Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(10)
I didn’t go directly to the crack-job place like I was told. First, I had to try to see Jesse. To find out what happened to him. But no one would answer any of my questions at the courthouse. I’m not a relative. I’m not his spouse—I cringe just thinking the word. So I can’t even find out if he’s out on bail, still locked away, or what.
Since my PO called me right when I was trying to say my goodbyes to Randy and Tank, and a few members of Lone Breed who are sticking around until Jesse’s release, I didn’t get a very long send off to my twenty-day sentence.
Things work freakin’ fast in Florida. One day you’re cruising the road, the next you’re processed and checking into rehab. Fran-freaking-tastic.
If only their f*cking streetlights operated at this stellar speed…
“Melody.” The nurse who ran a million tests, took a gazillion vials of my blood, walks into the small room. “Just to let you know, the staff at Stoney Creek is here to help. When withdrawal effects start, just ask for help.” Her gaze sharpens on me as she lowers her head.
I shrug. “I’m not an addict,” I say, gripping my hand into a fist on the table. “I’ve never suffered withdrawal a day in my life.” Her thin lips turn down at the edges, and I add, “But thanks,” trying to lighten my tone.
She nods, then takes the seat across from me at the little table. “Your tests show that you’ve used in the last twenty-four hours, and that you’ve used cocaine and other stimulates at least once a day for the past two weeks. Is that long-term use? How long have you been a daily cocaine user?”
I shrug. “I use a little here and there. Not a ton, I mean. Just to wake me up. Better than coffee.” I smile, but she doesn’t. Lame joke, I guess. Nonchalantly, I tug my sleeve below my elbow, covering the recent track marks.
She jots something down on her page. “You may suffer some unpleasant symptoms during your first few days here, just—” she looks up, drops her voice “—just let us help, okay?”
I huff out a breath. The sooner I let these people do their thing, the sooner I can get back to my life. Or what’s left of it. “All right.” I glance around the room as she fills in her reports.
The walls are covered with all kinds of helpful info. From the many toxins that are in our average cig, to the number of steps it takes to reach maximum sobriety, there’s a poster for it all. Damn. I’ve been smoking formaldehyde? Like embalming fluid?
Regardless of that less-than-appreciated knowledge (I could have done without that, really), my craving to light up hits me hard. I swing my gaze back to the nurse. “So…is this place like super strict? Can I smoke here?”
She pushes a hank of blond hair behind her ear and glances up from her paperwork. “Oh, yeah. It’s not that kind of facility, Melody. You can smoke, have caffeine. I don’t think I could survive without my three cups of coffee a day habit.” She laughs.
I smile awkwardly. Yeah, the coke and coffee jokes don’t really fuse. If this is her attempt to form some bond with me, like we’re in this together, one addict to the next—I’d rather punch myself. We’re nothing alike, me and this chick. She screams tight-ass. Control freak. Covered head-to-toe in intricately placed details, not even a stray hair out of place on her slick blond head.
I lick my lips and lean forward. “Can I also use a phone?” Her eyes widen, and I add before she can shoot me down, “I know not my cell. But can I make phone calls? I have a friend I need to check in with soon.”
“You can make calls once a week. So that’s no problem. Family only, though. Or someone you add to your contact list. But they have to sign a waiver if they’re not a relative before you or they can be contacted.”
Well, f*ck. “This person wouldn’t be able to sign anything.” At least, I don’t think. I don’t know if Jesse’s made it out yet and I hate it. I hate not being able just to hop on my bike and ride wherever, to see whoever. I also hate that he’s the one being convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit.
I hope his pricey defense lawyer is better than mine.
I should have gotten out of this shit—no charge. No DUI on my driving record, no nothing. Because I was there at the scene, and ended up passing out and needing medical attention, I got tested for alcohol and drugs. I was a damn .02 over the legal limit for alcohol, and tested positive for narcotics later in the lock-up medical ward.
And even though I wasn’t behind the wheel when the police arrived, I left the keys in the ignition. They charged me on a technicality. What kind of shit is that?
The state of Florida is a tough bitch. Regardless that it’s my first offense, they find it their duty to make it my last. Getting me all the help they deem I need through their government issued programs.
Like if I checked myself into rehab I could afford it. Right.
But Jesse…he was the one driving the bike that got pulled under a truck. A truck whose driver blew past both our alcohol levels combined. A driver who registered the red light just a second too late.
That probably doesn’t matter for Jesse’s defense, however. He’s a tatted biker who was coked up at the time. Last I heard from him, the state was pressing charges against him in Darla’s defense. Involuntary Manslaughter.
At least he didn’t get too hurt. A fractured rib and some bruises. He was thrown from the bike on impact, out of the path of the truck. Not like Dar...who was sitting on her customized seat, and got trapped underneath.