Purple Haze (Blue Dream Book 2)

by Unknown

  Purple Haze

  Xavier Neal

  Purple Haze

  By Xavier Neal

  © Xavier Neal 2015

  Published by Entertwine Publishing

  Cover by Entertwine Publishing

  All rights reserved

  License Note

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author or Entertwine Publishing. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated: To the Universe...thanks for letting all my hazes be colorful.

  Ryder

  “My name is Ryder Collins,” I announce quietly from behind the podium. “And I'm a recovering drug addict.”

  This speech is as bland as the environment. It's over rehearsed. Empty. Hollow. The words themselves have lost meaning. Recovering? I'm recovered. But that's the thing about being an addict. You are always recovering. You are always an addict. It's like a plague. No matter how hard you scrub your name, your personality, your actions, you will forever be permanently branded with the black stain of your mistakes. Self-disdain isn't penance enough.

  At the end of my insipid recalling of how I found myself on this road, I sit back down in the audience for the brief moment it takes our host to close the gathering. Afterwards I awkwardly wander over to the refreshment table where I grab the only artificial sugar I'm allowed. Noah's stick figure wife doesn't stay that way on accident. My niece will need me around if she ever wants to try something without an organic label.

  “Hey friend,” a voice says from beside me, diverting my attention to it. As soon as our eyes connect, her green ones light up. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  I offer a forced smile. “Kara.”

  “Ryder....” She twists her low rise jean covered hips. My eyes glance at the invitation of flesh. The smooth surface of sexuality displayed for me. For the group. For any man or woman willing to fall for the seductive presentation. I don't feel tempted. Not worth breaking my celibacy vow. Not sure I ever will.

  “Haven't seen you here before.” I grab a doughnut. “First time?”

  “Here.” She shrugs with a smirk. “Been meeting hopping since I got out.”

  “Can't commit?” It's a question she could easily turn around on me. I'm not even sure exactly why I'm here once a week, every week. Maybe it's for me. Maybe it's for that little girl who hasn't had a chance to judge me on my past mistakes. She's my own little personal clean slate.

  “More like I go where I feel.” She tosses her blonde hair, which now has purple tips, over her shoulder. “Free spirit.”

  “Is that the statement the purple is making?”

  Kara grins widely. “That's the statement my top is making.”

  The comment has me glance over the see through, lace, white crop top. Her statement is different now than it was when we first met. Rehab does that to people. Forces you to conform to the prosaic package society demands you function in. Rips the colors known as allurement out, stripping away everything that makes you a unique individual. Rehab commands you to constrict while the outside world lets you breathe. Part of me feels there should be an acceptable median, yet every day I wake up I learn just the opposite. Every day I struggle to shove myself into the socially acceptable box. The one where drugs aren't my first thought in the morning, where self-loathing isn't soothed by nicotine. The one that's supposed to be better than the white walls of despair I spent those months in.

  Suddenly Kara's teeth sink into the soft doughnut in my hand while her eyelashes bat anything but innocently up at me. After she swallows she suggests, “Pancakes?”

  I glance at the tainted dessert. “Can't.”

  “Can't?” The disbelief in her tone lifts her own eyebrows. “Or won't, Ryder Collins?”

  Shouldn't. I shouldn't have anything to do with her. Sure, she was a warm conversation, embodied proof I could socialize outside of my own brain, but now...now she's nothing more than a reminder of a lifestyle I want to get away from. Kara isn't the kind of person who wants to stay clean. Her sobriety is just like her trips to these meetings. Temporary. I don't want temporary. I want permanent. I need permanent.

  “Can't.” Casually, I clear my throat. “My brother's parked outside waiting for me.”

  “Bummer,” she whispers and licks away the frosting on the corner of her lip. “Next time then.”

  Instead of agreeing, I force another fake smile on my face. She turns on heals and struts away towards another gathering of individuals. On a disappointed sigh, I toss the pastry in the trashcan beside an older gentleman. Instantly, my eyes zoom in on the familiar scorpion tattoo on his neck.

  I step closer to him. “Excuse me, sir.”

  His dark brown eyes speak louder than any verbal response.

  “Do not fuck with our family.”

  The words instantly change his expression to a cheerful one. He extends his large palm to introduce himself. “Law.”

  Not surprised by his name, I shake back. “Ryder Collins.”

  “Ah.” Law nods slowly. “You've crossed paths with Doc.”

  “He changed my life.”

  “He does that. You have a sponsor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You need one.”

  “You offering?”

  “I'm accepting.”

  It's not just the job definition for a name he shares with Doc. It's the bluntness. The authoritative attitude from the moment they speak to you. Most people wouldn't welcome such an uninviting demeanor. I think I crave it.

  “You need to understand that this is going to be a war. Rehab was boot camp. What's next is nothing less than an on-going battle. Every moment from the second you open your eyes 'til you close them again. There's temptation around every corner.”

  The sentence is proceeded by Kara strutting past us. She gives me a brief wink causing me to mutter under my breath, “You have no idea...”

  There's a heavy pat on my shoulder. “You're gonna take my number. Use it. Day. Night. Doesn't matter. I'm always available.”

  My eyes meet his. “You don't have a family?”

  “Three kids and an old lady.” He cocks a smirk. “Always available.”

  I attempt to smile in return.

  “You're at a crucial crossroads in life. You're going to need all the support you can get. Recovery starts in rehab, but the reality is, it's a lifetime commitment.”

  No one tells you that when you take your first hit. It's not on any fucking warning label. The built in lifetime responsibility that comes even once you stop fucking with the drug. There's no heads up that your relationship with nicotine or morphine or amphetamines is 'til death do you part. That even once you stop loving it you're still bound together forever. There's only one decision I hate more than the pledge to share part of my life permanently to poison and that's living without the one person I know my soul will always be devoted to.

  Presley

  In disbelief I rub my temple with one hand. “How is this possible?”

  “Ma'am-”

  “Please don't ma'am me,” I sigh into the phone. “And please do not give me another excuse.”

  “Ma'am-”

  “My home was supposed to be ready for this weekend. I have the movers already booked. I-”

  “We understand your frustrations,” the nasally woman lies. Maybe she does understand them yet doesn't care. Either way it feels like a lie.
Like a stale, well placed, scripted lie. “However, due to unforeseen reasons, we cannot move you in before next weekend. For this inconvenience we will compensate you by reducing your first month's rent.”

  Inconvenience. One word that seems to be able to define my entire existence now. “And there's nothing I can do to possibly get in this weekend instead?”

  “No.”

  Unsure if she could've answered any faster, I shut my eyes tightly. “This will be the last delay, correct? Because this is the third time you've changed my ability to move into my townhome.”

  “Yes. We assure you this is the final time Mrs. Morrison-”

  “Miss.”

  “Miss Morison,” she corrects herself. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

  Paying for the mover's cancellation fee out of her own pocket seems to be the only thing I can think of, which causes me to sigh, “No.”

  “Have a great day.”

  I don't say anything else before I end the call on my office phone. Leaning back in the chair, I fold my hands on my stomach in sheer disbelief that this keeps happening. Ever since the moment I refused Xander's proposal, my life is on an unsteady path of confusions and cancellations. Nothing has been going right. Sure. Being with Xander was like a well-executed check list before some magical vacation that you never actually get to, but at least things didn't always seems to be failing. At least I didn't feel like I was constantly drowning. Now that I think about it, I guess I didn't feel much of anything. The secure numbness isn't what anyone should look forward to, let alone miss. Yet I do. I miss the strategically planned order. I miss knowing what I was waking up to every morning. I may not miss him, but part of me misses the simplicity of knowing the patterned way my day was going to turn out.

  There's a light knock on my office door. Sitting up straight in the chair I call out, “Come in.”

  The door cracks open and around it, our school librarian, Jaye Jenkins' sweet face appears. “Are you busy? I can come back. I can totally come back. It's not a huge deal. I just was passing by and-”

  “Come on in, Jaye,” I usher her inside. “What can I do for you?”

  She fidgets with her curly hair. “I just...um...I was wondering if you got my proposal for the winter charity event yet? I emailed it to you like two weeks ago, but I haven't heard anything.”

  The nagging reality that I have managed to overlook her request churns my stomach. No. Staying with Xander wasn't ideal but I never did shit like this when we were together. I was constantly engulfed in work. Ahead of every curve and event for miles. Now? Most of the time I can't even remember where the hell I put my pen.

  “I'm sorry, Jaye,” my apology is sincere. “I haven't had time.”

  “Oh,” she softly exclaims with a nod.

  “But I will make time before the end of the week,” I quickly reassure. “You have my word on that.”

  Her face brightens back up. “Thanks, Presley.”

  “Of course.”

  She opens her mouth to say something else when my cell phone vibrates across the desk reminding me it's time for my yearly physical appointment. Just one more item on the long agenda of shit I don't have time for.

  “I'll let you get that.”

  Instead of correcting her, I sigh, “Thank you.”

  Jaye dismisses herself and I swipe away the alarm reminder that I need to leave the office. It's a simple check up to make sure my routine birth control device is working, which seems irrelevant at the moment. Sex is as far from my brain as marriage is. That fact should hurt. That fact should be another slap in the face of the pathetic excuse for existing I linger in. The grim reality is that it's just one more lost message to my soul who apparently doesn't understand how to move forward without its missing piece.

  I snatch my work bag up, lock up my office, and head the direction of the front doors when Merrick rushes by. The sight of him instantly sparks an idea. “Hey Merrick, got a minute?”

  He spins around and scrunches his face. As he adjusts the text book in his hand he must've left here at some point, he replies, “Like a literal minute, Boss Lady. I've gotta give Jovi's car an oil change and then have another roommate interview before my afternoon class and eventually work.”

  Shocked at how very little I still know about him, I casually comment, “I didn't realize you were looking for a roommate.”

  “Old one had to move for work. What do you need?”

  I walk over to him to keep the conversation moving towards the parking lot. “Well, it's not exactly work related.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Okay....”

  Embarrassment mixes with desperation. “Do you or anyone you know that you trust wanna make a couple hundred bucks moving some boxes for me?”

  The smile that is almost impossible to resist paints his face. Immediately I begin to wonder how on earth his girlfriend isn't putty in his hands all the time. I've met Jovi on more than one occasion and while she does swoon over him, typically it's Merrick who is falling to pieces to please her. Sometimes the way they look at each other reminds me of feelings that haven't existed in what seems like lifetimes.

  “I have to cancel the movers this week again and pay another cancellation fee. It's a big mess, but I'm tired of dealing with them and would rather pay the money to someone less likely to break my shit for being a complicated customer through no fault of my own.”

  Merrick holds the door open for me. “Boss lady, you seem anything but complicated.” And his adorable naive charm continues. “But yeah. I can help you out. I can find a friend or two to help you move in. When?”

  “Next week...probably?”

  “Probably?”

  “It's a long story...”

  He offers me a wide smile. “It's cool. Whatever weekend you need is fine. I can always use a few extra bucks to buy Jovi something pretty.”

  His continued endless adoration for his girlfriend tugs too tightly on the heart strings that belong to someone I know I'll never seen again. In a choked voice, I say, “Thanks for the help, Merrick.”

  “Of course, Boss Lady.”

  After one final wave, he hustles the opposite direction leaving me filled with relief and regret, two emotions that are at a constant feud inside of me. It's been months since Katherine surgically dissected my essence revealing what really laid dormant under the layers and someway, somehow, every day that passes still feels like the first time she cut too deep. Exposed too much. It's been months and I'm still a fumbling mess of hybridized pain. The only thing worse than having a constant war of agony raging inside of me, is being uncertain that at some point, in the future, it will cease.

  Ryder

  Law lifts his coffee cup. “Still no luck?”

  “I don't even know what luck is,” I comment on a sarcastic chuckle and stretch my arm around the back of the booth seat.

  “You knew life outside of rehab would be difficult.”

  “I did.” It's been difficult every time I left a rehab facility, except back then it was doing my best to find new connections, since I had abandoned the old ones. Once upon a time it was about finding the fastest route back the way I came, falling into the simplicity of a securely, destructive routine. A numb habit of self-assassination. Change is much more strenuous. Building a life, even one day at a time that isn't filled with tunnels to escape to the dulled demons that are idly buying their time, or so they think, is challenging. But I can't go back. I won't. “I just...”

  “You're not used to productive change.”

  “I'm not.”

  “You're making great progress, Ryder.” He has a sip. Unlike Doc, there's an uplifting air to him. An immediate fatherly aspect. “Don't under appreciate it by focusing on the progress you're still struggling with.”

  It's hard to give myself a gold sticker when I spent so much of my life taking well deserved lashes. The strained shift from destructive to productive, from blame to accolades, from hopeless to...anything remotely auspicious, is filled with a
new level of self-doubt and loathing. The constant grinding of opposing forces creates a familiar itch on the tip of my tongue.

  “You're having a craving,” Law states casually.

  Unsure of how he knows, I don't comment.

  “How often are you craving?”

  Quietly I mutter, “What in particular?”

  Law cocks a grin. “That answer lets me know just how dry you're staying.”

  My eyes glance at the window to where my brother's SUV is parked across the street for a so called business luncheon with his secretary.