Edge of Recovery (Love on the Edge) (3 page)

“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.

“
H
i
. 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.

“Was that before you came here for help?” Thomas asked him.

Conner shook his head. “Nah. That was a few years ago.”

“I see,” Thomas said, writing notes on his clipboard like he’d jot down the insight to our souls at some point and crack the code on the cure to our afflictions.
Good fucking luck.

“Was he an asshole?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Conner chuckled. “Hell yes. Dick was always hitting on the waitresses and working them to the bone. I’m not sorry for going after him, just sorry I can’t remember it.”

I reached over and gave him a fist-bump. Thomas sighed audibly and glared at me, his pen in hand. He scribbled something else down, and I cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to try to get in my head.

Not a place you want to be, dude.
I tried to convey the message with my eyes, but he didn’t flinch—which was the typical response from the general population when I fastened them with the look.

Unless you were Blake.

In the beginning, she’d hand it right back to me, her hands on her hips. I’d worn her threadbare by the end, though, so much that she’d crumble in on herself and do whatever I’d tell her. I’d convinced myself the satisfaction in her submission was out of the most primal pieces of my soul, that relationships worked that way, that she was supposed to cower under my anger, and rise to my passion. It wasn’t until she’d pushed back when I’d almost…

I swallowed a mouthful of bile that crept up my throat. I needed a fucking drink. Her voice was too clear in my head, her frightful scream right in my ear.

The foggy glass over my relationship had been shattered that night by my own hand, and only got worse the clearer things became over the course of weeks afterward. The beat down I’d gotten from that tool, the only fight I’d ever only half participated in, had been another shot of truth to the face.

I had fucked up. I
was
fucked up. And I had no clue where to go from there.

Apparently, the answer had been prison. And now rehab.

“Thanks for sharing, Conner.” Thomas’ voice cut through my thoughts. “Group will meet in the promenade tomorrow, same time. I encourage you all to take advantage of the beautiful weather and explore the lake or boating house for your leisurely activities today before mess bell.”

A couple of people from the group bolted out of their chairs, their quick efforts to leave as fast as possible not lost on Thomas by the look of his strained face. I almost felt sorry for the guy. He genuinely seemed like he wanted to help these people—even me—but the part of me that knew he was fighting a useless, endless battle, knew better than to pity him.

Conner stayed in his chair and his laid-back lounged position made him look like he’d been in the situation several times before. I leaned my elbows on my knees, motioning to him with a nod.

“You didn’t tell me this wasn’t your first clinic.”

Conner shrugged but chuckled. “Didn’t realize we were to the sharing stage of our relationship.”

I shook my head. “How many times you do this?”

He rolled his hazel eyes upward like he was mentally counting. “Five?”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, rubbing his palms together. “Never sticks. The craving hit me early on, and I’ve been powerless to stop it since.”

I pressed my lips together. “I hear that, man,” I said, leaning further back into my chair. I’d started drinking right before my aunt and uncle turned me out on the streets, and it had only gotten worse the more I realized it was the only thing that took me away from myself…someone I’d grown to hate without even realizing. By the time I did, I was so deep into it I couldn’t stop. And more so, I didn’t want to.

The taste of vodka pulsed on the back of my throat, teasing me with thirst, with the sensation the clear liquid could offer if I got my hands on a bottle. I cracked my knuckles, wanting to punch Devlin in the face. Why couldn’t he sneak me a bottle in here? Why did it only have to be drugs?

Clenching my eyes shut, I took a deep breath and tried not to think about how many more fucking days I had in this place. How many hours it’d be before I could take a drink. The pills stashed in the pocket of my jeans grew hot, and the temptation was there, but I’d tried pills before. They didn’t numb me like the drink did. They only made me over analyze every aspect of the past that haunted me, and I did enough of that sober.

“How many for you?” Conner asked.

“First time.”

“Damn. The first one is the worst,” he said, taking his pack of cigarettes out and smacking the lid against his palm.

I nodded. “It’s no Disneyland.”

He chuckled and popped a cigarette toward me, motioning toward the doors that exited to the grounds behind us. I took the cigarette and followed him, the sun near blinding as we stepped outside.

My aunt had spared no expense when securing me a room here. The facility was more like a resort than a rehab clinic—if you overlooked the fact that its “guests” were all some form of junkie or alchi with or without various other mental health issues. The building itself was a stucco mansion, with more rooms than I could count, and it sat on over a hundred acres of plush green grass, complete with a crystal-clear lake, and every kind of toy—from jet skis to horseback riding—you could want. If you were into that sort of thing. Which I wasn’t.

Conner chose a spot at one of the wooden picnic tables resting underneath the shade of a massive oak tree, and I straddled the bench across from him, lighting the end of my cigarette.

The smoke felt good in my lungs but barely made a dent in the pulse-pounding thirst that wouldn’t quit throbbing.

“You think this time it’ll stick?” I asked, continuing our earlier conversation.

Conner sucked in a sharp breath, blowing out a stream of smoke so slowly I assumed he didn’t know the answer. “I want it to.”

“Really?” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not trying to get all touchy feely here, man, but I call bull shit.”

He laughed, taking another long drag. “I’m exhausted. Being two different people—the one I am inside,” he said, touching his chest before flicking his ashes to the side, “—and the one I wish I was—it’s a nightmare I can’t wake up from.” He shrugged. “I’ll have periods of clarity, where I can see how my life would play out if I just stopped…but then the
need
hits me, and I’m sunk. Can’t fight it. Even when I’m clean for a while…” he grabbed his neck. “it’s like the craving is constantly there like a collar just waiting for me to choke.”

“Truth.” I nodded, breathing in the smoke in an attempt to erase the memory of the taste in my mouth.

“It’s easier when I have people around me. Like my brother,” he continued, grinning. “That dude is a pain in the ass, but no one keeps me grounded like him.”

“Wouldn’t know,” I said, putting out the end of my cigarette on the sole of my boot.

“You don’t have anyone?”

“Nope.”

“How’d you afford this place?”

“My aunt paid for it, but she’s not my family. She kicked me to the curb at sixteen and only recently popped back up.” I shrugged. “She got me out of jail, though, so this was the price.”

“Not too steep. Assault?” Conner tilted his head.

I cut my eyes to him. “Is it that obvious?”

“You have that look about you.”

“You see? I chuckled. “I’m fucked.”

“Nah, man. It’s never too late. You can’t change. No one can do that, but you can rearrange how your trigger works.”

“How do you do that?”

“Once I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” he said.

“While you work on that,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. We were alone on the grounds, but I still leaned over the table. “If you need help…
weaning
, I’ve got you covered.”

His eyebrows twitched, and he licked his lips. “Yeah?”

I nodded.

Shaking his head, he stood up and sucked the last of his cigarette down to the filter. “Nah, man. I really want to see my brother again after this. If I slip on the inside? Shit, he won’t come around.”

I pushed off the bench. “No worries, bro. You know where to find me if the withdraws get too rough.”

He immediately smacked his pack against his palm again, a little too rapidly. “You know if you get caught you’ll go straight back to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred-dollars.” He sucked through his teeth. “I wouldn’t want to do a stretch that long inside. I’d rather be here. We’ve got women, and cookies.”

I laughed, understanding his position but ignoring the free advice. I didn’t care at this point, plus I had no intentions of getting caught. “I feel you, though I haven’t seen one cookie yet.”