Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders #6)(116)

“Fine.” She pushed off from the wall. “But I sure hope you don’t plan on finding a bottle to help you pass the time while you’re off thinking.”


And he thought he’d felt sick before. “Spoken like a true A.A. sponsor. Thank you for the support.”


“Shit. Colt, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out, I just can’t think… Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening and I know I’m doing this all wrong.”


Yes, you are.


“I’m just frustrated and you know how I get and say such stupid impulsive things—”


“No, I don’t know. Because I thought I knew you, India. And I thought you were one of the few who knew me. But I guess I was wrong about that too.”


Colt didn’t look back as he left.


Go after him. You need him. You love him. Weren’t you mustering up the guts to tell him how you felt? How can you let him walk away?


Let him go. You don’t need him, especially after his hypocritical behavior. He jumped to his own set of conclusions without letting you explain.


India sank to the floor and wept, knowing it was pointless, knowing it’d make her feel worse. She was so numb in body and mind and spirit, she couldn’t even move. She couldn’t even crawl to her bed. She just laid on the floor, curled in a ball, and cried. And cried. Big sobs. Hiccupping sobs. Silence as tears streamed down her face.


What had she done?


What had he done?


She’d never wanted a drink so badly in her life. Or to smoke a big, fat joint. Or to down a bottle of sleeping pills so she could sleep the day away.


Her mind flitted between all the choices, in greedy glee, the old voices and vices taunting her. You’ve been good for so long, don’t you deserve to cut loose? Just once? No one will ever know. Surely one wouldn’t hurt you.


One what?


One of anything. Pick. There are so many choices.


But what if I get caught?


By who? Could your life honestly get any worse?


No.


YES. Another voice piped in. Don’t let eight years of sobriety go down the drain because of an eight-minute fight. Do something besides sit around and give your demons control. Take a walk. Talk to someone.


The only person India wanted to talk to was Colt.


Screw him. It’s his fault you’re in this state anyway. Get in your car and drive to the package store. No one will know. Don’t you miss it? Don’t you remember? The tart taste of white wine on your lips? The bubbly feeling of beer on your tongue? The fiery burn of tequila sliding down your throat?


India’s mouth watered.


A mental snort sounded as voice number two reappeared. You might as well throw yourself down the stairs. Drinking again is suicide. You know that. Colt is not to blame. And if you use him as an excuse for a relapse, you’ll never have the chance to repair this misstep in your relationship, because part of you will always fault him, even when it’s not true nor his fault. You’re stronger than this.


Goddammit, she was stronger than this. But she didn’t have the strength to ride out the voices alone. She needed help.


Wasn’t that what she always reminded fledgling A.A. members? No one is ever cured of alcoholism. Some days are easy; some days are hard. No matter if you’ve been sober a week or two decades, there’s no shame in asking for help when you need it.


There wasn’t. But there’d be a whole lot of shame if she gave in to temptation.