An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(3)

“From your quiet, I assume we’re done for the day.” Elliot smiled and wrote quickly on the legal pad resting, as it always did, on his knee. Max didn’t answer, but took a deep breath, knowing he’d been let off the hook. Max had learned quickly that Dr. Elliot Watts was a persistent bastard. Yeah, he was a therapist and that shit was his job, but he’d been relentless from the get-go. Nevertheless, Max had to admit he liked him, no matter what dark paths of the past the doc asked him to travel.

“You made some good progress here today, Max,” Elliot continued with a small nod. “I know talking about your father isn’t easy.”

Yeah, no shit.

Scribble, scribble. “So, you’re fifteen days in. How are you finding the medication?”

Max shrugged. He was on a plethora of funky-looking pills, which he had to take each morning: antidepressants, Ritalin, amantadine. Each one had a very specific purpose in helping with the aching despair, sleepless nights, and the cravings. And they did. For the most part. Hell, drugs were drugs.

They weren’t the drugs he wanted, the drugs he knew would kick his anxiety’s ass, the drugs that would stop his dick from being a flaccid waste of time, the drugs that would supress the monstrous appetite that was adding to his waistline, the drugs that beckoned like a f*cking siren’s call every time he tried to close his eyes at night.

But drugs were drugs.

With every half-assed beat of his heart, his blood moved sluggishly around his body. It was desperate for the fire of a line, the life, the euphoric detachment. Jesus, he needed a hit. Just one f*cking hit.

Elliot sat up a little straighter, as if sensing the hunger that practically crippled Max from the inside out. “How are the night terrors?”

Dread seized Max’s bones. He swallowed and rubbed his hands together. His discomfort spoke volumes. The night terrors were just that: terrifying. Nightmares so vivid and distressing the mere thought of sleep left Max cold. They’d started just days off the powder, just days after he’d been admitted, and, despite Elliot’s prescribed medication, they weren’t abating. The bags under his eyes could attest to that shit.

“We can increase the dose if you need it, Max,” Elliot said softly. “You need your rest.”

Max sighed and gave an imperceptible dip of his chin, his pride unable to outweigh the fear of what waited for him when he slept.

“Okay. I’ll get that changed for you.”

“Thank you.” Max’s voice was quiet, but his gratitude was immeasurable.

“Do you want to talk about the terrors?”

“No.” Max rubbed at his temples, where the grotesque images that accosted him at night threatened to claw out.

Elliot’s silence made Max lift his head. “That bad.”

Max pulled the hood of his sweatshirt farther around his face, burying himself in an attempt to hide. He wore his hood up for both his individual and the group sessions, and weirdly, Elliot didn’t seem to mind. Max wasn’t entirely sure why he did it, but it helped take the edge off the stress he felt at the thought of talking to strangers about shit that had happened years ago. It was a cocoon, a wall that made his stay in rehab a little bit easier.

“Maybe you could write about the terrors in the notebook I gave you last week. I know it’s still empty.” Elliot smiled wryly at the derisive look Max shot him.

Writing in a f*cking notebook? No, thanks.

“Fine, look,” Elliot said, sitting forward, “you know where I am if you want to talk more. We’re all here to help you through this. You’re not alone, okay?”

Max scoffed inwardly, holding his eye roll. Sure, he was surrounded by people who had his “very best interests at heart,” people who wanted to “help him get clean,” wanted to “talk it all out together,” wanted to make sure that he was “comfortable,” “at ease,” and not frantic with the need to bust out of the f*cking place and find the nearest junkie stash.

Yeah, he was well and truly surrounded by well-meaning folk.

And he’d never felt more alone.





Seven years ago . . .


The party, as they always did, had descended into chaos. It was nearly midnight and Riley Moore, flanked by three of his friends, was—using only his teeth to lift the glasses—shooting vodka shots off the naked breasts of two unnamed girls. Max smiled as the guys cheered and whooped, high-fived and chest-bumped with each shot that spilled gloriously over the skin of the girls, chased by Riley’s eager tongue.

Max laughed at the enthusiastic cleanup job. Meeting through mutual friends, Max had only known Riley for a couple of years. Nevertheless, Max had learned pretty quickly that, despite not knowing too much about the man’s background, Riley was always the life and soul of any shindig and was a monster when it came to drinking. He drank damned near anything as long as it was alcoholic, yet always seemed to stay resolutely sober no matter how many bottles sat around him. He was crazy, but he never touched anything else. Not even weed. Riley always turned it down, saying it never interested him. Max had always been silently in awe of his self-restraint.

No, Riley’s vices were cars and women. Lots of women.

Max’s elbow was bumped hard. He turned to see his best friend, Carter, high and drunk, with his arm wrapped around a cute brunette who was wearing very little.