Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Eventually, things will cool down.
And eventually the cards will resume falling in my favor.
I just need eventually to hurry the fuck up already.
Chapter 3
Ryder
- “Not giving up was one of the most difficult things I’d ever had to do.” -
Law slides his phone to the side and lifts his coffee mug towards his lips. “Still no luck?”
An annoyed grunt is given in tandem with me stretching my arms out along the back of the booth seat. “I don’t even know what the fuck luck is.”
“Come on, Collins. You knew life outside of rehab would be some fucking hard shit.”
Another irritated grumble presents itself.
It’s been fucking hard on me every time I left a rehab program.
This was the first time I “graduated” one so to speak.
Over the years, I’ve checked into whatever place that asshole I’m tired of calling my father has commanded in exchange for a relatively small fee – desperate times and all that shit –, quit once the money was in my account, immediately withdraw it, and skip town to avoid the fucking guilt shaded lecture that was likely to ensue.
Once upon a time, getting out of a facility was about finding the fastest route back the way I came, falling into the simplicity of a securely, destructive routine.
A numbing habit of self-assassination.
That I knew how to fucking navigate.
This?
This change shit?
It’s strenuous as fuck.
Building a life – an actual life with people and places and possible aspirations –, even one day at a fucking time is exhausting.
And I’m constantly fucking up.
Or constantly feel like I’m fucking up.
Or constantly being viewed as a fuckup for having an imperfect past.
Like, fuck, man.
I get it.
But like I’m working on it.
Where’s the goddamn credit or compassion for that?
“Collins,” Law calls to me, summoning me out of my head, something I still slip pretty easily into. “Speak.”
Hesitation to do so remains.
“You know you’re not supposed to hold shit in.”
Familiar needs begin to tiptoe across my tongue.
“Let’s talk the shit out.”
One cigarette would so calm me down.
Make it easier to think.
Breathe.
“You’re having a craving,” Law suddenly announces so casually it has me glaring.
Like he doesn’t?
Like I’m the first recovering addict to ever miss the taste of fucking nicotine?
“That shit’s all over your face, Collins.” He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a small container. “How often are you having cravings?”
“Cravings for what exactly?” The bite back ceases his movements. “A bump of blow? A hit of Bubba Kush? A little drag of someone’s cheap as fuck Black & Mild?” Just mentioning them increases the urge to cave. “You gotta be more specific, Law.”
To my surprise, he cocks a grin. “That answer lets me know just how dry you’re staying, Collins.”
I can’t stop my eyes from rolling.
“Take one,” he encourages, thrusting the package of toothpicks at me. “Give your mouth something to focus on.”
Grabbing one is followed by a polite nod of thanks.
Him and Doc were right about these.
Having something on my tongue has an odd way of soothing the urge to put something worse there and the mint flavor seems to somehow satisfy my senses.
I’m sure there’s a fucking scientific reason.
I don’t know what it is.
However, I do know the shit works.
And I’m grateful that Shelly keeps them placed all around their mega-mansion for my convenience.
She really is a good woman.
I’ll fuck Noah up if he ever fucks her over.
Once the pointed stick is wedged against my cheek, I confess, “I’m just tired of hearing no all the goddamn time.”
Law doesn’t comment.
Simply sips his coffee.
Continues to listen.
“And the poorly phrased ‘professional’ no is the fucking worst. Fuck, just say you don’t trust a recovering addict to walk your goddamn dog, Mrs. Pollard, or that you don’t feel comfortable having someone who could tell you the going rate for a different type of Girl Scout Cookies as a roommate, Kelvin.” Exasperation hits me square in the chest like I had just the conversation this morning instead of three days ago. “And what kind of fucking name is Kelvin anyway? Could your fucking ‘rents not decide on whether to name your ass Calvin or Klein, so they just made up some bullshit compromise?”
Unlike Doc, who rarely cracked more than the tiniest smirk at my comments, Law laughs.
I’ll admit I appreciate Doc for being a fucking hard ass, but I think Law’s a little more human.
Which makes it a little easier for me to feel human.
To feel like it’s okay to be fucking flawed.
“I get it,” Law begins in a warm tone, cup finding the table again, “but, you’re really making great progress, Collins. Don’t underappreciate it by focusing on the progress that you’re still struggling with.”
It’s hard to give myself a gold fucking sticker when I spent so much of my life simply taking lashes. The shift from destructive to productive, from blame to accolades, from hopeless to…anything remotely auspicious – word my stunning sister-in-law read to me and my niece from her word of the day calendar yesterday –, is strained as well as filled with nothing but doubt, frustration, and loathing.