by Cara Dee
She went on. "Are you angry? In general, I mean. Do you look down on your fans?"
Okay, I think we're done.
"You know what? There's something better we could be doing right now," I told her. "Come here." I yanked her close and kissed her to shut her up.
Chapter 8
Adeline Ivey
1998
My plan was working. Which made me sound like a mastermind of sorts. I certainly wasn’t. But when we were in Denver last week, Lincoln felt the need to—once again—point out I should know my place. He'd said it with a smirk before hitting the stage, after I had said I wanted to take it easy for one night.
I had my ups and downs, and I'd felt like crap that night. Nightmares did that to me. Quiet evenings with weed and downers were the best cure.
We ended up going to a club because that was what he'd wanted. It was my purpose, to spread my legs for him and look like a good little slut on his arm. I truly didn’t care about the venom he spat at times, but I did care about sticking around. I was having the time of my life, and I didn’t want it to end—ever. So I'd come up with the brilliant plan of befriending people from the crew. If Lincoln decided to toss me aside, I could still have a fallback. Friends. Morgan and Leo—who was the crew manager—had enough authority to let me stay with them if Lincoln declared he was done.
The only problem was that these were nice people.
Leo was a biker dude who tore his crew new ones if soundcheck wasn’t perfect. He was also funny as hell and had stories about every place we visited. And he was a softy underneath his leathers and scruff, often showing pictures of his boys.
When Lincoln was off doing interviews and signings, I'd watch Leo direct his people around the arenas. And Morgan… Christ, he was so much more than the preppy guy in a suit. I'd been wrong about him. He wasn’t even preppy underneath his shirt and tie.
Tonight was the first time we’d had dinner together alone, yet I was perfectly at ease with him.
"I think I'll have…" Morgan scanned the menu, then looked me in the eye and cocked his head. "What, do I have something on my face?"
I grinned. "No. I was just thinking I'm glad I met you."
"Oh." He smiled and closed the menu, setting it aside. "Well, me too, Ms. Ivey. Even though you don’t keep the best company." He winked. "No matter how gorgeous he is."
I laughed softly, having discovered he was protective of the girls who traveled with the band. The other day, he urged me not to lose myself over a summer fling, and I assured him I wouldn’t. Sex with Lincoln…when he went all out to drive us both insane…? Out of this world. He'd made me cry actual tears of pleasure, though that was where our compatibility ended.
"How old are you?" I asked curiously. The reason I wondered was because Morgan carried himself a lot differently from the guys in the band. He was mature, caring, helpful, and kind of paternal, but he didn’t look a day over thirty.
"Thirty-four. Why?" He smiled politely, and our conversation took a break as the waitress came over to take our orders. "Remember it has to be something you've never tried before."
Oh, right. I giggled and eyed the menu once more. We'd made it a game to try new foods, which I regretted in Oklahoma City. Leo and I were not fans of oysters.
"I'll have the ratatouille, thanks," I said.
"We're not paying. I'm having the damn lobster," Morgan replied. "Have you had lobster before?"
"Sure, lots of times." I was surprised he hadn't. "I figured you attended all kinds of fancy dinners with the band."
"You'd think," he chuckled. The waitress left, and Morgan rested his elbows on the table. My mother would've freaked at his table manners. Don't think about her. "I suppose I've had the opportunity a few times now, but my boss likes to fly in very conveniently when there's a big dinner with the label. Then I get demoted to eat elsewhere." He paused while he straightened his tie. "Part of me still finds it strange, I think. I come from virtually nothing, so ordering the most expensive thing on the menu seems wasteful."
"Here's to your first lobster, then." I held up my soda, and he smiled and clinked his beer bottle to my glass.
"Your turn, Ms. Ivey," he told me. "How did lobster turn into a staple for you?"
I managed to force out a light chuckle, though on the inside, I was suddenly dying. Thinking about my life in general put a rock in my stomach; speaking about it would send me into hysterics.
"Not much to tell." Same words I'd used a hundred times before, most recently with Lincoln. However, I didn’t believe he actually gave a crap. Morgan seemed interested. "Former rich girl gone poor." I shrugged, wishing my soda had alcohol in it. "Or maybe that’s an exaggeration. We were well-off, and then…" I swallowed hard and dropped my gaze. The vise grip on my chest was instant, and I struggled with everything I was to stave off the panic. Don't think about it. Stop thinking, stop thinking.
"Hey." Morgan reached across the table and put his hand on mine. I flinched involuntarily, and he was quick to ease off. "I'm sorry. We can change the topic if you're uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pry, Adeline."
It was too late.
*
"I'll be out in a minute," I croaked. Tearing through my bag, I searched frantically for my makeup case. I'd made it this far; fuck if I was gonna fall apart now.
I hadn't been able to fake it very well at the restaurant, so when Morgan offered to cut dinner short and take us to the arena, I was all for it. Now I'd managed to embarrass myself in the backstage area by going through Lincoln's leather jacket in front of a handful of crewmembers and VIP people. They'd known I was looking for drugs, I had no doubt. Pathetic, that's what I was. In the end, I'd locked myself in the bathroom with my bag. Surely, I had something.
"Say it."
"I'm a whore."
I shook the memories and bit down on my lip hard enough to draw blood. A whimper slipped out before I snarled under my breath. Don't fucking go there. Slut.
"Adeline, honey, I'm getting worried." Morgan tried the doorknob again, as if I'd unlocked it in the past minute since he last tried. "I think the show's over. I'll—fuck, I'll get Lincoln for you, okay?"
The show couldn’t be over. It couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. He was probably talking about the band's show, but my mind raced ahead to my own show. The show that was my life. Fake, fake, fake. There! I found the makeup case, relief surging through me. Oh God, no. The relief was short-lived. I dropped to the floor, a sob trying to rack itself out of me. My mascara fell out, as did my eyeliner and eye shadow. A lip gloss, tweezers… No happiness.
"Say it."
"I'm a whore."
"Stupid, stupid, stupid." I hugged my knees to my chest and screwed my eyes shut. How goddamn stupid could I be? I was smart enough to make friends with industry people, yet I couldn’t stop and think for a fucking second about creating a stash to save for emergencies? "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Weaving my fingers into my hair, I clawed at my scalp and rocked back and forth, trying fruitlessly to get rid of the images.
"You like it, don’t you? Tell me you like it."
"I like it."
"That’s a good whore. Swallow."
A wail left me, and it was like the floor opened up and swallowed me whole, trapping me in a familiar room where no one could hear my screams. He's gone, I reminded myself. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone forever. He's dead. The splitting agony got worse. My head pounded. Someone was shouting inside my mind. Maybe it was him, or me—calling myself weak and dumb. Or maybe… I sucked in a breath, disoriented by the commotion.
It took me a while to realize a part of the chaos wasn’t coming from my skull. It was the door. Someone kicked at it from the outside, and at the next impact, the hinges loosened, causing me to flinch backward.
Before I knew it, Lincoln was hauling me off the floor and picking me up in his arms. I broke to pieces and clung to him as if my life depended on it. It did. My life did depend on it—on him, and what he could help me with. And it was that broken piece that took charge. He
fired off question after question, alarm in his eyes. I acknowledged none of it as my hands roamed his pockets.
"I need—" I was a damn pussy. Too ashamed to say the words. Drugs. Give me something. "Please, I n-need it."
"What do you need, Ade?" He lowered us to the floor and closed the door. I was beyond caring—fuck… I was beyond caring. The realization hit me hard. I didn’t care if the whole world saw me right now. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're a mess, girl. Tell me what you need."
"Coke," I rasped. "Or E. Or anything." I'd take it all. Valium, Xanax, Prozac, oxys, acid… I guess I wasn’t too ashamed anymore. Beyond caring. "Make it stop," I begged. "I'll do anything."
The second it dawned on Lincoln, he might as well have known the whole truth. Something grim tightened his features, and it was the moment he probably realized I wasn’t seeking out drugs for kicks.
He didn’t say anything. Pulling out his wallet, he retrieved a small Ziploc bag and emptied it into his palm. I started trembling in anticipation. There was only a handful of pills, yet they meant the world to me right now.
Lincoln made me a quick cocktail, and I didn’t even question what it was. I swallowed the pills dry and let go of everything. Tears streamed down my face, and my forehead hit his shoulder.
"Say it."
"I'm a whore."
"Shh, I've got you." Lincoln hugged me tightly and stroked my hair. I was so damn lost. The memories crashed around me like waves, and I was the weakest link in any chain, the rock that crumbled and was shaped by water.
He loomed over me with that familiar smile. It was supposed to be nice, but I saw the sinister darkness that he only ever unleashed on me.
"Did you miss me? You're sixteen now. A woman."
"Please stop…"
"What should I stop, Ade? Tell me."
"Not you," I whimpered. Him. My stepfather. Kane. God, I wanted him to disappear. I ached to forget him. It didn’t seem to matter that he was six feet underground. The smallest, most insignificant things could trigger me, and then he was suddenly alive again.
Burrowing in closer to Lincoln, I slid my hands up his chest and soaked up all his warmth. Damp warmth, I eventually noticed. He smelled of whiskey, fresh perspiration, and aftershave.
"How long have you been using daily, Ade?" he murmured.
I shuddered. His large hand stroked my back, and it felt nice. The images were fading slowly, leaving me more relaxed, and my brain was quieting.
"Not long," I whispered hoarsely.
"Should I assume you don’t wanna tell me why?"
I nodded against the crook of his neck. That was exactly what he should assume. I was feeling better, anyway. My thoughts were slowing down. I felt lazy. And glazed…like a donut.
My mouth twisted up.
* * *
2007
Every time a door opened down the hall, I leaned forward to see if it was Abel coming out from his session. When he finally did, his smile matched mine, and the relief continued to wash over me.
We were having a great week.
I rose from my seat and walked over to join him. "How did it go?"
"Good." He took my hand, and I knew I wouldn’t get a more elaborate response from him, so I faced Dr. Anderson.
"He's a bright young man," he said with a smile for Abel. "We're continuing our exercises to manage his stress levels, and I think we made big progress today."
"That’s amazing to hear." I kissed the top of Abel's head and rubbed his neck absently. "I'm proud of you, sweetie."
He blushed and puffed out his chest at the same time. "We talked about, um…triggers?" He glanced at Dr. Anderson, who nodded. "Yeah. Triggers."
"Abel's going to do his best to be vocal when he's starting to feel irritated and stressed out," the doctor went on. "Recognizing what sets him off is a big help."
I nodded, as it was something we'd worked on for a long time. There was very little I could do once Abel exploded, and like I'd said before, I wouldn’t punish him for something he had no control over. Now I could afford therapy regularly for him again, so I was damn near giddy to reintroduce structure, balance, and new exercises.
"What more did you promise, Abel?" Dr. Anderson asked.
Abel rolled his eyes. "That I'm gonna write in my journal for Mom so she can know what I'm thinking more."
Dr. Anderson inclined his head, amused, and I ruffled Abel's hair.
"We'll set reminders," I promised. Facing the doctor, I added, "I want this to be a regular thing now. Therapy, I mean." Before, we were lucky if I could afford two sessions a month. "When we first started here, you recommended one session a week. Can we do that?"
"Why, sure…" He seemed surprised, aware of my financial situation and that I fell through the cracks pretty much everywhere. I didn’t qualify for benefits, nor was I entitled to insurance through work. He also knew I didn’t want to seek aid for fear that the authorities would deem me unfit to care for Abel.
As harsh as it sounded, the last thing the CPS wanted was a bipolar preteen in the system, but it wouldn’t stop them from looking into things. And the last thing I wanted was months of investigating and a cloud of uncertainty hanging over my house. We had too little stability as it was. Social workers poking around when Abel went from suicidal to hyper in a heartbeat could put everything at risk if said social worker didn’t know about his disorder. Or much worse, didn’t believe in it.
Thankfully, our luck had changed.
"One more thing?" I tilted my head at him. "We'd like to go for that clinical trial."
Yes, Dr. Anderson, I kind of won the lottery.
"Oh, I see. Yes, of course we can do that." He opened the door wider to his office. "Step inside for a minute. I'll get you the prescription."
"Can I wait outside with Maggie?" Abel spoke of the receptionist, who was moving away soon.
"Sure thing. I'll just be a moment."
I followed Dr. Anderson into his office, and he took a seat behind his desk.
"May I ask what's changed?" He didn’t look up from the prescription pad as he wrote. "This is for thirty days, by the way. You'll get the quetiapine refilled monthly, and I want to start with a fairly low dosage since his antidepressants are already at twenty milligrams."
"Okay, thank you," I answered. "Um, it's a long story." And Jesse and I hadn't processed this change yet. We'd walked around in a daze for nearly a week, and it wasn’t until the day before yesterday I kicked into gear. The kitchen table at home was now filled with papers from insurance companies, and I was researching our best options. "We got help from…family." Totally the wrong word, yet it would have to do.
"That's excellent news, Adeline." Dr. Anderson signed the slip and tore it off the pad. "I'm very happy for you—" He was cut off by a knock on the door, and I looked over my shoulder to see Dr. Houston there.
Dammit.
He flashed a small smile that only made his eyes seem more leering. "I didn’t mean to intrude, but could I have a moment when you're done, Adeline? I have some requests about your schedule for when you start in January."
"We're finished," Dr. Anderson replied helpfully. Having no clue.
I sighed internally and accepted the prescription, and then I followed Dr. Houston to his office down the hall.
"I couldn’t help but overhear earlier." He opened the door and let me in. Anxiety spiked when he closed it. "And when you start working here in January…? What I'm asking is, this help you're receiving, it's permanent?"
You've got to be kidding me.
I wanted him to say it outright, that he was willing to work something out—sexual favors for medicine. I knew he wouldn’t, though, and I couldn’t jeopardize my job here. I'd have to find something else first.
To add insult to injury, I didn’t know if the money Lincoln was giving me was temporary in the short- or long-term sense. A few months? A year? Either way, I'd be on my own again soon enough, so there would be no burning bridges from me.
"I don’t
know." I swallowed and shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
Dr. Houston saw the possibilities and took a step closer. "It's all right, dear girl." He smiled kindly and rubbed my shoulder while I got smacked in the face with the similarities between him and my stepfather. "You know I'm here for you."
I was gonna throw up.
"Thank you." I smiled tightly as he brushed his thumb over my collarbone where my blouse was open. "I should go."
"Say it."
"I'm a whore."
Chapter 9
Lincoln Hayes
2007
Watching me menacingly while two COs were nearby wasn’t exactly gonna intimidate me. Mack's buddies scattered throughout the library where they had the cushiest job in the prison. The man himself sat at a table with two friends, and he nodded for them to get lost as I approached.
He smirked. "I had a feeling the punk's protector was gonna show up sooner or later."
Well, wasn’t he smart as fuck.
"Let's cut the shit." I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. "He's not playin' when he says he doesn’t have money."
"Ah, but you know, we can never be sure," he chuckled.
Fuck, he was ugly. I wanted to punch the sneering smirk right off his face and give his nose another dent.
I glanced around us. One CO was keeping an eye on us, and so were four of Mack's friends. Without them, Mack was nothing. He had to know that. My gaze slid back to him, and I raised a brow.
"Here's what we can do," I said, lowering my voice. "Either I challenge you in front of your lapdogs to face me man-to-man so we can settle this in the yard—and we know how that would go—or you name your price." I inched in a bit more. "And I have limits, Mack."
He grinned, flashing a set of yellowed teeth. He was my age, but he'd lived a rougher life. Craggy face, prison ink all over his upper body. He was one of those men who needed prison. He'd probably been in and out all his life, and in here, he was someone.
"That ain't how it works," he replied, mildly amused. "I've proved myself to my boys. I could have you killed tomorrow."
I nodded. "And then who would pay you?" I sat back and held my arms wide. "What're you gonna do when you keep cowering away like some pussy? They think you're hot shit right now, but that could change."