both hands balled into fists and propped against my hips. “I will do this, doc. I won’t fucking lose myself. I have fought hard to climb back up from this … this hellhole of drunkenness, and I won’t fall again. I get it. I don’t just take myself down when I fall; I take everyone I love with me. This whole time I felt sorry for myself and felt so alone, when reality is, I have a fucking support system that makes the solar system look like its bitch. My friends always tell me I’m their sun, their light on a dark day. I get it! Fuck me sideways, I. Fucking. Get. It!!!!” I fall back in the chair, feeling the weight of the world dissipate from my chest.

  I scrub my hands up and down my face a few times and let them slide down slow. Looking through spread fingers to the chair where Dr. Campbell sits, observing my behavior, I see her gentle face. She is so sweet and innocent, with her slightly graying bun atop her head and the tiny wire glasses that cover her pristine blue eyes. She has been such a strong foundation for me through this entire process. She’s been the motherly figure I needed to guide me, yet someone strong enough to rein my inner crazy in along the way. She has been everything for me that I couldn’t be for myself. Now, I can feel the fire inside, roaring, and it’s growing stronger by the second. My resolve is devouring my depression, pushing the weakness out. I will be whole again. I have thirty more days, and when I return, it will be blazing a new path. #MandoTheTrailblazer. Has a nice ring to it.

  I’m so grateful Dr. Campbell was here to show me that alcoholism isn’t a disease I can’t overcome. She has shown me I am not powerless to refrain from its use, and she has believed in me, which has now led me to believe in myself. To believe that I can do this.