Rock the Heart

by Michelle A. Valentine

  “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll breeze through this program. You’ll see,” I tell him with complete confidence. “While I’ll admit that my body has become dependent on a few things I use regularly, I don’t admit to having a problem.”

  He tilts his head. “Then why did you agree to come to treatment?”

  “My band,” I answer honestly. “They really didn’t leave me much choice. If I didn’t come here, they voted to throw me out, and I can’t let that happen. Black Falcon means everything to me.”

  “I see.” He jots a couple more things down in the chart. “Well, while you are here, Mr. Douglas, I hope that you use the time wisely, and open yourself up to the possibility that you may actually have a problem severe enough for your brother to reach out to us. He’s worried about you, about losing you, and he feared he didn’t have what it takes to help you because nothing he’s done over the last year has succeeded. While I can’t make you see the issues at hand and want to get better—that part is totally up to you—I can give you the tools and the support to begin your recovery.”

  He sets the chart down on the counter and washes his hands. “I’m just going to do a standard exam and go over your medical history. We’ll discuss where you’re getting your benzodiazepine supply. After that, you’ll get dressed, collect your belongings, and Timothy will help you get settled into your room.”

  After about fifteen minutes of being thoroughly violated, consenting to STD testing, and witnessing a pat down of all my clothing, I’m left alone in the room to get dressed again. I quickly throw my clothes back on and head out the door. The male nurse’s gaze meets mine as he sits at the desk, my things spread out in front of him. I don’t care who you are, when someone else goes through your personal belongings, it ruffles your feathers.

  I cross my arms across my chest and do my best not to rip into the guy for what I’m sure is just his job.

  Dr. Shepherd clears his throat. “As you can see, Mr. Douglas, we’ve searched your things thoroughly, and we’ve recovered several items of contraband.” He gestures to the four baggies sitting in front of my clothes. “Two bags of an unknown white powdered substance, one baggie of some sort of dried herb that appears to be THC, accompanied by several rolling papers, and one baggie of pills that looks to be benzodiazepines. As discussed, we will be disposing of these items in your presence before we clear you into the facility.”

  Timothy rises, his at least six-foot-five frame towering over me, and he gathers the baggies. I could tell them no—hell fucking no—but know that I can’t. No sense in me getting all testy in a situation I know I can’t change.

  I sigh. “Lead the way.”

  I follow Timothy and Dr. Shepherd into a restroom behind the desk, watching helplessly as everything I need to make my time here sustainable swirls around in the toilet before being sucked down the drain.

  After the empty baggies are discarded, I follow the two men out of the bathroom. Timothy sits back down and begins doing paperwork. The guy hasn’t said one word to me since I got here, which is completely fucking odd and doesn’t make me feel comfortable around him, but I’m grateful that I’ve only got one of them firing questions at me.

  Dr. Shepherd folds my file and lays it on the desk. “Anything else you have on you that we didn’t find? Now’s the time to come clean without any judgment.”

  I shake my head. “Honestly, everything I brought with me was either taped inside the guitar, which you obviously found, or in the duffel bag.”

  “Good. We really want to focus on the twelve steps of recovery with you, Mr. Douglas. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve already started the program by completing the first three steps in order to get here—acknowledging your addiction and deciding to change, exploring your rehab treatment options, and finding the support that you need.”

  I furrow my brow. “But I didn’t pick this place. My brother did.”

  He nods. “Yes, but it was ultimately your choice to come here. Knowing your brother will support you helped make you comfortable, I’m sure.”

  “I guess, but Doc, I have to be honest with you—I really don’t have a problem. I like to party, but that’s nowhere near having an addiction issue. I’m only here to keep my spot in the band,” I tell him.

  He raises one eyebrow. “Noted, but I hope you are here to take a hard, honest look at your life and the direction it’s going. We can only help you as much as you’ll allow us.”

  His words play over in my mind. While I know what he’s getting at, he doesn’t get that, unlike most people that waft through his door, I don’t have a problem. I’m not an idiot, and I sure as fuck am not in denial about the shit I do.

  After a short pause with no words passing between us, the doctor requests that Timothy show me to my room so I can settle in. I follow the nurse out the door, and we head back up toward the house carrying my duffel bag in my hand and my soft guitar case slung over my shoulder. One thing I will say for this place: it’s quiet. It reminds me a lot of the land I grew up on in Kentucky. Large hills covered in thick trees surround the open area where the main house sits, and small cabins spread out about fifty yards back from the main house.

  I wonder for a split second who gets to stay in those before I ask, “Any chance of me getting a cabin?”

  “No.” It’s a stern answer, given by a deep rumbling voice in such a way that I know there’s no chance I’m finagling it into a yes. So, I don’t even bother trying.

  This place is going to suck so badly.

  The moment we step up on the porch, the front door opens, and the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen steps through it. Her eyes are so blue they remind me of a crisp summer sky, and I can’t tear my gaze away. Her jet-black hair only accentuates the heavenly color of her eyes, while her curvaceous body causes me to lick my lips. She’s like the perfect mix of heaven and hell—angel and sinner rolled into one.

  The musical laughter coming from her has my eyes drifting to her full, pouty mouth. What I wouldn’t give for one night with her. The things I could do to her to make her scream my name from that mouth. I could throw her my best pick-up line to try to make that happen, but I fight the urge. This is neither the time nor the place to pick up a woman.

  The moment her gaze lands on me, I lose my breath. Every fiber within me halts, and I am fixated, unable to move away from her. Her lips curve into a natural smile as her eyes give me a quick once-over.

  Holy fuck. Being here might not be so damn bad after all.

  The vixen extends her hand. “You must be Mr. Douglas. I’m Dr. Mead.”

  I raise my eyebrows, and my eyes widen as I take her hand in mine, feeling the smoothness of her skin. “You’re a doctor?”

  Her cheeks redden, making her even more fucking attractive. “I’m an addiction therapist.”

  I bite the corner of my lip and allow my eyes to wander down her body, not making any attempt to hide the fact that I like what I see as I study the way her sundress molds to her. “I’ll definitely be looking forward to my treatment now.”

  She shakes her head while rolling those magnetic eyes of hers, doing her best to pretend to be annoyed by my comment, but I know she’s full of shit—her continual blush is giving her away. “I’ll see you in group, Mr. Douglas.”

  I turn and watch her saunter away, enjoying the view of her hips swishing from side to side as she heads off the porch toward one of the cottages.

  She likes me hitting on her. I know it.

  “Come on, Romeo,” Timothy says next to me, causing me to chuckle.

  “That’s the first complete sentence you’ve said to me since I got here. I was beginning to think you were mute,” I tease, but my eyes remain glued to the hot little doctor’s ass.

  “You’ve got other things to focus on,” Timothy says as he opens the front door. “What you’ve got to go through the next couple of days won’t be pretty, and I doubt hitting on the woman who is here to help you through it is the best idea.”

  Reluctan
tly, I pull my gaze away from the woman and pat Timothy on the shoulder as I pass by him to get inside. “I told you guys. I don’t have a problem.”

  He shakes his head, leading me up the stairs. “Remember that when you’re detoxing so I don’t have to remind you that an addiction is what’s made you feel so bad.”

  Once we get to the top, he points to the hallway to the left of the stairs. “Women’s quarters. That’s off-limits to you.” He gives me a stern look, and I raise my hands in surrender. “The right is men only. You’re the second door down that hall, on the left. Go unpack and then come down and find me, and I’ll give you the tour of the grounds.”

  I adjust the strap on my shoulder. “Will do.”

  When Timothy turns and heads back down the stairs, I have the sudden urge to salute him like he’s a fucking drill sergeant. That guy is definitely no fun.

  I push open the door to my room and quickly discover that I have no way to lock it behind me.

  Talk about no fucking privacy.

  The room is a hell of a lot smaller than I’m used to, a twin bed and small dresser taking up most of the space. A tiny closet just deep enough to hang my clothes in faces the foot of the bed. Most hotel rooms I’ve stayed in lately are mansions compared to this place.

  I lean my baby against the empty corner and then plop down on my bed. I scrub my hands over my face, and all I can think about is what I wouldn’t give for some weed to help take the edge off this situation. It’s been the only thing that’s kept my nerves calm over the last few years, since we started making music full time. People always believe being a rock star is so easy, but they have no clue just how much work goes into coming up with new material, doing appearances, and dealing with all the bullshit tasks the label makes us do. When all that piles up on a band that has the kind of turmoil we do, it’s enough to put anyone on fucking edge—which is why I don’t see why me dabbling a little hurts. I do it to stay mellow. The guys just don’t fucking get it.

  I lie back on the bed and shut my eyes, suddenly tired and annoyed with the entire situation. What in the hell am I doing here? This kind of place isn’t for a guy like me.

  Just as I’m about to fall asleep, someone begins to pound on my door. “Downstairs for dinner, Mr. Douglas.”

  I sigh deeply. I knew that guy was going to be a pain in my ass.

  Chapter 4

  “Buttons”—Pussycat Dolls

  Frannie Oh shit.

  Tyke Douglas is just as freaking sexy in person as he is in the damn pictures. This is so not good.

  Those green eyes of his, paired with the sexy-as-sin tattoos covering his delicious forearms could get me into so much trouble.

  “Sweet bejesus!” Kimmy’s voice startles me as she meets up with me on the path heading toward the cottages. “Did you get a load of that piece of man meat? I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone as fine as Tyke Douglas here before.”

  I lick my lips and try to be as professional about the situation as I can, all the while pretending that my pulse isn’t still beating wildly out of control. “Yes, I guess he is quite handsome...if you’re into that whole ‘tattooed bad-boy’ thing.”

  Kimmy cackles beside me. “Who isn’t into that? Any woman who says they aren’t is a damn liar. There’s no way any single woman wouldn’t take one look at that and not fantasize about screwing him seven ways ‘till Sunday. You can tell me what you really think of him—I can totally keep a secret.”

  It’s tempting to gush over his hotness with Kimmy, but I know better than to let my guard down with someone I barely know. It’s too risky. If anyone ever found out exactly how attracted I am to him, I’d surely be fired on the spot.

  I shrug. “Honestly, Kimmy, he isn’t my type.”

  She sighs longingly next to me as she toys with a strand of her long blond hair. “If you say so, but Frannie, you are most definitely his. Did you see the way he was looking at you? I swear he was going to try to jump your bones right there in front of Timothy.”

  “You saw that, too, huh?”

  She nods. “I watched it all go down from the doorway as I started following you out. Be careful, girl. A woman can only resist so long when a guy like Tyke Douglas sets his sights on her. But I don’t doubt a night with him would be worth risking everything for.”

  I pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I promise he has no effect on me whatsoever.”

  “If you say so. I’ll see you at dinner,” she calls as she trots off toward her cabin, which is conveniently next to mine.

  I hate that this is only my second day here and already I’m allowing a man to get to me. No matter how much my body may crave him, I have to fight it.

  I fold my arms across my torso. “Be strong, Frannie. He’s just an absurdly sexy man. You can totally ignore that fact and remain completely professional.”

  I square my shoulders, finding a new sense of self-pride as I step up on the stoop of my little cottage and unlock the door. I will not flush my job down the drain over a handsome face and a seriously toned body. There’s too much riding on me getting my act straight just to piss away my very first job opportunity. This job has to work. It’s all part of my plan to become a better person—someone my parents will be proud to call their daughter again. They haven’t really spoken to me much since Annie died. It’s like the good daughter is gone and now they’re stuck with me—someone who’s exactly the opposite of their ideal daughter.

  After a quick shower, I decide to wear a blouse that reveals no cleavage whatsoever and a pair of Capri pants. Even though the memory of Tyke’s eyes roaming down my body, staring longer than necessary at my chest, causes my belly to tingle, I can’t allow that to keep happening. So, from now on, I’ll only wear the most conservative outfits I brought. There’s no sense in putting myself in a vulnerable position. That’s part of the twelve steps we teach all recovering addicts. No matter what they are struggling with, avoid putting yourself in situations where you might be tempted to fall back into old patterns.

  After I double-check my appearance in the mirror, I head to the main house for dinner. So far, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed having dinner with the clients. It’s given me an opportunity to observe their behaviors and get to know them before I start my first official day of counseling with them tomorrow.

  This morning after breakfast, I met with Wayne in his office. He explained that they now have more clients than they’ve ever had at the facility, and he no longer has enough time to counsel all of them on his own.

  That’s where I come in.

  We went over the files of all the existing clients here at Serenity and discussed their treatment plans. Wayne is giving me a lot of responsibility already, telling me that I’ll be leading some group sessions, as well as giving me a few additional files for the one-on-one sessions I’ll be taking over.

  I’m excited for this opportunity. It’s a test, I’m sure—to see how well I’ll do here before he gives me a full caseload. I’m ready to prove, not only to him, that I can do this, but to myself, too.

  The moment I step up through the back door of the main house, I’m hit with the delicious aroma of dinner. I inhale the tangy-sweet smell into my nose, and my mouth instantly begins to water.

  Sue stands over the stove stirring something in a big pot as I pass by. “Wow, Sue, that smells amazing. What is it?”

  She turns to me and smiles. “It’s ham covered in honey and brown sugar glaze, topped with pineapple.”

  “I can’t wait to try it. I’m going to get so fat working here. I’ve never been fed this well,” I tease her.

  She chuckles. “A little bit of meat on a woman has never killed anyone.”

  I lean against the counter and watch as she dumps the gravy from a pot into a few serving boats sitting on a metal tray. “How long have you worked here, Sue?”

  She scrapes the rest of the steamy liquid into the last boat and twists her lips. “Since it opened, which has been about ten years now.”

  I step around the
counter and begin helping her load the serving cart. “Any pointers you can give me? Anything I should know in order to keep my job here?”

  She sets the last of the salads onto the cart. “It’s really a pretty nice place to work. Dr. Shepherd and Timothy tend to have the roughest job detoxing the clients when they first come in. The rest of us get to be more friendly with the clients—some a little too friendly, if you know what I mean.”

  I laugh and the memory of first meeting with the clients pop into mind, and the handsome activities director who seemed a little too friendly with our resident pop singer. “You mean Randall?”

  Sue nods. “You’ve been here one day and have already picked up on it. You’re going to do all right here, Mrs. Mead.”

  “Please, call me Frannie, Sue. Mrs. Mead is my mother, and I am most definitely not married,” I say, earning a laugh from her. “Has he ever...”

  I try to stop myself from digging into someone else’s business, but the beginning of my thought is already out there and there’s no taking it back.

  “Messed around with a client?” Sue furrows her brow as she considers the question. “I don’t think so. He’s probably been tempted, but he knows Dr. Shepherd has a zero tolerance for fraternization with the clients. He’d surely lose his job if he did.”

  “Noted. Not that I would ever have any kind of relationship with a client, though.”

  Sue sighs as she wipes her hands on a dishtowel. “That’s what they all say, but I’ve seen it happen more times than I can remember. The therapist before you had an affair with a football player that we had here at the facility for a while.”

  “Really? What happened?” I ask, extremely interested in where this conversion seems to be heading.

  “Timothy caught them in the therapist’s office. Apparently, he walked in during a session, and she was counseling the client in more ways than one on her couch.” Sue waggles her eyebrows, and I burst out laughing.

  “Remind me to never sit there.”

  It’s easy for me to joke around with her and act like I would never be caught in a situation like that because it’s easier than revealing the truth about myself to someone who won’t understand. I’m an addict myself, but my drug of choice isn’t anything crushed, shot, or snorted. It’s better if I put on a facade and pretend that I’m a very conservative woman—a little prudish. It won’t make my coworkers here suspect that every moment I’m around men I’m attracted to, I’m in danger of relapsing into my old ways.