The voice mail chime sounded.
Jesus Christ.
And then the hissing started. Get to a meeting.
He set the clipboard on his lap and leaned his head against the wall. Closing his eyes, he took a few breaths of stale air. Air that reminded him of his days at rehab and windows that wouldn’t open.
Get to a meeting.
“Mr. Lynx?” the receptionist asked. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not.
He opened his eyes, stared at the young woman with the kind brown eyes, and he felt like a lying piece of shit who would deceive anyone for a fix. Exactly who he’d never wanted to be.
He stood, walked to the desk, pulled the sheets off the clipboard and handed it back to her. “I can’t stay. I’ll have to come back later.”
Not waiting for a response, he hauled ass from the room. A digital clock on the lobby wall told him he had twenty minutes to get to that meeting on the West Side.
Twenty minutes. He shoved the crumpled paperwork into his jacket pocket and once again stepped into the night air.
Chapter Twelve
He arrived at the meeting five minutes late. But hey, he was here rather than in some clinic faking an injury to score pain meds. That nasty seed still had some life to it, but one thing about him, he knew how to surround himself with people who got shit done.
Which is what he had to do now. DEFCON 1. He’d almost blown it. How many days had he craved the numbness that drugs brought him? After the first six months of recovery, he’d stopped counting the nights he dreamed about using. The counting did him no good. It only reminded him of the battle.
Probably always would. It had taken months to intellectually wrap himself around the idea that he liked being high. As with anything in life, just because he enjoyed it, didn’t mean it was a good idea.
Sort of like Jillian.
The responsible Lynx knew that, but for the past three hundred sixty-three days, his life had been about battling the cravings. Christ, he wanted to give in. Forget all this thinking and fighting and yearning.
The meeting moderator saved him, the latecomer, for last and asked if he had anything he’d like to share.
Not particularly, but he knew this was an integral part of staying on the right path. He introduced himself and went through his spiel, offering only the basics on how he’d wound up addicted to pain meds. Getting oriented to new meetings would never be his favorite activity. He liked his regular meeting with the familiar narcotic addicts who shared the same issues. There was peace there. A common bond that connected them.
But, sometimes, when he felt unsteady and panicked and about to wreck all his good work, any meeting would do.
By 7:55 he was back on Lake Shore. His mind may have been rescued from the immediate urge to swallow a few pills, but the idea of going home to his empty apartment—and cold bed—wouldn’t do him an ounce of good.
Detour.
He turned onto Ashland just as his phone rang. Jillian.
Third time.
He couldn’t talk now. Not to her, anyway. What he needed was to get his head together. Talking to her when he was still teetering on that critical ledge would screw him over.
At the very least, he should make sure she was okay. He pulled into a pharmacy parking lot—how appropriate—and shot her a text. When she responded that she was fine, he told her he’d call later.
After he got through his fucked-up crisis and figured out what the hell he was supposed to do.
He pulled back into traffic and punched the radio on. Sammy Hagar asking why it couldn’t be love.
“Oh, hell no.”
He silenced the radio. Everything was a frigging trigger.
Five minutes later, he pulled into the open spot in Vic’s driveway. The Tahoe was there, the minivan not. Someone was gone. Most likely Gina, because the big man would rather bludgeon himself than drive a minivan.
The curtain on the back door swept open and Gina looked out. Lynx sighed. His entire rebuilt world was coming apart at record speed and Vic driving a minivan only added to the insanity.
She waved him in. No choice now. He pushed the car door open and trudged up the steps.
“Hey,” he said when Gina opened the door.
By the looks of the dark rings around her eyes, the twins were exhausting her. As usual, she offered him that welcoming smile—a mother’s smile—that instantly put him at ease. “Hey, yourself. This is a nice surprise.”
He stepped through the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”
“Nope. I’m guessing you’re looking for Vic. He’s not here. He’ll be back in a few. Ava won’t sleep so he’s driving her around. Which we’ll pay for later when she can’t fall asleep without movement, but right now, we’re desperate.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. All I keep hearing is that Justin is a good sleeper and we females are a pain in my husband’s ass.”
Lynx forced himself not to laugh. “Tell me Vic did not say that to you.”
“Of course he did. He’s an idiot. But he’s also an idiot who’s been up since four, worked all day and is now driving our crabby daughter around so I can get a few minutes of peace.” She pushed Lynx to a chair. “Have you eaten?”
“It’s okay. I’ll grab something.”
“Don’t be a jerk. I have leftovers from dinner. Meatloaf.”
“Not the meatloaf. Vic loves the meatloaf. He’ll crucify me if I eat the last of it.”
Already, she was in the fridge, pulling containers and stacking them on the counter. “He’ll moan about it and I’ll make him another meatloaf. He just needs to be heard.”
“Most of us do, I guess.”
“I’d like him to be heard a little less often.”
Now he laughed and it was a good, honest one that hit him square in the chest. “You guys are nuts.”
She closed the fridge and faced him. “That’s for sure. I look at him and, after knowing him all those years, the bachelor, the loner, the player, I can’t believe he’s so good—in his own perverse way—at being a father to my children. Even the ones who aren’t technically his.”
“Some truth there.”
On cue, the back door opened. Vic stepped in carrying Ava in one of those car seats with the handle. A pink fuzzy blanket had been tucked around her little body, and she looked sweet and innocent and peaceful. Lynx took another blast to the chest. Tough night. Vic held his finger to his lips.
“Thank God,” Gina said.
Ava’s cute baby eyes opened and she looked straight up at Vic, who said, “Oh, shit.”
Then her sweet bow lips parted and the sound that came out defied human possibilities. The high-strung wail hit Lynx’s ears like a pick ax. “Yikes.”
“Christ sakes, Gina,” Vic hollered, and Ava screamed louder. “She was out. Was being the key word.”
Gina rushed over and grabbed the car seat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She went up on tiptoes and kissed him smack on the mouth. “Thank you for trying.”
“All the good it did us.”
“I’ll take her upstairs. She’s overtired. She may just need to cry it out.”
“She’ll wake up Justin.”
“I’ll move him to our room until Ava goes out.” She turned to Lynx. “Welcome to the chaos of twins. Heat up that meatloaf for yourself.”
“Hold on,” Vic said. “First you wake up the baby, now you give him my meatloaf? What’s next?”
Gina grinned. “You know I love you.”
“Besides,” Lynx added, “she said she’d make you more.”
Ava continued to scream and Gina hustled her upstairs. Damn, the kid had a set of lungs. Definitely inherited from her father. Lynx piled the last of the meatloaf on
the plate—might as well polish it off—and shoved it into the micro.
“You know you’re giving me a hunk of that,” Vic said. “My ass if you’re gonna come into my house and eat my meatloaf without sharing.”
The microwave dinged. Lynx grabbed an extra plate and fork out of the drain and handed them to Vic.
“Give me some of that corn too.”
“What the hell? I thought you ate.”
“I did. All that baby crying makes me hungry.”
Lynx dumped most of the corn on his plate and gave the rest to Vic, who said, “I called you before.”
“Yeah. I had a meeting. Stopped on the way back.”
Vic eyed him. “It’s not a meeting night.”
He dove into his meal. “Needed a meeting.”
“What happened? You’re as predictable as my dumps and, once again, you’re out of your routine. Not a good sign.”
More food shoveling. “I needed a damned meeting is all.”
“And you hate strange meetings.” Vic dropped his fork and it clattered against the table. “You got laid.” Lynx shook his head when Vic dabbed at his eyes with his napkin. “Oh, Boy Scout. I’m so proud.”
It appeared assholes really did come in six-foot-five packages. “I didn’t get laid. Eat your meatloaf and stay out of my nonexistent sex life.”
“What happened then?”
Lynx swallowed another bite of his dinner and realized, yes, this is why he’d come here. To talk it out. God help him. Not the talking part so much, but the talking with Vic, a guy violently lacking the sensitivity gene.
But, hell, he might as well admit it. He set his fork down and settled in. “Jillian’s father is an alcoholic. Won’t get treatment.”
“Whoosh.”
“Maybe she could have mentioned it? I mean, I’ve been straight with her from the beginning. At any time, she could have said, ‘Hey, I get it. My dad’s a drunk.’ She didn’t say that. She didn’t say squat. About anything. So why am I playing the honesty card and she’s not?”
After bullying a hunk of meatloaf down his throat, Vic shook his head. “You think too much. You’re a goddamned girl.”
Lynx’s phone rang. Jillian again. He silenced it. “I’m just saying. At some point in all this mess, she could have opened up.”
“You don’t think that maybe you’re overreacting because you want to blow your one-year plan and that scares the crap out of you?”
“Shut the fuck up. Okay?” Even if Vic did have a point, who needed it?
“When has that approach worked on me? Maybe, dickweed, she was embarrassed. Maybe she was thinking if you knew she was a magnet for addicts you’d take off. How ’bout that theory?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Vic laughed. “So, what? You found this out and left? Walked out? You two are a fucking disaster. She’s afraid of you because you’re an addict and you’re afraid of her because you think she’ll make you blow your recovery. Twisted.”
The phone rang again. Vic pushed out of his chair, grabbed the phone and tossed it out the back door.
Lunatic. “Uh, that was my company phone.”
“You’ll get a new one.”
“Yeah. After Mike screams at me.”
“He won’t care. I broke his plane once. It’s all relative.”
“You broke his plane? How the hell?”
“Let’s focus here. We gotta clean up this Jillian mess before you wind up back in rehab.” Lynx threw his hands in the air, but Vic wanted no part of that. “You want sensitive, hire a shrink. Besides, you came here.” He picked up the empty plates and took them to the sink, where he rinsed them and loaded the dishwasher. “You need to talk to her.”
“Not tonight. I’m still pissed.”
“Fine. Then tomorrow. You gotta call her or do something to initiate the conversation. You need to calmly—calmly, asshole—tell her how you feel. Christ knows I suck at that, but you’re basically screwed here. Suck it up, Boy Scout.”
Unfortunately, it made sense. He’d been so pissed off that she’d never admitted her father’s addiction to him that he’d forgotten to ask her why. Talk about a missing sensitivity chip.
“For the record, she walked out on me.”
“Wah, wah.”
“I did go at her hard. And look at you giving me relationship advice. Maybe we’ll give you your own daytime talk show to go with the minivan you’re driving.”
Vic cracked a smile while he added soap to the dishwasher. What Lynx would do for a photo of this. Considering his phone was probably in pieces on the driveway.
“Boy Scout, I could still end your life a thousand ways. And, by the way, you’re sleeping on my couch tonight.”
“No, I’m not.”
Vic assumed the arms-crossed, I-will-bring-pain-to-your-life stance. “Yeah, you are. You came here for a reason. My guess is you’re thinking about popping some pills. You’re a pain in the ass, but I like you and I’m not gonna let you do it. Are we clear?”
Crystal. This was absolutely why Lynx had come here. To Chicago in general. Down deep, he’d known, despite the crap Vic would give him day in and day out, he’d find a safe place to land.
In his go-for-broke way, Vic brought him out of his sudden turmoil.
Lynx nodded. “We’re clear. And thank you. Maybe I’ll take you up on the couch offer. I need to talk to Jillian first. This will bug me all night if I don’t.”
“Take care of it and come back. We’ll watch SportsCenter until Matt gets home late for curfew and I have to blow a gasket. Goddamned school night and I know he’s gonna jerk my chain.”
Lynx stood, looked around the homey kitchen as Vic strode past him to the living room. Even with the crying babies, the aggravation of a teenager and the total lack of sleep, Vic’s life didn’t seem so bad.
At least he had something to come home to.
* * *
Jillian pulled into her driveway and shoved the car into park. The motion-controlled overhead light on the garage lit up and she closed her eyes against the glare. She could nap right here. In the two hours she’d been driving around trying to clear her mind after what could only be categorized as her and Jack’s first grand-mal argument, she hadn’t accomplished much. Sitting in the dark, at least, gave her a moment of peace from worrying about her attachment to him and whether or not their fight had him running off to get high. Or maybe she was giving herself too much credit about his level of attachment.
Regardless, she’d called him three times already and each time he’d ignored her. Three times he’d refused to pick up.
What was that about? Sure, he’d texted her, but she wanted to have a conversation. That thing people did when they wanted to resolve their differences. Not a lot to ask. Except he was being a child.
For her part, she wanted to apologize for walking out on him. Terrible blunder. At the time, she’d felt attacked. Violated even. She’d been keeping her family’s issues to herself, opting not to share their nasty secrets. She’d been living this way for years and suddenly, the pressure of carrying all that pain and angst burst free, her wounds gaping open, bleeding and vulnerable.
Her immediate instinct had been to self-protect. To hide the wounds.
So she ran. And now, Jack had decided to torture her by not taking her calls.
Or he was on a bender somewhere.
She slammed the car door. She couldn’t continue to do this to herself. This man was not her responsibility. Nor was he her father, who took every available opportunity to get up close and personal with a bottle. This was the life she’d worked so hard to leave behind.
A life without worry, obsession and codependence.
She jammed her key into the lock. At leas
t he’d done her the favor of locking up. Stupid of her to walk out of her own house. Dumb girl giving into the flight instinct because things had gotten rough. She flipped the key and gave the door a push.
From behind her, someone clamped a hand on her shoulder.
Jack.
A shove sent her flying through the doorway to her elbows. Panic exploded, making her arms and legs, her entire body, itch. She had to move.
Get out. Back door. Without looking back, she scrambled to her feet and bolted.
“She’s quick,” came a gruff male voice from behind her. “This will be fun.”
“Right.” A second voice. Not as deep. “Better challenge.”
One person she might be able to evade. Two wouldn’t work. She reached the kitchen, had the door in her sights, her gaze on the lock and then the inside of the doorframe.
A chunk of her already faltering control slipped. Mr. Responsibility had bolted the damned door. She’d never get free if she had to stop and unbolt it.
The alarm keypad. Next to the door. Panic button.
A thick arm circled her waist and tightened. She kicked backward, landing somewhere in the region of his shin. In one giant swoop, the beefy arm lifted her and slammed her on top of the breakfast bar. Her hip took the full blow and a shock of paralyzing energy careened down her leg. She slid across the counter, ricocheted off the other side to the floor and bounced off her tailbone. Breath-trapping agony brought tears to her eyes.
So much pain. The room spun in a dizzying circle.
No time for pain. One of the men came into focus. A hulking man, definitely Asian. His arms were the size of her thighs. His flat face revealed large brown teeth.
He’ll hurt me.
She rolled left, jumped from the floor and dove over the counter, her palms skidding across the cold surface.
The heavyweight’s eyes widened. He reached for her again, but his hands slid down her legs. No grip. She spun, threw a side kick and caught him under the armpit.
“Umph,” he gasped. “Grab her!”
The second man had darker skin, Hispanic maybe, and was shorter but just as big around. Fleshy. He lunged for her and, using the only weapon she had, she smashed an elbow across his face. She connected with his cheek and he stumbled back.
Opposing Forces Page 15
