Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(65)
“Fuck,” he muttered, locking eyes with the wild animal that used to be his best friend. “Let’s—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence because Lucky moved. Surged up and pushed past him without a word. Asher turned to watch him storm out of the clubhouse and then heard the roar of his bike as he left the lot.
“Fuck,” he muttered again.
Then he welcomed the rage, let it fill him up. “We’re getting blood for this,” he said to Cade, who’d approached after Lucky left.
Cade’s gray eyes met his. “Oh there will be blood,” he bit out. “A f*ckin’ ocean of it.”
There was only one problem with that statement.
They were already swimming in that ocean of blood.
Drowning in it.
Chapter Fifteen
"Some women fear the fire. Some women simply become it.”
-R.H Sin
One month later
Becky
“Rebecca, you’ve been attending group for three weeks now and still haven’t shared. Have you got something to add today? To get off your chest?” The rehab counselor asked me in her throaty voice.
Get off my chest? Yeah, how about the weight of the world, lady.
“Bex,” I said instead.
Her overgrown brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I’ve been here for three weeks and for that time you’ve called me Rebecca while I’ve repeatedly told you it’s Bex.” I thrummed my fingers against my jean-clad thighs in irritation.
I needed a smoke.
I actually needed a fix. A f*cking huge one.
They didn’t offer that at this particular facility, hence me nearly smoking a pack a day.
Not the healthiest coping mechanism, but what was a little more tar on my already blackened insides?
She regarded me with those kind eyes that made me want to strangle her with one of her many tiny scarves. “Does something about your given name upset you?”
I didn’t lower my gaze, though I felt everyone else’s heavy on me. I didn’t like it, the attention. Precisely why I hadn’t spoken a word in this little circle jerk that I was subjected to daily. The group session of depression, of people’s addiction sob stories, would make even the most cheerful person want to eat a bullet just to escape it all.
“Besides the fact that the stupid name was the one and only thing my * parents gave me before dumping me on the state? It’s not really my style,” I said, leaning back in my chair. I inspected my nails instead of looking at the people who were staring at me.
The black polish had chipped off, the nails bitten down almost to the skin. They were a testament to how f*cking ruined my insides were. Black and peeling, chewed and torn.
“You don’t know your parents, then?” the counselor probed.
I glanced up. “You think I’d be here if John and Judy Cleaver raised me and Mom baked cookies every day?” I was being a bitch. It was my default. Plus what little cheer I possessed had been well and truly beaten out of me. Only sarcasm and venom were left.
The counselor jostled in her chair. “It sometimes doesn’t matter what background we come from. Addiction happens to everyone. It doesn’t discriminate. But I’m intrigued to understand how you think your own addiction is connected to your childhood. Was it hard?”
I laughed, the first time since…. It wasn’t a pretty laugh; it sounded ugly, like nails on a chalkboard, like the soundtrack of my soul. “My childhood? No, it was a f*cking breeze.”
She furrowed her brows. “It’s a safe space here, Bex. You can tell us.”
“Safe space?” I repeated. “There’s no such thing. You think ’cause we’re here spillin’ our guts, making the world a much grayer place with our addiction horror stories, that we’re safe? The very fact we’re here is a testament to the fact we’re not safe. Never will be. No matter where we are. That’s the whole f*cking point, isn’t it? The monkey will always be on our back, always a shadow no matter how bright our life may seem. We’re never safe from that.”
A pregnant pause descended after I spoke. The counselor leaned forward onto her elbows. “Despite the experiences that have led to this belief, which I’m sure were traumatic, it’s not as dreary as that. Your future can indeed be bright and you can overcome your addiction. I can promise you that.”
I laughed again. “Can you promise that?” I asked, my voice flat. “Can you promise sunshine and rainbows for everyone in this room?” I held my arms out. “To the guy who almost killed his daughter? Can you say that’s not gonna haunt him every f*cking day for the rest of his life? Or how about the girl who tried to slit her wrists? You think those scars are gonna fade away to nothing overnight?” I paused. “Or what about the girl who grew up in the system, had her virginity stolen by a sweaty drunk when she was twelve years old, and had to fight every day since just to survive. And that fight got her a drug addiction.” I sucked in a breath. “That f*cking fight got her chained to a stained mattress, strung out but not enough to forget the men who raped her in that cold f*cking room to the point she can still feel their hands on her skin right f*cking now?” My voice was a shrill shout, scratching against the silent air. I pushed up, my chair rattling to the floor with the force. “I don’t think any amount of kumba-f*cking-ya is going to make that shit go away. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to live my cloud-filled life. Good luck with your sunshine and rainbows,” I said to the silent room. “Say hey to the Easter Bunny for me.”