Drunk, lost, and out of control.
It would destroy her all over again.
It’s up to me to get through to Ange. To help her clean up, and then I can take her home. Reunite her with the mother I know she still loves.
That reinforcement is all I need to pull myself together.
Caving to the demon drink would be so easy, but I can’t do that to myself or the people depending on me.
I get back in my car, power up the engine, and floor it out of there before I capitulate.
Whether she wants to face it or not, Ange needs me.
The last time she needed me, I let her down.
I’m not going to fail her again.
I’m watching TV on low in my bedroom, nursing a lukewarm coffee when Nate calls. “Devin, I think you need to get here.”
Hearing his urgent tone, I grab my jeans off the floor, shucking them on as adrenaline courses through my veins. “Talk to me.”
“I followed Angelina and her boyfriend to a club. They’ve both been heavily drinking, and now they’re arguing, and it looks like it’s about to turn nasty.”
“I’m on my way,” I say, shoving my feet into my sneakers.
When I pull up a little while later, Ange is in the middle of the parking lot outside the club shouting at the douche. She’s wearing a strapless black minidress and high heels. It’s freezing outside, and I can see her shivering from here. She’s also stumbling a lot, struggling to maintain her balance.
“They got thrown out of the club a few minutes ago,” Nate explains when I reach him. He’s standing in front of his car, about three hundred feet away from the warring couple, with his arms folded, watching them bicker. We’re not close enough to make out exactly what’s being said. “He appears to be blaming her for that.”
At that second, Ange pushes the douche, beating her fists against his chest as she screams obscenities at him. I watch in horror as he raises his hand, slapping her across the face. My feet move, and I’m racing toward her as she falls on the asphalt, clutching her cheek. “Call the station,” I shout over my shoulder at Nate.
The asshole lifts his booted foot and kicks her in the ribs. She cries out, instinctively curling into a ball and trying to shield her body as he continues to kick her. I lunge at him, knocking us both to the ground. Grabbing the collar of my shirt, he pulls my face close and head butts me. Blinding pain explodes in my skull, and warm blood starts pumping out of my nose. “Fuck.” I’m scrambling to my feet, dizzy and swaying, when he yanks me back down. My head slams off the hard ground, and stars blur my vision. Pain ricochets through my body, and I groan. A dense weight presses down on me, and then the guy is swinging, raining blows on my face and my chest. He’s strong, and his aim isn’t bad, but he’s still inebriated, and he lacks the skill and training I have. Ange is screaming and crying in the background, begging him to stop. I blink until my vision clears, attempting to buck him off me. When that doesn’t work, I lob a blow at his neck, striking him precisely at the point of his carotid artery. It’s a move I’ve perfected over the years, and it never fails me.
His eyes roll back in his head, and his body goes limp as he slumps to the side. I sit up and something sharp pierces my back, sending an intense burst of stabbing pain shooting through me. Ange screams. I roar, shoving the guy off me, as I reach around, probing the sore spot on my upper back, my fingers coming away bloody.
What the fuck just happened?
I turn, lightheaded, and plummet to the ground, moaning. The pain in my back intensifies, but I push myself up off my hands, staggering to my feet.
“Oh my God, Dev,” Ange shrieks, landing in front of me in her bare feet. Tears are pumping out of her eyes. “Are you okay?” I sway, almost blacking out as I feel blood gushing out of the wound in my back. I reach out, holding on to her, vaguely hearing the sirens in the distance.
A strong arm winds around my back, and Nate is there, helping to prop me up. “I called an ambulance. It’s on its way.”
Ange drops to her knees crying. She looks up at me, and my heart breaks. “I’m so sorry,” she slurs, in between sobs. “I thought he was going to kill you and I didn’t think.” Big, fat tears roll down her face. “I threw my shoe at him, and I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t supposed to hit you!” she sobs. “It was meant for him.” She lashes out at the unconscious guy lying on the ground, pummeling his stomach with her tiny fists.
“Fuck.” I suck in a breath as my vision blurs in and out.
“You’re losing some blood, but I don’t think it’s serious,” Nate supplies, peering at my back. “I’m no expert, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say the stiletto missed penetrating any vital organs.”
Ange rocks on the ground, wailing and crying, and I hate that I can’t go to her. “Help her,” I tell Nate, as the sirens grow closer. “It’s okay, baby,” I croon, as Nate leans me against the nearest car before going to Ange. He lifts her up in his arms. She’s crying so much, I don’t think she’s even realized. He brings her over beside me, placing her on top of the hood. I reach out, touching her hand. “Don’t cry, baby. It’s going to be okay.”
She sniffles, fixing forlorn eyes on me. “No, it’s not. I’m not okay.”
“I know, baby, but you will be. You will be.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Angelina
They take Devin and Scott away in separate ambulances, and I’m arrested. I can’t stop crying. I thought Scott was going to kill Devin, and all I could think was he was going to die believing I hated him. Cara is right. All I’m doing is making more bad choices. And I’m so tired. Of all of it. Of thinking. Of hurting. Of life.
After they booked me, they put me in this cell to sober up. I’m lying on the floor, with only a thin blanket covering me, shivering, nauseated, and terrified that I’ve just killed my other best friend. Tears leak out of my eyes, and I think I may have permanently broken my tear ducts.
“Stop your fucking sniveling, woman,” the hooker with the mad eyes and the frizzy red hair says for the umpteenth time. Just my luck to be locked up with a crazy bitch.
“Screw off,” I mumble, in between sobs.
I barely even flinch when she yanks me up by the hair, ramming her fist in my face. Blood spurts from my nose, but I still don’t stop crying. That only incenses her further. She rains blows on my face as I wonder where the fucking officer in charge is.
My head spins back as she hits me, darts of pain crashing around my face.
I’m crying harder now, and a wall of shame descends upon me.
How did my life come to this?
How have I ended up here?
Why did my life go so off track?
Pain lances me on all sides, but the pain in my heart is the worst pain of all. And it’s all my own doing.
I just want it to end.
To not think. Not feel. Not hurt anymore.
Mom would be bitterly disappointed in me. I’m glad she’s not here to witness my lowest moment.
The crazy bitch yells at me to stop crying, and I cry louder. When she slams my face down on the bench, stars explode behind my eyes and rattling pain bursts through my skull. The last thought I have before I pass out is that I hope I don’t ever wake up.
When I come to, sounds of hushed voices talking are the first thing I hear. I blink my eyes open, squinting at the harsh glare of the overhead lights. The room is white and sterile, and the little beeping of the machine by my bed confirms I’m in the hospital. My tongue is stuck to the top of my mouth, and it tastes like mothballs have taken up permanent residence there. I cough, and the sound is coarse and croaky.
“Hey, baby,” Devin says. “How are you feeling?”
I turn toward the sound of his voice, wincing as pain shuttles through my skull. The door snicks shut as the nurse leaves the room. “Sore,” I rasp, struggling to focus m
y vision. As my eyesight clears, I whimper at the sight of him. He’s slouched in a chair by my bed, with a blue blanket loosely covering his lower half. His face is covered in a medley of bruises, and his left eye is swollen and a horrible blue-black color. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He lifts his shirt, showcasing the white bandage strapped firmly around his upper torso, concealing the bulk of a tattoo on his right side. “A little stiff and sore but no permanent damage.”
“I thought I killed you too.”
Compassion fills his eyes. He leans forward in slow motion, lacing his fingers in mine. Warmth spreads up my arm. “It was an accident, and you were only trying to help.”
“You still got hurt. I hurt you.”
He sighs. “I think you probably hurt yourself more.”
I know what he’s inferring, and he’s right. “I tried to tell you this. That no good will come from associating with me, but you’re so damn stubborn. I hope you understand now. I ruin everything I touch—everything and everyone I come into contact with. I hope you’re getting ready to leave.”
“Come on, Ange. You know me better than that. I’m not leaving you ever again.”
“I almost killed you!” I hiss, ignoring the stabbing pain in my head. “Where’s your sense of self-preservation?”
“Where’s yours?” he snaps back. “Why are you still punishing yourself?”
I go into lockdown mode. I’m not getting into this with him. “I’m not talking about this with you. Not now. Not ever.”
“Where you’re going you won’t have much choice.”
Tendrils of ice creep up my spine. Alarm bells scream in my head. “What do you mean?” I whisper.
“The cops arrested you for aggravated assault, Ange.”
The world goes deathly quiet. Bile floods my mouth. “I’m going to jail?” I hate how my lower lip wobbles when I speak.
He pulls his chair in closer, his mouth contorting in a painful grimace as he moves. He leans into me, threading his fingers fully through mine. “I managed to make a deal on your behalf. You’ll do a ninety-day stint in rehab instead of jailtime.”
“I don’t want to go to rehab.” I don’t want to dry out. I won’t be able to blank it all out if I’m sober.
“It’s jail or rehab. Those are your only options.”
Neither option is appealing, and both mean going cold turkey. “I can’t be sober, Devin. Don’t ask that of me, please. I just can’t do it.”
He brushes his fingers across my uninjured cheek. “You can’t keep running, Ange. You’ve got to stop and face up to this.”
Tears stream out of my eyes. “I’d rather die.”
He closes his eyes briefly, and when he reopens them, raw anger coats his retinas. “Don’t you fucking ever say that.”
“It’s the truth. I don’t want to live.”
He grips my head between his hands. “I want you to live. I need you to live. To not give up.”
“Why are you doing this?”
His eyes glisten with determination. “You may have forgotten how to love yourself, but I haven’t. I love you, Ange, and there isn’t anything I won’t do to save you, including this. You’re going to rehab, and you’re going to get better, and I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”
I start sobbing again, and my eyes sting. My chest constricts. My heart aches. “You shouldn’t care. I’m not worthy of you.”
“And I wasn’t worthy of you once,” he tells me softly. “But you never gave up on me. And I’m not giving up either.” He presses his wrist to mine, aligning our tattoos. “Infinity, Ange. Our bond may be broken, our awesome-threesome connection may be gone, but we’re still here, and while there is air in my lungs, I will continue fighting for the both of us.”
Rehab sucks. At least it does at first. After I was checked in, I had to undergo a full series of health checks and a thorough evaluation. Detoxing over a few weeks was determined to be the best approach rather than going cold turkey, because my body has been drip fed a continuous daily injection of alcohol for years. It’s still hell on earth, as my body struggles to survive without its usual coping mechanism.
I think I spent the best part of the first week with my head over the toilet bowl, vomiting until there was nothing left in my stomach to expel. I’ve grown used to the constant headaches, although the pain is dulled through medication. Nighttime is difficult. Between prolonged bouts of insomnia, profuse sweating, and suffocating bouts of self-loathing, I don’t get much rest. But, the anxiety is the worst, and it attacks most frequently at night when I’m lying in bed. My heart starts beating too fast, and an intense fluttery feeling builds in my chest, until it feels like there’s a ticking time bomb behind my rib cage. Every night it happens, it’s like I’m on the verge of a coronary. It’s the scariest feeling of all.
The doctor gave me anti-anxiety medication, but I had to come off it because it didn’t agree with me. It only enhanced the panic attacks and intensified my insomnia. Now I’m on plain old-fashioned sleeping pills, but even they don’t work sometimes.
With nothing to do all day but think and talk about myself, I’m having huge trouble shutting off my brain. My mood swings ricochet all over the place, and I’m not pleasant company right now.
Devin drops by every day, but I refuse to see him. Initially, it’s because I was so angry with him. Those early days were particularly difficult, dealing with sweats and shakes and the craving for a drink. Like I expected, everything I’ve worked so hard to push aside occupies front and center stage now I’m sober, and I can’t avoid thinking about things I don’t want to. I was furious with him for forcing me into this. For forcing me to confront my painful past. But I was only deflecting the anger.
It’s really me I’m mad at.
And I’m still struggling to deal with that.
I’ve been the orchestrator of my own destruction, and I always thought I was smarter than that.
“How are you feeling today, Angelina?” Dr. Bennett asks as I settle on the couch in her office. Daily psychology sessions are an essential part of my treatment along with bi-weekly group therapy sessions. Drawing the myriad of conflicting emotions to the surface chips away at my soul; it’s a slow, excruciating extraction process that prods and probes and tugs and ultimately leaves me shattered and vulnerable and exposed.
I still balk at her use of my real name, but she’s insistent I need to reclaim my identity to effectively deal with the demons from my past. “Much the same.”
“And what about our discussion yesterday. Have you given that any more thought?”
Horrific pain presses down on my chest. “It’s all I’ve thought about in the intervening period.”
“And have you reached any decisions?”
“It’s too soon. I can’t talk to him about it yet.”
“Let’s put it aside for a little while and work on your feelings of low self-worth.”
The weeks come and go, and life settles into a strangely comforting pattern. While I’m still battling insomnia and anxiety, most of my other symptoms have faded. My mood shifts, stabilizing somewhat, and the unerring vacillations of the early days sharpen in focus. I don’t have all the answers, far from it, but certain things are becoming clearer. My soul is being cleansed, a little bit at a time.
I keep to myself most of the time, but there are a couple of people I chat with on occasion. Some evenings, I watch TV with them in the communal room. My favorite pastime, though, is sitting outside on one of the wicker chairs, reading, drawing, and looking over the side of the mountain at the stunning views below.
I know now that Devin found this place. And I’m pretty sure he’s paying for it too. It’s in a secluded spot, on top of a mountain, occupying over one hundred acres. There are walking trails and bicycle paths as well as an outbuilding with a large pool. I take a swim every m
orning before breakfast, and I’m learning to appreciate the little things again. Like the cool mountain air on my cheeks and the smell of fresh cut grass or the delicious ache in my arms after a swim reminding me my body’s still alive. The scent of fresh baked bread as I walk past the restaurant or the zingy citrusy smell in my room after the cleaning staff have departed. I’ve still a long way to go, and I’m nowhere near ready to deal with my guilt, but I’m making progress. For the first time in a very long time, I’m starting to want things from life again. Starting to feel a smidgeon of hope.
But I’m still no clearer to understanding where I go from here, and as the weeks become months and my date of departure nears, my anxiety rises. So much of what I feel is tied to Devin and Dr. Bennett has started pushing harder these last couple of weeks. She wants Devin to attend a session, but I can’t even bring myself to risk a casual conversation with him, so how can I expose my bleeding heart to him?
He still shows up every day at the same time, without fail.
And every day I turn him away, without fail.
I don’t know what I’d say to him. I’m embarrassed and ashamed, and the longer it goes on, the harder it gets. I know I’m being unfair, but it’s all tied up with this crap in my head, and I’m so scared of opening all that up.
It’s Friday, a day I’ve been dreading for months, and I’m heading back to the compound after a long, solitary walk when I come across Devin shouting angrily as he’s being escorted off the premises. Benny, my favorite of all the security guards, is dragging him along the path. I start toward them with an extra ache in my heart.
I can’t ignore him. Not today.
I slam to a halt a few feet away when I notice Devin is crying. And he’s not putting up a fight anymore. He’s letting Benny lead him away. Slowly, I walk toward them, fighting tears myself. There’s something so emotive about seeing a man cry. Especially someone like Devin, who has never been the overly emotional type. A pang of guilt hits me. I’ve been so selfish. Turning him away because I couldn’t face my feelings. Never once stopping to think about how hard this must be for him.
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