Tori

It’s probably an hour after Serge leaves when there’s a new knock on my door. I glare at it from the couch, like if I stare at it hard enough I’ll be able to tell who’s on the other side.

“Who is it?” I call out. I’m not getting up if it’s Serge. He can go fuck himself. I mean, who does he think he is, anyway? Just because he had a serious fucking problem doesn’t mean everyone does. So what if I like to drink? Newsflash: the whole world likes to drink. Alcohol’s been around as long as people have realized they could drink shit other than water.

“Let me in, Tor,” Onyx says through the door, and I groan. He might be worse than Serge. But at least seeing Onyx’s face isn’t going to make me want to throw things.

“Pain in my ass,” I grumble, dragging myself up off the couch. “What the hell do you want?” I ask, yanking the door open. Onyx just gives me a once-over and shakes his head.

“You’ve been drinking again?”

“Hair of the dog that bit you,” I grin, shaking the bottle of tequila in my hand. Pretty much the moment Serge left I went down to the corner store and bought it. I had the cap off and was taking swigs of it as I climbed the stairs back up to my apartment, and by now, it’s about a quarter empty.

“What the fuck Tori?” he growls, dragging his hand through his hair, the shaggy ends falling right over his eyes again.

I roll my eyes and flounce over to the couch again, taking a swig from the bottle and then a squirt of lime juice, straight out of its bottle too.

“Did you just come here to be a buzzkill, grandpa?” Before he can answer, I ask, “Got a smoke?”

He sighs and sits down on the armchair opposite the couch, handing me a pack of cigarettes as he does. I spark it, take a drag, and total calm washes over me. Fuck Garret for being such a slimeball. Fuck the record for siding with him. Fuck TMZ for not having anything better to do than report on my every fuck-up, and especially fuck Serge for being a sanctimonious asshole even though we both know he’s no better than me.

“What the hell is going on with you Tori? You know this is no good.”

I scowl, looking out the window. It’s such a pretty day, clear sunny skies, a gentle breeze rustling palm fronds; it pisses me off.

“What does it matter? Who’s going to care? I don’t have a label to get mad anymore. I don’t even have a manager to care. I can do whatever the fuck I want, Onyx. I’m finally free.”

He arches a skeptical brow. “I didn’t realize you were ever a prisoner.”

“You are too!” I exclaim. “Fuck them all, man. Just live your life.”

“Tori…” he says, his voice with a warning note to it.

“That sleazeball Garret fucking betrayed me. He set me up and then tried to blackmail me into fucking him. I’m supposed to be upset about him being gone?”

“So you’re saying this isn’t what upset looks like?”

“Fuck no,” I say, chugging another big swig of tequila. The sharp burn makes every cell in my body feel like it’s recoiling with horror at the vile taste, but I kind of like that feeling. That’s my problem. I’ve always liked things that are obviously bad for me.

“And don’t even get me started on that other asshole,” I say, scowling even harder at the thought of Serge.

“Which one is that?”

I glare at him. “You fucking know.” Then I narrow my eyes and think really hard. “He’s probably the reason you’re even here, isn’t he?”

Onyx doesn’t say anything and I curse under my breath.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two? I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

“Can you?” he asks, his face infuriatingly placid.

“Yes. If you’ve forgotten, I’ve done a pretty fucking good job of taking care of myself since I was old enough to reach doorknobs.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he says, still so calm it just makes me want to scream. How can I be so mad at everything, so mad at him and he’s just not reacting? It’s bullshit. “But this doesn’t exactly look like taking care of yourself. It looks like you’re letting other people control you.”

“I am not,” I grumble, glowering into the bottle.

“No? You’re not drinking because Garret betrayed you and Serge pissed you off?”

“I didn’t… I’m not… Ugh,” I groan, gripping the bottle tighter, wishing it would crack and shatter in my fist just because I want the satisfaction of breaking something. But then I think about the blood and stop squeezing so hard.

“I’m just drinking because I want to, okay?”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “By yourself in the middle of the afternoon. Fun party.”

“I’m not by myself,” I protest, but he gives me a hard look.

“Fine,” I sigh. “I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m a mess. Fuck,” I groan, shoving the bottle to the coffee table, the contents sloshing around even though they’re half gone by this point. “I don’t know what to do. I feel like everything I do is wrong. Like no matter what I do it’s just going to make shit worse. What am I supposed to do?” My voice breaks and the irreverence I’ve been holding onto like a security blanket falls away in the face of bearing my soul to my best friend.

“First things first, stop getting shit-faced every time something goes wrong—”

I snort. “You drink too, Mr. High-and-Mighty.”

“Yeah, I drink. To have fun, Tor. Not to deal with my problems. Not to forget shit or stop feeling my emotions.”

I chew on my bottom lip. For Serge to tell me I have a problem was one thing, but hearing it from Onyx is another entirely. Maybe there’s some truth in it if Onyx is worried about me. Maybe I should think about this.

But thinking is always easier when I’m drinking. My best ideas come when I’m drunk. I reach for the bottle again, but before I can grab it, there’s a deliberate knock on my door.

“What now?”

The knock comes again, swift and sharp, rattling the door in its jamb. Onyx looks at it concerned, then gets up to answer it.

“We’re looking for Tori Winters,” a man on the other side of the door says. I can’t see the door from where I’m at, but I figure it’s gotta be reporters or some other dumb shit.

“She’s not here,” I shout. “She’s never coming back!”

Onyx stumbles back from the door as three police officers push past him into my living room in full uniform, not a hint of amusement on any of their faces.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to come with us,” the officer in front says, one hand on his radio.

“Why?”

“You’re under arrest,” he says, as one of the other officers lifts me off the couch by my elbow and cuffs me before I can respond.

“What?”

“We have a warrant here for your arrest. Violation of parole. Jenkins, read her her rights.”

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“Onyx,” I say in a panic. “Onyx, they can’t do this, right?”

He’s standing in my kitchen looking lost and horrified, just watching what’s happening as I try to twist away from the cops, trying to get him to tell me that this isn’t happening. “Onyx!”

“You have the right to an attorney, if you cannot afford one—”

“I don’t need a fucking attorney, you can’t do this!”

“Ma’am, this will be a lot easier if you cooperate,” the lead officer says, his voice so calm I want to scream.

“Onyx!” I screech as I’m being steered out into the hallway, but he doesn’t come after me. He doesn’t say anything. He just lets them take me and I feel more betrayed than ever. I’m still fighting and struggling against them until they put me in the back of the cruiser and then it seems pointless to fight. My shoulders are already aching and my fingers are starting to go numb from the handcuffs. Last time this happened, I was too drunk to have any recollection of it. I wish I could say that now, but my tolerance is too damn high and everything’s happening in crystal clarity.

When we get to the station, I’m put through booking and then they put me in a cell with a dozen other women, one of whom is talking into her shoe like it’s a cell phone, another who makes aggressive jumping moves whenever I accidentally look her way, and another woman who is very heavily pregnant and sobbing uncontrollably.

There’s only one seat open and it’s next to Jumpy McAngryface, so I just stand in the corner, hugging myself, trying not to cry as I slowly sober up and realize what a colossal fucking disaster I’ve made of my life.

The woman who was talking on her shoe gets taken out of the cell at some point, but there must be a minimum level of crazy required in here, because as soon as she’s gone, one of the other women starts muttering to herself about crazy people that talk to their shoes. She doesn’t stop there, though. She starts muttering snide comments about each of us. Like she doesn’t realize her internal dialogue has decided to be external. When she says something about Jumpy’s beefy head and neck tattoos, I think for sure there’s going to be a fight, but her mutterings don’t get a reaction and she just keeps going.

After I’m sure I’ve been here for a few hours, I wave down an officer walking by. “Don’t I get a phone call or something at some point?”

“Once they’re done processing you,” she answers.

“How long does that take?”

“You got somewhere else to be?” she jokes and a few of the girls behind me laugh. I can tell that some of them are regulars because they’re on friendly terms with these officers, but I don’t get the same treatment.

“It’s just that I’m sure someone will bail me out if they know I’m here.”

“Not ‘til they’re done processing you,” she says, unamused.

“And… You don’t know how long that will be?”

“It’ll be as long as it is,” she says drolly. “Enjoy your stay.” And then she’s walking away, leaving me standing in the corner hugging myself again.

I don’t get it though. Onyx was there when I was arrested. He should be bailing me out already. Unless he’s trying to teach me a lesson. Unless he thinks this is fitting punishment for all my shitty choices. I hate to think that he’d do that to me, but then again, I never thought he’d be siding with Serge about my drinking habits.

Onyx and I have been through thick and thin together. Through ups and downs and more benders than I can count. I don’t know why he suddenly has an issue with me drinking when he never did before.

Or maybe he just never had the courage to say anything. I think back to how I blew up in Serge’s face when he suggested I have a problem and guilt hits me like a Mack truck. It takes a lot of balls to face a tricky subject like that with someone. Especially when they’re not ready to hear it. But he still did it. Even knowing everything he knows. But why?

Because he cares, a voice in my head says, reminding me of the way he promised to stay by my side through rehab. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, knowing I could go home to Serge.

But I might have already burned that bridge. I know if I was Serge, I wouldn’t want anything to do with me anymore. Not after the way I acted. Not after the mess I made of everything.

Hours go by and other girls leave the cell, new ones coming in to take their place. At some point, I manage to snag a bench seat, still hugging myself, the cold concrete of the walls and floor not doing anything to help with this chill in me that refuses to go away.

“Winters,” the female officer from before says, and my head snaps up.

“Do I get my phone call?”

“Even better,” she says. “Someone’s bailed you out.”

I don’t believe her at first and I wait for the other shoe to drop, for her to crack a smile or burst out with one of those rusty-nails laughs at my expense. But none of that happens. She unlocks the door and pulls me out, leading me through a series of locked doors until I’m out in the lobby with the public, a free woman again.

“You can pick up your effects at that counter,” she says, making me sign something agreeing to show up in court.

I look at the counter, but I don’t think I had any effects. I didn’t have my wallet or phone or anything on me when they took me out of my living room, so I think I’m good to go, even if I’m still not quite believing it.

I spot Onyx in the lobby and run up and hug him.

“Thank you for bailing me out.”

“Sorry it wasn’t sooner, they were taking their sweet ass time processing you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, the trials and horrors forgotten.

“Someone else is here,” he says, and my heart clenches as he steps aside and I see Serge sitting there. His eyes focus on me and he stands.

My whole body is on fire with humiliation. I was such a fool. Such an ass. I can’t believe he’s even here. But he is. He’s standing right in front of me, and that makes me so ridiculously happy that I can’t even contain it.

Still, I don’t know how he’s going to react to me. I don’t know why he’s here. He could be here to tell me that this is the last straw and he never wants me to contact him again.

I swallow, taking a step toward him.

“Hi,” I say, cursing myself for how stupid that sounds.

“Hi,” he says back, his voice empty of any emotion.

“I’m really sorry for—”

He holds up a hand. “Have you reconsidered going to rehab?”

That familiar prickle of indignant rage roars up inside me, but I force it down. I’m not entitled to that anymore. When you’ve been arrested twice, it’s kind of hard to deny you have a problem.

I turn, and Onyx is right there on my other side, looking just as serious. “It’s the right thing, Tor,” he says.

“I already called the place in Malibu if you’re interested in a spot there,” Serge says, his voice gentler, less like he’s barely holding back his fury.

I think about what the tabloids will say, what the internet will say, how the fans will react. But then I stop. Who the fuck cares? It’s worrying about all those things that got me to this point in the first place. So instead, I think about the people that are most important to me. Onyx, and Serge, and even Kamala. I think about what they’d want from me, and unlike everyone else in the world, they’re not just interested in me for the entertainment value I provide. They care about me for me. And they want what’s best for me, even if I don’t see it all the time.

I let out a slow shaky breath and nod.

“Yeah, I’ll do it. I guess I really need to, huh?”

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how much better you feel,” Serge says, his voice warming.

“And you meant what you said? You’ll come visit me and call me and all that?” I ask, already in a mild state of panic thinking about not being able to hear his voice or see him. When did I grow so attached to Serge? When did these feelings become such a fixture in my life? I should probably be more worried about that, but I know Serge is good for me and I don’t really have a habit of liking things that are good for me, so I decide that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t rebel. Just this once.

“Of course,” he says, his voice dipping another octave.

Onyx clears his throat and the both of us look at him like he just materialized. “We should probably get Tori back to her place to pack a bag, then.”

“Good idea,” Serge says.

I go along with it because I don’t trust myself to make my own decisions anymore. Maybe this rehab thing will be like a reset button. Maybe I’ll finally figure out how to be a functioning adult and member of society. Or maybe it won’t do anything and Serge will realize I’m the lost cause I’ve always known myself to be.

I don’t know how it’ll go, but I know right now that I’m determined to try. I know that I like Serge enough that it’s worth wasting some of my time to ensure I’ve still got a chance with him, even if there’s no way I deserve it anymore.

We get back to my place and it’s a disaster. I guess I didn’t realize how bad it was because I was sloshed, but there’s shot glasses all over, there whole place reeks of tequila — probably because the bottle’s tipped on its side and mostly emptied on my couch — and while I’m trying to get to my bedroom, I find the carpet littered with half-smoked cigarette butts and ash.

I can’t believe I didn’t realize what a mess I was, but this is a total wake-up call. Seeing this sober, fresh out of jail, through the eyes of the guys that care about me makes me realize how fucked-up it really is.

So I try to pack a bag as quickly as possible, shoving things into a suitcase without paying much attention to what any of it is. I don’t want them lingering around too long, looking at my destruction and judging me even more. Though from the way they’re looking at me, they’re not judging me. I think I’m just doing that to myself. Wondering who the hell this girl I’ve become is, because I don’t really recognize her.

It started off small, I guess, and just snowballed, but slowly enough that I never really noticed how big the snowball was getting until it was right on my heels and I tripped and it crushed me.

Or something like that.

“Okay,” I say, shoving the last of my toiletries into my bag. I’ve also packed chargers for electronics and my tablet and laptop, stuff to keep me occupied because from what I’ve gathered, these celebrity rehabs are basically just glorified vacations. I’m not really sure how that’s supposed to help me overcome using drinking as a crutch, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it’ll make Serge and Onyx happy.

The drive to Malibu takes about an hour, and it’s completed in total silence. I’m in the front seat next to Serge and Onyx is in the back, in the middle, just watching me through the mirror. No one ever says anything and it just feels intensely awkward. I feel like I should say something, but I have no idea what, so I keep my mouth shut.

And then the GPS is telling us we’ve arrived, at the gate to a big white mansion, flanked by palm trees and glittering fountains.

“Looks nice,” I mutter, clutching my bags a little tighter. Is this really what I want to do? As soon as the word gets out that I’m in rehab, it’s all over. There’s no more denying. It’ll just be asking for the public’s forgiveness forever.

Is that really what I want?

I don’t get to think about it, because as soon as the car stops, an attendant is opening the door and offering me a hand. Serge tosses the valet his keys and hurries around the car to take one of my bags from me, settling a hand on my lower back as he leads me in through the pristine sliding doors.

The atrium inside is spacious and airy, and a glass dome set in the ceiling paints the space with natural light. There are more potted palms inside, and miniature water features sprinkled around the room make it sound like we’re surrounding by a babbling brook. It’s definitely relaxing, but for some reason, that just has me more on-edge.

“Hello and welcome,” a pretty blonde behind the reception desk says, her teeth perfectly white and straight, her voice with that soft, detached quality of AI servants in sci-fi flicks.

“Hi,” says Serge, pulling out his wallet. “My name’s Serge Davenport, I’m an alumnus.”

“Back for a tune-up?” she asks brightly, like he’s a Civic or something.

“No, not me,” he says, trying to smile though it comes out as more of a grimace. “I called about my friend here, Tori Winters. I was told there would be space made available for her.”

When he says it like that, I feel like I’m getting preferential treatment I don’t deserve. Truth is, I probably am. Probably through this whole thing. From the first DUI all the way up ’til now I’ve been experiencing the privilege of my fame,while moaning about how unfair life is.

It’s weird the kind of mental clarity that comes with giving up on the justification gymnastics. Like now that I have all this mental processing power free, my brain’s taking the opportunity to point out exactly how much of a dick I’ve been about everything.

“Okay, for a voluntary check-in, we just need you to fill out these forms,” she says, passing me a clipboard with a silver pen. “Would you like a glass of cucumber-lemon water while you fill that out?”

“No, thank you,” I mutter, scribbling my information on the form, skimming all the fine print.

“Wait, it says here the minimum stay is fourteen days with no outside contact?”

“Well, other than designated visiting and phone hours,” she answers brightly.

“What if I don’t need fourteen days? What if I just need a couple of days and I’m good?”

She laughs in this condescending way that makes me grit my teeth together. Serge must be able to sense that I’m getting ready to bail because he rests his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be over before you know it,” he says.

“It’ll be good for you, Tor,” says Onyx, nodding.

My phone rings and I’m hoping and praying that it’s someone calling to save me from this decision, but I frown seeing my lawyer’s name pop up.

“Hello?”

“Tori, I’ve heard you’re going to rehab, is that true?”

“Uh… How did you hear that?”

“Doesn’t matter, is it true?”

“I’m looking at the sign-in right now,” I say.

“Great. Just keep your nose clean and get through the program. I got your judge assignment and this judge loves people that show they’re trying to get clean. If you can get your counselor to testify on your behalf, you’ll probably be able to avoid jail time all together.”

“Great,” I mumble, the words on the paper in front of me swimming. “Guess I’ll talk to you in two weeks then.”

Seems like the universe is really trying to convince me to do this. Maybe it really is the best thing. I sign the paper, my eyes screwed up tight the whole time, and shove the clipboard back at the smiling robot lady.

“Awesome. Now, we’ll just need to confiscate all of your electronics. We’ll put them in our safe, don’t you worry.”

“I can’t even keep my phone?” I ask, clutching it to my chest, thoughts of texting Serge every moment of every day slipping out of my grip.

“Phones in rehab are a naughty no-no,” she says, clucking her tongue. I glare. I’m not a fucking child.

“You’re really going to make me stay here?” I ask Serge and Onyx, pouting.

“It’s for your own good,” Onyx says firmly, his arms crossed. Serge is gentler, he smiles and takes me by the shoulders, placing a soft whisper of a kiss on my lips.

“Behave yourself.”

And then they’re leaving and me and my bags are being search for contraband. Even though I know they don’t get much say in the matter, it hurts when they just abandon me without looking back.

I guess this is what I get.