CHAPTER 19
Drake
Holy shit, I was about to climb the fucking walls. Detox was a mess and the medication they were giving me wasn’t helping. And on top of my withdrawal symptoms, I had to fucking talk to people. Between the time I spent on my knees dry-heaving, the time I spent sweating through the water I tried to chug before throwing it up, and the time I shook myself awake at night, they fucking expected me to spew my life story to them.
Even though I was shaking so violently my teeth were chattering.
Strangers, wanting me to talk about my feelings. What the fuck was that about? I was here to get sober, not commune with ‘like-minded individuals.’ They thought they knew what I was going through? They didn’t have the slightest fucking clue was I was dealing with. I didn’t talk. I didn’t open up. I just went through my fucking detoxification shit, swallowed my medication even though it didn’t work, and tried to bide my time until I got the fuck out of there.
As I laid in bed, my teeth chattering so badly I was scared they’d shatter, I thought about all the ways to relieve the pain. A drop of alcohol. A pain pill. A razor blade to my fucking throat. If I had to talk to one more stranger in one more therapy session about my past and how it somehow haunted me, I was going to break someone’s nose.
I rolled over in my soaking wet bed and closed my eyes. I hated doing it. Just like I hated everything else in this damn place, I hated sleeping. Why? Because when I slept, she was there. With her bright, gorgeous eyes and her long, toned legs. I could hear Delia’s giggle knocking against my ears as her hand cupped my cheek.
I could still conjure the touch of her skin. It warmed me to my core as I dreamed about her at nightHer smile and her laughter. The way her nose crinkled when she was pissed. The way her sweat-drenched shirt clung to her that first day on the ranch.
The way she was sleeping on the table as I stumbled into the bus.
She’d left a very serious imprint on me that I couldn’t shake. No woman, since Shannon, had ever stricken me the way she had. I knew I couldn't see her again, for her sake. I'd done too much damage to that poor girl already. I needed to suck it up and learn to move on without her, to fix my own shit instead of dragging someone else down into the abyss with me.
Still, I wondered if she would come if I asked. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me?
I closed my eyes at night and saw us holding hands, lying out underneath the stars and just staring. I’d point out the constellations to her like my momma used to do to me and she’d giggle and move in closer. I saw her working on that rust bucket truck, bent over the hood of it with her jeans rolling down her hips. I saw myself taking her against that truck, her pussy squeezing my cock as her juices sprayed out at me.
I should’ve asked her so many things. Like why she was always so disappointed whenever I took a drink. That look was never just because I was drinking. I knew that look all too well. She had secrets. Deep, dark things she kept close to her chest. I dreamed of telling her about my knee, and about the accident that had ruined my life and taken everything I'd ever loved from me in one night.
I wanted to tell her how this entire cycle began.
Maybe when I got out, things could be different. Maybe I could actually do some of this shit with her that I was dreaming about. Maybe she’d let me take her to dinner or something. Or she could share a cup of coffee with me. Just a cup of coffee.
Anything to get around her again.
I woke up to someone knocking on my door and beckoning me to the common room. I’d slept the damn day away and it was time for group therapy. I groaned and pulled my aching body from bed, grimacing as the wet sheets squished underneath my skin. My head was swirling as I grabbed a bottle of water at my bedside, chugging it as best as I could before the nausea kicked in again.
But this time I was determined to keep it down.
No matter what.
“Hello, my name is John.”
“Hi, John,” the group replied.
“Um—so yeah. Haven’t really talked much here,” he said. “Don’t really see the point. Since this hasn’t worked the past two times I’ve tried it.”
Two times? This fucker had been here twice already? Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
I shivered and shook all the way through the group therapy session as people talked about their addictions. Pill addicts because of botched surgeries and heroin overdoses because of childhood abuses. Everyone had such terrifying stories, and slowly my understanding of the situation dawned on me.
I had terrifying stories, too. And I was allowing them to control me. Just like these people were.
I had to keep my dreams at the forefront of my mind. I had to keep Elsie as my top priority. Higher than alcohol. I had an entire life to live that would be drowned in my drinking if I didn’t get my damn act together. People were counting on me. My fans were counting on me. I couldn’t let the destruction of my life and the desolate waste of my past keep holding me underneath the river of bourbon I was hell bent on drinking dry.
It would kill me if I let it.
And then who would be there for Elsie? For Paul? For Hank, and for Tammy?
I had to let that be the fuel that lit my fire. I had to let that be the inspiration for getting sober. Because if I let it go, even for a second, my demons would come crawling back up my throat.
And I’d try to wash them away with the bourbon underneath the kitchen sink.