Alexei

by Rothert, Brenda

  Me. I don’t say it, but I’m starting to feel the absence of alcohol in my life. After a long day of sessions, nothing sounds better than a few shots of whiskey to take the edge of. Well, maybe a blow job.

  Best-case scenario—a blow job and a few shots of whiskey.

  But in this place, it’s fucking impossible to get booze, obviously. And sexual activity between patients is also forbidden. It’s torturous being cut off from my two favorite things at the same time.

  “Oh, shit! Did you see that?” Joe points at the TV screen.

  “Spearing. The ref missed it. But McCall’s an asshole, so it’s all good.”

  “You know all these guys?” Joe asks me.

  “Yep.”

  “All of ‘em douches?”

  I shrug. “The New Orleans guys are all pretty cool, except for McCall. And the Austin guys were my teammates until recently. I love those guys.”

  “Sorry you got kicked off your team.”

  He’s flippant about it, like I’m a high school kid who got suspended from the team for flunking a math test. Hockey was more than my career; it was my whole life. It still is. I never thought I’d be so disgracefully kicked off my team.

  I’ve always pushed the limits, but I’m a damn good player and I give my all on the ice every day. It never occurred to me that hard work wouldn’t be enough to keep me safe on my team forever.

  Eddie Gonzales moved into my spot as the first line center. Gonzo’s a good dude, and he deserves the spot, but I can’t help feeling a stab of betrayal at the way my wingers play in tandem with him, executing all the plays I used to be part of.

  None of them are missing a beat, making me feel like I was always expendable. My team’s doing just fine without me. I’m sure as hell not fine without them, though. It’s harder than I expected to watch my team from a couch at rehab.

  I missed one game three years ago because I was down with the flu and our trainer wouldn’t let me tough it out. I remember watching that game from my bed and thinking nothing could be worse. Little did I know.

  “I’d kill for a fucking drink,” I mutter.

  “Same, man,” Joe says, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

  “Hey.” Gia saunters into the room, still wearing the black leather miniskirt she had on at our group session earlier.

  My hunger shifts. I can’t have a drink in here, but my body immediately hones in on what it can have—Gia. She was eye fucking me during our group session earlier, and now she walks over and sits down next to me even though there’s more couch space open next to Joe and the room also has several chairs.

  “Thought it would be fun to hang without that uptight doctor watching our every move,” Gia says as she puts her hand on my knee.

  My cock twitches and starts to harden. I’ve never gone this long without sex.

  Joe leans forward to look over at Gia, saying, “Keep your hands to yourself if you want to be in here, okay?”

  I frown at him. “Dude, chill the fuck out.”

  He points to a camera mounted from the ceiling in a corner of the room. “You guys know the rules. You wanna get kicked out of here? You can’t play hockey again unless you finish this program, man. And even though I’ve got a shitload of flaws, I love my wife. I’m here for my family. I’m not getting kicked out of here, either. So if doing her is that important to you, go check out of this place and find a hotel somewhere, because you’ll get kicked out of here for it anyway.”

  He sits back and returns his focus to the game, pushing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

  “Buzzkill,” Gia mutters.

  I remove her hand from my knee as Joe’s words sink in.

  “He’s right, though.”

  Gia arches her brows in challenge. “There have to be some places without cameras in here.”

  I consider her words for a second. The thought of mindlessly fucking is so tempting; I can feel my body physically craving it. I’m like a caveman, my whole being focused on either downing a fifth of vodka or fucking to the point of exhaustion.

  Damn. Grayson’s words from one of our sessions are ringing in my ears. You wouldn’t be here if drinking was a choice you made just to have fun. It’s not a choice anymore—you have a physical and mental addiction to it.

  Fuck, she’s right. She’s absolutely right. I may be sitting on a couch right now, but inside, I’m climbing the walls, jonesing so bad for a release that I could put my fist through a wall.

  And it’s not just booze. I use sex the same way. The realization makes me look at the empty doorway and pray for Graysen to walk through it. I don’t know what to do with this newfound information, and I need her advice.

  No one walks into the room, though. And Gia sneaks her hand back onto my leg, this time resting it on my thigh.

  “I’m beat, guys,” I say, getting up from the couch. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

  “All alone?” Gia asks, feigning a frown.

  I nod and leave the room, my heart racing.

  Christ, am I an alcoholic? I think…I am.

  I book it down to the main lounge, where a guy is sitting at a desk like a concierge, available to meet patients’ every non-alcoholic need here.

  “Hey, hi,” I say, running my hand through my hair.

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  “Is, uh…is Dr. Wells still here?”

  The dude’s name badge says Ken. Ken looks over at a screen and then shakes his head. “All the dayside doctors are gone, but our second shift doctor is available. Let me give him a call.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I can just talk to Dr. Wells in the morning.”

  Ken gives me a skeptical look. “Dr. Wang is very easy to talk to. And if you’re feeling like talking now—”

  “No, it’s not…I’m good.” I give him a tight smile. “I just wanted to tell Dr. Wells that something she said had…but anyway, I can tell her tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, have a good night.”

  I walk back to my room with a half-smile on my lips, imagining what it would be like to keep a straight face while talking to Dr. Wang. He who specializes in wangs. The wangmeister.

  Looks like even when I’m having a life-changing realization, my sophomoric sense of humor is still ready at the drop of a hat.

  When I get back to my room and close the door behind me, I lie down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I thought this place was a new-age joke, where people spend a shitload of money to be told they’ve done a stellar job of working on themselves.

  I thought I could just stop drinking anytime I wanted to. But if someone passed me anything with alcohol in it right now, I’d down it all. Hell, I’d drink a fucking wine cooler.

  That sounds like an addiction. Fuck. What am I supposed to do now?

  The spinning of the ceiling fan is strangely calming. As I watch it, I shift into relaxation, soon unable to even keep my eyes open. I drift off to sleep, imagining I’m out on the ice with my team right now.

  * * *

  “Hey Petrov, you suck! Get off the ice, asshole!”

  I glance over at the heckler with his hands pressed to the glass, his cowboy hat pulled down low. The sound of the crowd should be drowning him out, but all I can hear is his yelling.

  “You aren’t half the player your brother is! You’re a fucking baby, Alexei! Go back to the locker room and get a drink, why don’t ya?”

  Hecklers usually don’t get to me. But this guy is extra obnoxious, and I’d like to get off the bench and punch him in the mouth, just to watch him piss his pants.

  “You’re a failure, Petrov! A loser! Crawl back to your brother and he’ll make it all better!”

  I extend a middle finger in his direction. He just laughs.

  “Anton would come over here and kick my ass! You’re just a pussy! Go get drunk so you can forget what a loser you are.”

  I sit up in bed with a gasp, my heart pounding and my forehead dripping wit
h sweat. It was just a dream.

  Again, I think about Graysen. I want to tell her about my dream, and ask her what it means.

  I look over at the digital clock on the nightstand in my room. 2:36 a.m. I’ll be able to talk to her about things in just a few hours.

  Lying back down, I close my eyes, hoping to fall back asleep soon.

  I don’t want to be alone inside my head right now. There’s no escaping the realization that maybe—probably, actually—in some ways, I’m out of control. It’s not all just for fun.

  And I have no idea what to do with myself now that I figured that out.

  7

  Graysen

  Alexei runs a hand through his thick hair, and a light brown strand dips down in front of his eyes. I only spare him a quick glance, because I’m supposed to be listening to Gia during our group session today.

  “Fucking is fun,” she says, her gaze squarely on Alexei. “And it’s…powerful.”

  “How so?” I ask her.

  Gia turns my way, giving me the slightly annoyed look I’ve come to despise.

  “I guess you wouldn’t know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But when men want to fuck you, they’ll do about anything to get it. Sex is even more powerful than money. For me, anyway.”

  “So you’re saying you use sex as currency? To get drugs?”

  She shrugs. “I have before, yeah. I’ve also gotten lots of other stuff.”

  Melinda groans. “You don’t have to do that, Gia. You’re better than that.”

  Gia scowls in her direction. “Hey, thanks for the life advice, murderer.”

  “None of this,” I admonish. “Melinda, we don’t judge. Addiction takes us all down different roads. And Gia, don’t be hateful.”

  Sometimes I’m more babysitter than therapist. I call for a water break to defuse the tension in the room, and stand up to stretch my legs.

  Since Alexei walked into my office this morning for our one-on-one session wearing dark gray sweatpants and a navy T-shirt, I’ve caught myself looking at him. Not just looking, but looking. And I feel ashamed every time, because I’m not supposed to be attracted to my patients.

  I’m listening to everyone. I’m doing and saying all the right things. But when I look at Alexei, I can’t not see the smooth lines of defined biceps just past the sleeve of his T-shirt, or the way his sweatpants outline his tight ass. His casual attire makes me think of Saturday morning coffee followed by some Saturday morning snuggling.

  He’s hot—obviously. But my attraction is based on more than that. In our one-on-one session this morning, when he described the dream he had last night, I could see the war waging inside him. He’s confronting his demons for the first time rather than brushing them aside.

  The therapist in me thinks his vulnerability is a positive step in the right direction. But the woman in me finds it sexy as hell.

  Gia, on the other hand, isn’t making much progress. After the Beckett security director showed me the video of her coming onto Alexei in one of the center’s lounges last night, I had to talk to remind her of the rules this morning in our one-on-one session. She lifted her lips in a sneer and dismissed me.

  I want to help her, but she’s not trying. She’s just continuing the behavior that landed her here.

  When everyone sits back down, I restart our conversation.

  “Addiction isn’t so much about the alcohol, drugs, sex or whatever we’re abusing, but about why we’re turning to it. We’re seeking something, and we don’t feel we can get it anywhere else. I know it’s hard to make that connection sometimes, but I want you to think about what you get from alcohol, drugs or sex that you can’t get anywhere else. If anyone wants to share out loud, that’s great, but you don’t have to.”

  I look around the group. Joe has a puzzled expression. Melinda’s forehead is creased in thought. Gia arms are crossed as she looks up at the ceiling, bored. Alexei has his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees.

  “I get…no judgment,” Melinda says quietly. Everyone looks at her, and she continues. “My husband is successful, and even though he loves me unconditionally, I always feel like I have to be on in my life. I stayed home with my kids when they were growing up, and I was always driving someone somewhere, hosting a dinner party, shopping for the perfect prom dress…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know if this is making any sense.”

  “It is,” Joe says. “I get what you’re saying. You have to be the perfect picture everyone sees you as.”

  Melinda gives him a slight smile and says, “Alcohol doesn’t judge me. It doesn’t care what I’m wearing or what my hair looks like. I don’t have to say the right thing. I can just…drown. But I loved my life, before the accident, and I’m ashamed that I wanted to escape. I didn’t think I wanted to, but…”

  A tear spills down her cheek. I wish I could walk over and hug her. Melinda has walked a painful road, and while many would say she brought it on herself, I can’t help feeling empathetic towards her. She’s told me at least once in every one-on-one session we’ve had that she’d give anything to be the one who died that night rather than the man she hit. I know she means it.

  “I’m too far gone to find a healthy way of coping,” she says sadly. “But the rest of you…I hope you can.”

  Alexei sits up tall and speaks up. “You’re not too far gone, Melinda.”

  “I killed a boy. A nineteen-year-old boy. He had so much more life to live.” Her voice breaks with emotion. “I should be in prison but my husband got me the best defense attorney money can buy. There’s no coming back from what I’ve done.”

  “Sounds like your husband still loves you,” Alexei says.

  “I can’t imagine why.” Melinda wells up again. “I’ve disgraced our whole family. I’m a murderer.”

  “Melinda,” I say gently, “murder is a calculated, cold-blooded crime. You made a tragic mistake. And that mistake is something you have to live with now, but it’s not all you are.”

  Alexei meets my gaze across the circle of chairs, his blue eyes bright and mesmerizing. My heart kicks up and I swallow hard, looking down and grabbing my bottle of water to break the spell he has on me.

  “I’ve slept with women and had no memory of it the next day,” Alexei says, looking at Melinda. “I got blackout drunk once and texted a good friend that I wanted to fuck his wife, and he won’t speak to me anymore. I’ve fallen down stairs. I pissed on the tires of a guy’s car once because he wouldn’t serve me anymore drinks, and his kids were inside it at the time.” He shakes his head, looking disgusted. “I could go on. Each and every time, it felt like I was just having a good time.”

  “Sounds like you were,” Gia says, grinning.

  “I’m over it,” Joe says, clearing his throat. “I wake up hungover as shit with my head pounding and the sound of my kids’ chatter makes it worse. I’m a shitty dad because of my drinking.”

  Gia holds back her comment this time, and there’s a moment of somber silence as everyone sits alone with their thoughts.

  “We can’t go back and undo things,” I say, “but every one of us is capable of change.”

  “You mean every one of us, right?” Gia scoffs. “You’re not included in it. I bet you don’t drink, smoke or even swear.”

  “No one’s perfect, Gia.”

  “Well, you act like you are. Like you see all of us as weak.”

  My mouth parts with surprise, but I recover quickly. Defensiveness is common in my patients, and so is resentment toward non-alcoholics. And I get it.

  “I’ve got plenty of flaws,” I say. “It’s hard to see that in an environment where you guys have to open up and speak about painful, difficult situations and I don’t. But believe me, I struggle with things, too.”

  “Like what?” Gia arches her brows in challenge. “What color sweater to wear? Whether to have coffee or tea? Poor little privileged girl.”

  Anger rises inside me, and I fight it, taking a couple seconds to form a measured answer. />
  “I didn’t grow up privileged. Far from it.”

  “What’s your story, then?”

  I take a deep breath before saying, “We’re not here for me to tell my story.”

  “I’ll tell it, then. You’re a doctor with no life who tells people what’s wrong with them for a living. You sit in judgment of all of us and it’s bullshit.”

  “I’m not here to judge, Gia.”

  “You get to decide if I’m recovered enough to get my inheritance.”

  I clench my hand around the pen I’m holding. “I decide if you complete this program. And ultimately, that’s up to you, not me. Drop the attitude and put in the work and you can make it.”

  “You don’t like me,” Gia says flatly. “I want a different therapist.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I don’t care if I have to pay double the price, I want someone else.”

  “You mean a man? Someone you think you can manipulate to get what you want?”

  “Fuck you.” Gia shoots me a death glare before getting up and storming out of the room.

  I sigh softly. “We’ll stop here for today, guys. If anyone wants some one-on-one time, I’ll be around until this evening.”

  “She’s an absolute brat,” Melinda says, shaking her head.

  I agree, but I can’t say so. I also don’t have it in me to remind her we don’t judge.

  After reading the patient files for this session, I knew Gia would be a challenge. She’s been using sex to get her way since she was a teenager, according to her file. And she doesn’t want to be here. I have a supervisor I talk to about problem patients, and I’m going to need to have a sit-down with her about Gia.

  Alexei finds my eyes and gives me a quick smile as he leaves the group room. My heartbeat kicks into an uneven rhythm and I inwardly scold myself.

  I can’t be attracted to a patient. It’s wrong on every level. I’m here to help Alexei get sober, not stare at his muscles. And it’s really unlike me to do that. I’ve always been completely professional.

  Once I’m alone in the room, I take out my phone and open one of the dating apps Amelia and I installed on my phone.