This book is dedicated to all recovering addicts and anyone who has ever experienced any sort of domestic abuse. xoxo
“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become."
– C.G. Jung
From Smoke To Flames
A West Brothers Novel
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Copyright © 2019 A.M. Hargrove
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in form or any manner whatsoever by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or a book review. Scanning, uploading and distribution of the book via the Internet or via any other means without permission is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support for the author’s rights is appreciated. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]
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Cover design by Letitia Hasser @ RBA Designs | Romantic Book Affairs
Cover Photo: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Kaz Vander Waard
Editing Services by: My Brother’s Editor
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Follow Me
Prologue
Pearson
* * *
Everyone remembers the epic moment where they meet that special one … that single defining point in their lives. Mine wasn’t quite so grand nor did it have a happily ever after. It happened when I least expected it. It didn’t take me by surprise, sweep me off my feet, or fill me with hearts and flowers. I wish it had been that easy. My first love happened to be opiates—Oxy, Lortabs—the doctor prescribed for pain. It seemed I fell in love with them—I mean head over heels in love—a little too much.
Weirdly enough, I’d never been a huge partier in college. There wasn’t time because I was studying too hard to keep my grades up trying to get into one of the best law schools in the country. I’d never even so much as smoked weed. But the first time I swallowed one of those beauties, there was no turning back. It was love at first high. Only my first love took me to a place filled with darkness and nightmares, a place where I ended up begging to escape from time and again. My love turned out to be a demon who changed me into a man filled with self-loathing. I was once proud of who I’d become … until I transformed into someone filled with shame, someone I wanted to conceal from everyone. I became an addict, something I never imagined I’d be. I was that person you read about, the one on the streets scoring drugs.
Don’t be fooled. By day, I wore expensive suits and ties, and showed up at work. But it was all smoke and mirrors. My high-powered career dangled by a thread.
Each night I came home and told myself that was it—no more drugs. But it was a lie. Withdrawal was a thousand porcupines firing their piercing quills into every inch of my skin, and soon the pain and nausea would be more than I could tolerate. The anxiety associated with it cocooned me in a blanket made of glass shards. By midnight, immense chills and body aches would have me pounding the streets in search of a fix. I’d try anything to make me feel normal again. The word rehab echoed through my brain time and again, but I didn’t want to carry that brand. I was stronger and better than that. Or so I thought.
Spiraling into my own hell, my work suffered, and it was only a matter of time before my reputation did too. I avoided family and friends. Shame, humiliation, embarrassment, didn’t come close to what I felt when I thought about asking for help. Family would come running if only I called, but it would show them how weak I’d become, and that could never happen. Many times I thought about ending it all, but the truth was I didn’t have the guts to do it when it came down to it.
In the past, both of my brothers had teased me about being a man whore. They were right. I loved women and couldn’t help it. But most days … I was pretty fucking useless below the waist. If they only knew.
Tonight I sat at a bar and drowned my sorrows. I was high and drunk and couldn’t even tell you what day it was. Some chick was sitting next to me, rubbing my leg, trying to suggest going home with me. As if. Some mornings I’d woken up with women who’d almost made me sick. Filthy, covered with weeks’ worth of grime, I couldn’t imagine being with them. How far had I’d sunk over the past year?
The woman next to me kept leaning over, trying to kiss my neck. “Listen, you ought to move on,” I told her. Or tried to anyway. Pretty sure my words were slurred. “Not in the mood.” I pulled out my wallet and slapped some cash on the bar. Then I stood to leave. It took a few tries before I stumbled to the door.
The woman was on my heels. Her strong perfume permeated the air. Guess she thought she was gonna get lucky. Too bad for her. I walked out the door and headed down the street. I wasn’t sure if she was behind me, nor did I care. About a half a block later, I stumbled, and fell, bruising my knees. Even through the haze of inebriation, pain ripped through me.
“You look like you could use a friend.” It was the woman from the bar.
“The only friend I need is…”
“Yeah, I know. I can help.” She looped her arm through mine, helped me to my feet, and we walked. We turned a corner and she led me into a side alley. She pulled out something from her purse. “I’ve got exactly what you need.”
My eyes eagerly devoured her as she pulled out a packet of white powder and used a small straw to snort a little. Then she passed the packet to me. I put some on the back of my credit card and snorted it. In moments I was floating on a cushion of air.
She leaned into me and breathed, “You needed that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I have something else you need, too.”
She put her hand on my dick and rubbed it. Then she began kissing me. She tasted like bubble gum when I kissed her back. Then things got super weird. My vision blurred but not only that, I saw multiple images of her face. As drunk as I was, I knew this wasn’t normal.
I pulled away from her. “What was that s
hit laced with?”
She smiled but said nothing. I couldn’t focus and my tongue felt twice its size. My knees buckled and the lights went out.
Chapter One
Pearson
* * *
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The steady background noise had been faint but was getting louder. Then it was hiss, hiss, thump, thump. Hiss, hiss, thump, thump. Beep, hiss, hiss, thump, thump. I blinked, but couldn’t see. As I became more aware, I went to move my arms, only to discover it was impossible. I should be frightened but found myself drifting off.
The next time I awoke, it was to voices and a spasm of coughing.
“He’s coming around.”
“Sir, take a deep breath for me.”
I inhaled to another round of coughing. My throat burned like fire. What the hell was going on? My hand automatically reached for my neck, only it was attached to something.
“He’s trying to move his arm,” someone said.
“My throat,” I wheezed.
“Yes, it’ll be sore. It’s irritated from being intubated. That will go away in a couple of days,” someone answered.
“Intubated?” I croaked.
“Yes, sir. Just relax.”
Relax? Where was I?
“Your sedation is wearing off and then you might be able to tell us what happened.”
“What happened?”
“Uh huh.” She fiddled around with something else and I heard footsteps. Then silence.
I scanned the room. All kinds of equipment surrounded me—things that my brother might be familiar with because he was a doctor, but I wasn’t. The beeping noise persisted. I glanced up to see it was a machine that monitored my heart. The other noises had stopped.
I’m not sure how much time passed when two doctors, accompanied by a nurse, walked in.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Michael O’Shea and this is Dr. Gabriella Martinelli. I’m the hospitalist who has been in charge of your care since you were admitted and Dr. Martinelli is the psychiatrist we called in to handle your situation for your addiction issues. Oh, and this is Sammie. She’s the nurse on duty right now and needs to give you your diazepam and methadone.” He said the last part as an afterthought. I thought that was weird because to me it was the most important.
I swallowed the rock in my scratchy throat. “Diazepam and methadone?”
“Yes, to control your withdrawal symptoms. Dr. Martinelli can explain all that in a minute. But first, can you tell us your name?”
“My name?” This was all so confusing.
“You were brought in on a 911, unresponsive due to a heroin overdose. You were also pretty banged up. We’ve had you in an induced coma, because, quite frankly, we didn’t know if you were going to make it or not.”
“Coma? You thought I was going to die?”
“That’s right, Mr.?”
“Um.” I blinked because for a moment I couldn’t remember my name.
“It’s okay,” Dr. O’Shea said. “Head injuries can cause temporary memory loss.”
“Head injuries?”
“Yes, you had a severe concussion on top of everything else.”
My hands tried to reach for my head, but they were tied down. My name suddenly popped into my head, so I blurted, “West. Pearson West is my name.”
“Very good, Mr. West.”
“What about my wallet?” I asked.
“You had nothing on you. No wallet, no phone.”
“What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Since Saturday night … well Sunday morning around three a.m.,” Dr. O’Shea answered. “Sorry about the restraints. Withdrawal can make patients do all sorts of things, including, extubate themselves.”
“Extubate?”
A gentle hand touched my shoulder. “He means pull the ventilator tube out of your throat. Mr. West, do you remember anything that happened on Saturday night?” Dr. Martinelli asked.
“I was drinking. In a bar. There was this woman. She followed me out. And then nothing. It’s a huge blank.” What hole have I fallen into and how deep is it?
“Okay, that’s not uncommon. How long have you been using?” she asked.
I swallowed, grimacing. “Um, a year and a half, maybe two.”
“Has it been heroin the whole time?”
“No! It, shit.” All I wanted to do was rub my fucking face and I couldn’t because my hands were glued to the goddam bed.
Dr. O’Shea said, “You’re a lucky man, Mr. West. Most people don’t make that 911 call for someone in the street like you were.”
“Mike.” Dr. Martinelli gave him a look that shut him up.
“Mr. West, Dr. O’Shea is right. You are a lucky man. Can I ask how you started using?”
I laughed, ruefully. “A torn rotator cuff. I had surgery to repair it. They gave me pain meds. Before I knew it, I couldn’t get off them.”
“Any other history of drug abuse before that?” she asked.
“No. I drank a little, but nothing excessive.”
“Well, it won’t come as a surprise to you that I’m going to recommend thirty days of inpatient rehab and then I think you should go do a minimum of another month somewhere. I don’t have to tell you what a monster heroin is to kick. Then you will live with NA for the rest of your life.”
“Yeah.”
Her voice took on a whole new level when she said, “There is no yeah about it. If you don’t, you will die, Mr. West. Am I clear?”
“Very.”
“Is there anyone you’d like to call? Family?” she asked.
“My law firm. And my family.”
“I don’t believe you need an attorney.”
“I am an attorney, but I’m pretty damn sure I’ll need a new job after this. And I need to call my brothers. Can you please release my arms?”
“I think we can arrange that.” She undid the Velcro that had my wrists restrained and the first thing I did was rub the hell out of my face.
Then she spoke to Sammie, the nurse, who I’d forgotten about. “If he experiences any hallucinations, these go back on.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I’m going to hallucinate?”
“Mr. West. You are withdrawing from a potent opiate. We are giving you methadone to control that. On top of it, you are also withdrawing from alcohol. This is a critical time for you. We will manage these symptoms as best we can for the next few days and then transfer you to rehab, where you will see me every day. Unless, of course, you want to live your remaining years as an addict, which I don’t recommend.”
“Oh, God.” What have I done to myself?
“Mr. West,” the psychiatrist said in a softer tone. “This isn’t the end of the world. You’re going to feel like it is for the next few weeks, but the fact that you’re here, alive, and going to receive help, are the steps in the direction you need to take. I promise there is hope. Trust me.”
Our eyes connected and I saw something there that made me believe her.
“Okay. I tried not to use, I really did.”
“I believe you. Most, not all, but most addicts don’t want to be where they are. But you must stick with this program I’m going to recommend, or you’ll end up back where you were. And I can promise you the end result isn’t good.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
“Is it possible to take a shower?”
She glanced at Dr. O’Shea. “While I admire your tenacity, you’ve been in a coma for a few days. I think it best if we wait another day. So tomorrow, and then you’ll need assistance because you have IVs and a catheter.”
It’s pretty fucking bad when you don’t even know you have a catheter jammed up your dick. Thirty-five years old and I felt like I was ninety.
Dr. Martinelli handed me the phone. “We’ll give you some privacy for the calls.” She offered me a kind smile and a pat on the shoulder. I was going to need a lot more than that with the news I was a
bout to share.
When my brother, Hudson, answered, I could barely speak. My childhood flashed before me and I broke down and cried.
“Just tell me you’re okay. I don’t give a damn about anything else. Just tell me you’re okay.”
I swallowed around the rawness in my throat and said, “I’ll make it.”
“Where are you?”
I scanned the room to see which hospital I was in, because dumbass me forgot to ask, and then told him. “Do me a favor. Can you come alone or with Grey? I want to tell you first before Mom and Dad.”
“I’m on the way.”
Next, I called one of my law partners and sprung the great news on him. I thought it would be less emotional, but it wasn’t. When I got to the part where I said, “I’m a drug addict,” a huge weight was lifted from me.
“I almost died. Someone found me and called 911.”
He told me how they filed a missing person’s report.
“The hospital didn’t know who I was as I had no ID on me.”
Then he informed me my job would be waiting for me when I completed rehab. The firm had no choice because of FMLA. But I’m sure I’d face hell when I got back. I’d be practicing sober again and when I was sober, I was the best, so at least there was that.
Sammie knocked and when she came in, she changed out one of my IV bags. Before she was finished, Hudson busted through the door.
From Smoke To Flames— Amazon: A West Brothers Novel Page 1
