by K. L. Savage
“What is it about him that you don’t like?”
Is it possible to say everything? He’s the reason why…
It doesn’t matter.
“Do we have to continue to talk about this? How are you doing, Ms. Havensworth?” I ask, turning the tables on her. I’m sure she is used to patients doing that.
“I’m fine. We aren’t here to talk about me, are we?”
“We can be if you’d like,” I say.
She tilts her eyes toward the file and reads something else. “And the baby?” Damn, there it is. She skips to where the problem is every single session.
It’s the one thing I never ever want to talk about. I stand so fast my head spins. My emotions are climbing higher and higher. I’m about to break. “That…” I sneer and slam my fist on her desk, but she doesn’t even flinch. “That is something I never want to discuss.”
She closes my file, never taking her eyes off me, and stands from her chair as well, meeting my stance. Ms. Havensworth looks superb in her pantsuit. Classy. Rich. Elegant. Life must be nice to live in such luxury. “Until we talk about what happened, I don’t see you going anywhere, Sunnie.” Her tone is soft, a caress of sympathy or pity across my cheek.
Hot tears fall down my face so fast, I can’t wipe them off quick enough, so I just let them fall. “Then you better get used to seeing me around because that is one subject I refuse to fucking talk about.” I turn on my heel and swing the door open, nearly colliding with Patrick’s therapist. I’d know that ketchup-stained tie from anywhere.
And he has a black eye.
Yikes.
“My god, what happened to you, Charles? Did Patrick do this?” Ms. Havensworth gasps.
“He needs a different therapist. He is … unreasonable, moody, and—”
I poke the guy in the chest. “Don’t talk about my friend like that. You don’t know what he has been through.” I don’t either. I have no idea why I have the urge to defend a guy who’s been nothing but rude to me ever since I made myself appear in his life. I mean, how dare he?
“Your friend?” Ms. Havensworth asks, intrigued.
“Don’t even think about writing that down!” I point to her, watching her hand drift to her notepad unapologetically.
“Wouldn’t consider it,” she has the audacity to say that to my face as she writes something on her notepad. “Just a reminder of an appointment.”
I can’t stand therapy, and by the looks of it, neither can Patrick. “Did you figure out why he likes to be called Pirate?”
“No. He stayed silent for fifty-five minutes, and when I opened my mouth, he hit me.”
I snicker and then roll my lips together to stop myself from insulting Charles even further.
“I’ll see you next week, Sunnie. You can’t run forever. Reality always catches up with you.”
So you’ve said. I give her my back and march down the hall. I need to remember I’m here to get help, but anytime my baby is brought up, I lose it. I pick up the pace and run. People try to stop me, reaching their hands out to grab ahold of my arm to slow me down, but my tears cloud the edges of my eyes, and the only thing that matters is getting away.
Away from the pain.
Away from the past.
Away from it all.
She’s wrong. If I keep running, the past won’t catch up to me; not if I stay ahead of it. I slide into a room and slam the door, then lock it. A rush of knocking vibrates my forehead as I lean against the door and sob.
“Hey, why the hell are you crying? Gray skies?”
“Storms,” I correct him. Damn it. Of course, I’d run into Patrick’s room. Why am I here? Why did my mind guide me here of all places? I need solitude, not attitude.
“Leave her alone. Let her be,” Ms. Havensworth’s voice comes from the other side of the door, and the knocks end abruptly.
“Sounds dark. Want to share?” he asks.
I turn around to look at him, and he looks a lot better than he did earlier. My chin starts to wobble, and I shake my head.
“That’s okay. I don’t like sharing either.” His eyes soften as he stares at me, and for the first time since I’ve seen him, I fall a little bit into the unknown of Patrick. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.” He scoots over on the bed and pats the space next to him. “Come on.”
I don’t move. I’m too stunned to try.
“Well, hurry up before I change my damn mind. Shit, I don’t do the ‘crying’ girl thing, okay? You want a hug? Go find a teddy bear.” His pale, clammy face finds color in his cheeks as he blushes.
I’m not sure what to make of him, but I take a step forward anyway. The room is dark and cold, and the light the lamp gives off only illuminates half of his face. Yeah, I have a feeling I’m seeing exactly what I’m meant to.
There’s the good side of Patrick, then the shadowed side. A true representation of who he is as a person. I like both. Does that make me crazy?
I sit on the bed, and he moves his arm out for me. I lay down and inch closer to him. We move as slow as molasses toward one another, and his hand falls to my arm just as my head lays on his chest. He takes a sharp breath, and his chest expands which causes me to lift in the air.
“Who needs a teddy bear when I have Patrick the Pirate.” I sniffle and try to stop crying, but I can’t. I think back to when I lost the baby, a baby I didn’t even want at first. I thought of her as this curse, this horrible consequence that ruined my life. I hated her.
I hated the man who gave her to me.
I hated that because of her I needed to change my life. I had to force myself to get sober.
Then, when I reached sobriety, the impossible happened—I wanted her. I realized I loved her more than anything in the world, and instead of ruining my life, she saved it.
It was too late. My hate killed her.
“Shut up,” he snaps, the familiar anger in his voice. His words don’t match his actions. His fingers slide up and down my arm, doing his best to calm me down.
I listen to the staccato of his heart, steady and strong; strong enough to beat the poison that he has been pumping in his veins. I wrap my arm around his midsection and bury my face in his chest. “You showered. You smell good.” He smells like a plain bar of soap, but it’s way better than the stench he had on him before.
“Do you ever not talk?”
“Nope.”
“I guess a guy can’t ever be lucky.”
He’s such an ass.
Patrick pulls me closer, and being curled up against his just as battered and broken body has another wave of tears threatening to drench my cheeks. He’s offering solace to me when he doesn’t feel it himself. “Stop your tears, Sunnie. I don’t know how to fix it for you. I don’t know how to fix myself, but I do know hearing you cry, when I’m so used to seeing you smile, doesn’t sit right with me.”
I like hearing him speak. His voice is different. A deep baritone that sounds unused. It probably is. He’s so used to drinking and not carrying on conversation that his voice has changed.
“I’ll do my best.” I squeeze my eyes closed and hold him tighter. Why does he feel so good? There’s more to him than the angry defense mechanism he always has at the ready, and I want to penetrate it. He’s an enigma, sad and goddamn beautiful, but he doesn’t see the good.
He only sees the worst in himself.
And as long as he sees that, he won’t ever see me. Not really. Not how I see him.
I don’t want to admit that he feels good, real good, better than heroin ever made me feel and that’s a scary thing because I loved heroin. I would have killed for it, stolen for it, fucked for it, basically anything and everything. Heroin, ironically, made me feel safe. I was able to lose myself in something that brought me comfort.
Patrick makes me feel safe. Even in his weakest state, he brings me security. He is a high I could chase if I’m not careful. And when a chase is in pursuit, that means one thing. Patrick could become a new addiction.
<
br /> “You’ve stopped crying,” he says. His fingers are still lazily drifting up and down my arm.
“If you keep talking, that might not be the case.”
“Cheeky,” he repeats what I said earlier to him. “I’m turning off the light. I’m tired. If you don’t want to sleep, I suggest you leave.”
“I’m good where I’m at,” I whisper, burying my cheek against his side.
The light clicks off, taking with it my ability to see. I can only feel the body pressed against mine. Patrick has no idea how long it’s been since I’ve just laid with someone.
“I hope you aren’t afraid of the dark.”
“Mmm, it isn’t the dark I’m afraid of.” I drift my hand over his chest and inhale his scent, getting sleepy and slightly drunk off him.
I’ll never need a shot to the veins again as long as Patrick is by my side.
“What is it?”
I pretend I’m asleep, so I don’t have to answer him.
I’m afraid you’re the kind of guy I could fall in love with.
Love isn’t a savior, and it sure as hell isn’t beautiful. I used to believe it was the answer to everything, but love is just another form of addiction, gift-wrapped with a pink bow. The present contains disappointment and poison, and you realize something that used to be so pretty is doused in hate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PIRATE
It’s been a week since I woke up with my arms empty.
I don’t know what came over me, inviting Sunnie into my bed like that. When she slammed the door and cried, her smile that usually pisses me off was gone. While her sunny disposition irks me eighty—okay—ninety percent of the time, I missed it in that moment. Seeing her fall apart made something inside me open up for her.
I slept better than I have in years with her in my arms. It isn’t a feeling I ever want to experience again. Peace? Good dreams? Warmth?
All things I don’t deserve.
I hate how different Sunnie makes me feel. She is literal sunshine casting along the darkness that’s consumed me. I don’t want light. I don’t want to feel this way. I vowed to condemn myself for the rest of my life after what happened to my sister. Sunnie is dangerous. She makes me want more for myself.
More is not an option.
She cannot be an option.
It’s not even the last thing I deserve because I deserve nothing.
I need a drink.
Yet, I can’t have one while I’m in this rehab center, sitting around in a circle, fucking waiting for the counselor to tell us to hold hands and sing Kumbaya.
I can’t wait for this shit to be over.
The room has calming music in the background, reminding me of when Becks gives massages to the MC members. Thinking about them has a fresh wave of anger, resentment, and melancholy hitting me. I miss them, but I’m so angry at them too.
I’m here because of my brothers.
No, I’m here because of me.
Blaming them for my addiction isn’t fair. They were trying to help me, not knowing I didn’t want their help. A guy can’t die in peace, I suppose.
“Welcome to your first group session. I’m your counselor, Flower.”
Fucking hell, maybe this place will end up killing me after all. I have a hippie-chick with a voice as soft as velvet. I bet she dances around fires and believes in aliens. No judgment, but she ain’t my cup of tea.
She’s going to drive me to drinking again.
“Hi, Flower,” everyone around me responds, staring at her with hope and adoration that I can’t seem to conjure up.
I take my time eyeing everyone in the group. There’s around ten of us. Men and women alike. All of them are older than me. A few women have wrinkles on their cheeks, and the men are either bald or their hair is turning silver from age. They all look like they have been through hell too.
So many things in common with these people. Look at me, making friends. If I knew I could get out of here without getting tackled to the ground by an orderly, I’d leave. Since I’m involuntarily committed and can’t leave on my own until I get the stamp of approval, leaving isn’t much of an option.
I have to sit and listen like a good boy.
“Now, we are all going to go around and introduce ourselves and explain what brought us here today. Remember, this is a safe space. We are friends here, okay?” She nods and picks a few people to smile at. She has long, wavy blonde hair, and she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. Flower is a bit withered from staying out in the sun too much. Her skin is the consistency of leather, brown and crinkled. Her teeth are blinding white and stark against the overly tan skin. “Why don’t you start?” She lays her hand on the back of the man next to her, and he darts his eyes around nervously. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he threads his fingers through his thin black hair. “It’s okay. This is a safe space, remember?” she reminds him.
I let my head fall onto my shoulders and roll it from side to side, taking a deep breath in so I don’t strangle anyone. Safe space, my ass. I’ve met some of the nurses and orderlies here, like Lundon; the last thing this rehab center is, is safe.
The guy clears his throat and picks at the carpet. “Hi everyone. I’m-I’m-I’m Rob. So-sorry. I-I-get ner-vo-vous when I t-t-ta-talk and st-st-stutter.”
Well, fuck me. I’m no psychologist, but I’m going to go ahead and assume his stutter drove him to drinking.
“Hi, Rob,” everyone says in unison again.
Am I the only one who didn’t get the memo to do that?
“I’m forty-ye-years-old. I sta-started dri-drink-drinking cause my mo-mom d-d-died.”
And the biggest asshole award goes to me.
He tears up, and his chunky cheeks turn red.
Yep. I’m a dick.
“You don’t have to get into your story today, Rob. We are introducing ourselves. It’s about getting comfortable.” Flower places her hand on his shoulder, and he nods spastically and blows out his cheeks as he exhales a breath.
I remember being in school and it was time to read out loud. Every kid would take a turn. One would read one paragraph, and the person behind them would read the other. My stomach would flip with anxiety because what if I sounded like an idiot reading?
That’s how I feel right now.
“I’m Amber.”
“I’m Steven.”
“I’m Isabella.”
And round and round we fucking go like a damn merry-go-round until it’s my turn.
I stretch my legs out. I’m too big to be sitting on the floor with my legs crossed. “I’m Pirate.” I wave my hand in greeting with a closed smile stretching my lips that says I really don’t want to be here.
“You think you’re a pirate?” Amber asks, an older lady with chin hair.
“No,” I reply simply.
“It’s a nickname?” Flower asks.
“I thought we weren’t ‘getting to know each other?’” I make sure to lift my hands and finger quote what she said moments before.
“Well, it’s okay to ask questions. It’s why we are here.” Her brown eyes stay happy and the smile is plastered on her face, but I know better.
No one is that fucking happy.
Sunnie proved that to me a week ago when she came into my room, crying her damn eyes out. Damn that girl, being there for me through the worst. All I could do in that moment was take her in my arms. What other choice did I have?
Her worst is my best.
That is how different we are.
“Pirate? Can you please explain your name?” Flower asks.
“No,” I say simply. It’s no one’s business but my own.
“Wh-wh-why n-not?” Rob stutters.
Oh, come on, that’s not fair. How can I say no to a guy who stutters?
I clean the dirt out from under my nails, wishing I had one of Tongue’s sharp knives to help me out. I debate for a minute, trying to see what I want to share with people and what I don’t want to. Being here is … hard, real fucking ha
rd. It’s making me face issues about myself. I don’t like that. I was content with who I was before. I was ready for death. I had given up. Everyone around me, mostly Sunnie, they are showing me other ways to live, and it’s overwhelming.
How can I let go of eighteen years? I’ve made myself suffer for so long, I’ve convinced myself of what I deserve.
My battle is a tug-of-war. A push and pull between what I deserve and what I don’t, a choice that’s being forced on me.
It’s like swallowing lye, but the more I’m pushed, the more I want a normal life, and the truth fucking eats me alive. I’ll never say it out loud.
I’ll die with that secret.
I lift my eyes from my hands and stare at Rob, who is waiting for my answer, legs shaking with anxiety. I turn my head, staring at everyone in the circle who is apparently an alcoholic like me, and Flower is right.
Let’s hope lightening doesn’t strike me down for saying that, but she’s right.
There’s comfort in knowing I’m with people that understand me. I scratch the stubble on my chin and anxiety twists my stomach. No one knows me. Not even my brothers. Reaper doesn’t know what happened to me when I was thirteen.
The only person who understands me is me. I have never let anyone close enough to know if there is something inside me worth saving. I’m a damned soul. The devil is toying with me, and she’s in the shape of a bottle filled with rum. She feels good too, pouring the flames of hell down my throat. She burns me from the inside out, turning me to ash. Only when I’m reborn, I pick up another bottle of her essence and lose myself in the fire all over again.
“I’m part of the Ruthless Kings MC here in Vegas.”
A few gasps and murmurs fill the room, but Flower doesn’t seem surprised. “That must be a hard life. Is that what got you drinking?” she asks, leaning her elbows on her knees, intertwining her hands together.
I chuckle and elbow the person next to me. “She thinks it’s the MC.” I point to Flower. “That’s funny. No, whatever you heard about us, you’ve heard right, but that’s not why I drink.”
“Then, Pirate is your road name?” she states.
I nod. “It is. Seems you know your MCs.”
