Black Falcon: Complete Series Collection (109 page)

I find Kimmy standing on the other side, wearing a hot pink top and jeans, chomping on a piece of gum. “Hey, Frannie. I’ve got to go into town to pick up some cleaning supplies in a bit. Do you want to come with me? It’s the perfect time to get out of here for a while.”

I glance down at the wristwatch I have on and nod. “Sure, our session time is up anyway. Let me wrap up, and I’ll be ready in a few minutes, okay?”

She nods. “Sure thing. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”

I close the door behind her and turn my attention back to Tyke, who is standing in the middle of the office now, watching me curiously, like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I interlock my fingers in front of me. “Sorry about that. I don’t mean to rush you or anything. If you need more time, I can—”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. Go. I’ve got a splitting headache anyhow. I should probably go and lay down.”

This is it, I bet. The beginning to the detox he’s been so adamant that he’s not going to experience. “All right. I’ll see you again when you’re feeling well enough to continue our sessions.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

I give him a small smile. “Okay, then.”

Tyke doesn’t say another word, just walks past me and out the door.

As soon as I’m alone, I drop my head into my hand and rub my forehead. I hope I can help him. There’s always that little bit of niggling doubt in my head as to whether I’m cut out for this job or not. Can I really help people who have addictions when I still struggle with one myself? An addiction that’s become a whole lot harder to fight since I succumbed to that kiss? I should’ve known better and never allowed him to get so close. His physical presence just does something to me that I can’t explain. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he’d be my biggest professional challenge, but I didn’t anticipate the personal challenge as well. No matter how much I want him, I have to remain focused on the reason he’s here and try to help him overcome the darkness that threatens to envelope him.

I slump down in the chair next to the couch and reach for the notepad, my gaze pausing on what Tyke’s left behind.

A single green guitar pick.

I hold the thin piece of plastic between my fingers and examine the words he’s written on the back.

Thank you.

I fold my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest as pride washes over me.

I’m doing this.

I’m getting through to him.

T
yke Climbing the massive staircase back to my room takes forever. The pounding in my skull began when Frannie and I were talking in her office. Through most of our time together, I could ignore the constant thumping, but now it’s almost unbearable.

My door swings open with ease and I collapse on the twin bed, facedown. Sweat pours out of me and drenches my shirt. I must be coming down with something. It feels like the fucking flu. This is not the most opportune time for me to be sick.

I rub my forehead and then fling the sweat from my fingers when it hits me.

“Fuck. Am I really fucking detoxing?” I mumble to myself.

But as my entire body trembles, I already have my answer.

D
etoxing: Day One: It’s not pretty.

Day Two: Definitely not fucking pretty.

Day Three: Still bad, but nowhere as bad as yesterday.

Day Four: Almost there, but my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof.

Day Five: A New Leaf

I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder at what point in my life I decided to give so much power to some little goddamn pills. It makes me wonder if I had known that I would end up needing help to get off them a couple years ago, back when I started taking benzo medications, would I have ever taken them to begin with? I wish I could honestly say that I wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot fucking pole, but I don’t know if that would be the case.

Without them now, things are clearer. I can definitely see the demise of the band happening. The leading cause at this point is me, but I know now that it wasn’t just the drug haze. I haven’t simply imagined that Black Falcon has started going in different directions, because that shit is fucking true, and the guys need to accept their roles in the band falling apart, too.

The hard table is cold against my skin as I sit on it while Dr. Shepherd examines me. He takes his time, taking my blood pressure and then pulse, before he flashes a small light into my eyes.

“Go ahead and follow the light with your eyes, Mr. Douglas.”

I do as he asks, and he clicks the light off before placing the instrument back in its holder on the wall. “Everything looks good. How do you feel?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m grateful that I don’t feel like ass today.”

Dr. Shepherd chuckles. “Well, I suppose that’s a start. I know that the last few days have been difficult for you—”

“That’s the fucking understatement of the century,” I mutter, cutting him off.

He continues like he didn’t even hear my smartass remark. “But think of it as crossing the first big hurdle in your recovery. During what you’ve just been through, most people give up and quit—unable to take the sickness that goes along with ridding the drugs from their system. Now that you’re clean, the rest is up to you and your willpower. You have to fight to stay that way.”

I nod, knowing that if I start fucking up again, it’s no one else’s fault but mine. I make the decision. I make the call.

Dr. Shepherd tucks my chart under his arm. “Today I want you to join in group therapy.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Group? How is talking to a bunch of complete strangers going to help?”

“Most clients find it beneficial to listen to the stories of others. A lot of the time, it helps them to realize that they’re not alone—that addiction knows no gender, color, or age. It can happen to anyone, so there’s no reason to feel isolated.”

I want to argue that I’ve never felt alone, but the truth is that loneliness is all I’ve felt over the past couple of years. Not to sound like a whiny bitch, but it’s hard to watch everyone around you move the focus of their life to something else while you’re still trapped in the same routine. It’s not that I’m jealous that the rest of the guys in the band have done that, I just feel left out—like the band, and me, don’t matter to them anymore. And that scares me more than anything.

It’s been easier than I thought to admit that to myself in the last twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk to a group of complete fucking strangers about it.

I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to speak in group unless you want to,” he assures me. “It’s okay to just go and listen, and when you’re ready, jump in.”

As much as I want to avoid the situation, I also want to prove to everyone that the new, clearer thinking me is not always a difficult person. “Okay.”

“Great.” Dr. Shepherd smiles encouragingly. “I’ll make sure Dr. Mead saves you a seat.”

My ears prick up at the sound of her name. I haven’t seen Frannie since the day I overstepped the boundary and kissed her, the image of her blue eyes, focused on me when she had tears in them, burned into my brain. It was the one picture that kept flashing in my mind as I went through the pure hell of detoxing. I know she’s here to help me, but I just can’t shake the feeling that, for some reason, I can support her in return.

I nod, suddenly excited about this group thing. “Great.”

Dr. Shepherd grins. “That’s the right attitude, Mr. Douglas. It’s good to see you positive and on the road to recovery.”

I hop off the table, and a thought comes to mind. “Do you think it’d be okay if I took my guitar and found a quiet place out in the garden to work on some songs?”

“That’s perfectly fine. It’s good to focus on something else besides being here. I’ll see you at dinner.”

A little while later, I make my way back to my room and grab my baby from the corner, slinging the soft case around my shoulder and heading outside. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. Riff was right when he said I didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on with the new album, and that bothers me. It tells me that I allowed the drugs to come between me and my music, and that’s one thing that I never thought possible. But it happened. Drugs became the most important thing in my life. But not anymore. I’m getting myself back on the right track.

Starting today.

Walking down the path toward the cottages that the staff live in, I spot the most tranquil-looking fountain. The water coming from the bucket of the stone woman in the middle spews into the body of water surrounding her, and the sound is almost rhythmic.

I glance around, seeing four benches surrounding the fountain mixed in with a wide array of flowers. If there was ever a more tranquil place on earth, I’d like to see it.

I lay my case on a bench and then unzip it, reaching inside for my Martin. This carefully crafted piece of wood has been in my family for years. It belonged to my grandfather, who taught Dad to play on it, who in turn taught Trip and me. This isn’t just any guitar to me. It’s a little piece of home.

I hold it by the neck until I make it to another empty bench and sit down, the strings ringing out in perfect tune as I run my pick over them. My calloused fingers mash against the frets and I begin to play the first song that comes to mind, “Behind Blue Eyes.”

I close my eyes, singing the words while picturing Frannie’s face. The sadness I saw in her eyes makes me wonder if she feels the loneliness, too—the kind where, although people surround you, it’s still like being alone.

There’s so much in this song that I can relate to. The lyrics roll through me, working their way into my chest, and wrapping around my heart. With each beat, the pressures that I’ve been struggling to forget come at me in full force. The line about being hated and no one understanding my loneliness really hits home.

My life is so fucking screwed up.

I rock in time to the music and moisture builds under my closed eyelids, the tears threatening to push their way out and expose my sadness to the world.

I sing the last line and play the last riff, sighing as I open my eyes.

My heart does a double thump in my chest the moment my vision comes into focus, and my eyes land directly on Frannie.

She stands behind the bench rubbing her bare arms, studying me with those same eyes I was just singing about—sad ones.

I clear my throat, suddenly uneasy that she’s caught me at such a vulnerable moment. “I didn’t know anyone would be out here.”

Her pretty pink lips twist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spy on you. It’s just your singing...it was...wow. You’re amazing.”

The kindness in her words makes me smile. “Thank you.”

Without an invitation, she walks over and sits next to me on the bench. I raise one eyebrow, questioning if sitting so close to me is suddenly allowed, but she just rolls her eyes at me. “We can behave, right?”

I nod, but know that given the opportunity, I’d kiss her again. No hesitation.

“Good,” she says and then folds her hands in her lap. “Will you tell me what you were thinking of just now, when you were singing?”

My entire body tenses. Shit. I guess she did see that. The only thing I can do now is pretend like I don’t know what she’s talking about. “What makes you think I was thinking about anything? Can’t I just be really focused on the song?”

Frannie tilts her head, allowing her dark hair to fall over her shoulder. “I saw you,” she whispers. “No one can sing with that kind of feeling without something coming to mind.”

I break away from her gaze, debating what to say next.

“Please, Tyke.” She places her hand on mine that rests on the top of the guitar.

For some reason, the simple act of her touching me makes me want to spill my guts to her, but I’m afraid if she knew what was really on my mind, she’d freak the fuck out and treat me just like any other patient. And I don’t want that. I don’t want to be looked down on, which is why the things I really feel will always need to be locked away. But I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that I’ll have to give her some part of the truth to appease her curious mind.

I take a deep breath and then return my gaze to her. Looking her dead in the eye, I say, “You. I was thinking about
you
.”

Frannie sucks her bottom lip in and then pulls it between her teeth slowly as she considers what I’ve just admitted. “Me?”

“I can’t get the thought of us out of my mind. Your eyes...” I raise my hand and touch her cheek. “Your eyes haunt me.”

She blinks a couple of times. “Behind blue eyes
...
you were thinking about when I was crying?”

“Yeah, I mean, you looked so sad. You looked like how I feel sometimes,” I admit to her rather easily.

She tilts her head. “Do you feel that way often?”

I sigh and scrub my hand down my face. “I know what you’re getting at, Frannie. I’m not suicidal. Not now. No matter what that file says about me.”

“So when you crashed your car—”

I cut her off, explaining the best I can. “Have you ever felt like you were nothing? Like you were so inconsequential that it didn’t matter if you even lived anymore?” Tension strains my already shaky voice. “That’s what landed me in here, Frannie. Black Flacon is falling apart, and it’s fucking killing me. I’ll be lost if I lose my music.