The Bitter (Addiction #1) Read online

  Since I’ve never had sex with anything other than my left and right palms, I don’t know if I can “go all night.” As for the size…I’m not lacking. But I’m not huge either. I’m probably a smidge above average. I’ve never measured but yeah, I think I’m good. And I’m okay with that. Honest.

  “That’s too bad,” Nolan tells me as he once again, refills his cup. “I bet she’s hella good in the sack.”

  “You’re welcome to see if she’s interested. Lank,” I tell him before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going up. Make sure everyone is out.”

  I leave the kitchen, pushing past the crowd of people gathered in the living room and head for the stairs. I don’t know how many parties I’ve had since I started holding them myself. At this point, everyone pretty much knows the time they need to get out of the house and Nolan is pretty good about abiding. So I’m not worried about them as I head toward my bedroom and my private selection of liquor.

  My head is throbbing from the noise. Truthfully, I didn’t want a party this weekend. I was hoping to enjoy some quiet. I just wanted to relax by the pool. Ignore the fact that I’m going to be a junior in high school, play hockey for my school, continue to be on the honor roll, and have no real friends other than Nolan. I wanted to ignore all of that as well as the fact that I am all of those things, and have parents who look at me with complete disdain.

  I really don’t understand it. I do everything I’m supposed to. If not for the occasional party, I would be the perfect child. But they can’t even notice me. And without Connie around, with Ben off living his own life, I have this big empty house that echoes everywhere I turn. If my parents are home, they are holed up somewhere, away from where I can find them.

  Whatever though. They don’t care about me, I don’t care about them. Which is part of the reason I had this party. Well, Nolan wanted a reason to stare at girls in bikinis and I just wanted to have a drink. Win.

  Digging in the back of my dresser, I pull out the little plastic bag I have filled with Percs my dad hasn’t realized are missing from his bag yet. I’m not a real big pill popper, but sometimes alcohol doesn’t do the work I need it to do all on its own, so I use some candies to help me along. Tossing two into my mouth, I pull out the vodka bottle in my entertainment center and chase the bitter pills down.

  Plopping on my king-size bed, I turn my large screen TV on and begin flipping through the channels. A thousand channels, but nothing is ever on. After searching for something, I settle on the Create channel which is airing a really early episode of the Joy of Painting with Bob Ross. His voice is soothing enough to help lull me to sleep if I need it. Right now, I’m okay with watching him paint a “happy little cabin” with “happy little trees” surrounding it.

  Fucker, God rest his soul, is trippy.

  I continue to drink down the bottle, and once it’s emptied, get up and grab the whiskey I snatched and hid the other day. It’s only half a bottle but whatever. I pop a couple more Percs too, washing them down with the rest of the whiskey before returning to my bed. Bob Ross isn’t on anymore, but some old woman who paints is so I keep watching until my head starts spinning and I feel my eyelids grow heavy.

  I don’t remember fully closing my eyes after that. I don’t remember hearing Nolan come up to my room to tell me he had hooked up with Monica after all, while promising they didn’t go all the way. I don’t remember his panic at realizing I wasn’t waking up or the fact that he called nine-one-one. I don’t remember anything until the moment I wake up, a tube down my throat, surrounded by sterile white walls and beeping machines, and see the disappointed faces of my parents staring down at me.

  THREE

  Trinity Heights, Addiction Treatment Center in Houston has a large chrome filled lobby. Its high ceilings create an echo and the large windows offer an amazing view of the trees surrounding the property. It’s a beautiful place, all high-tech and modern. I hate it. It’s to be my home for the next several however many months. According to dear old dad and mommy dearest, if I can get my “act together” before I’m eighteen, I get out, otherwise, I’m stuck till I’m legal. Since I’m only six months into being sixteen, I’ve got a long fucking way to go.

  “Wait here while we check you in.” My father doesn’t even look at me as he says this. Neither he nor my mother has paid me a glance since I woke up in the hospital and they berated me for the humiliation I bestowed upon the Delane name. It’s almost funny how absolutely ashamed of me they are, but then the more I try to laugh about it the more depressing it becomes.

  I had to have my stomach pumped to rid it of the alcohol and pills I’d taken. My father is a doctor as a cardiac surgeon. I got the pills from his “just-in-case” stash. I was a patient at the hospital he’s a doctor at. Even though it was all kept very hush-hush the reason I was there, the shame my father says I’ve laid upon him is too great. They tried to perform an “intervention” on me. Brought in counselors to talk with me. Made me speak with a shrink and when the head doc told them my problem was lack of love and attention, or well, something close to that, they scoffed in his face. Literally. No lie.

  Apparently because they buy me clothes, let me have a roof over my head and food in the fridge, I’m supposed to be grateful and accepting of the fact they have never once in my sixteen years hugged me or told me they were proud of me for any of my accomplishments. Apparently, it’s not supposed to be a big deal how they’ve ignored me my whole life, or look upon me as a burden to them. Apparently I am supposed to be accepting and perfectly fucking fine with never knowing how it feels to have my parents love me.

  Call me a brat, if you want, call me ungrateful, whatever, but aren’t parents supposed to love and care about their children? Give them time, attention, and support? Otherwise, what’s the point in having them if they don’t? Why even fucking bother if you don’t even want them?

  “You have a very nice home to live in, attend a very prestigious prep school. Honestly, Chace. What more do you need?” my mother had asked, her eyes looking past me. Never did she or my father actually look at me.

  “Maybe a fucking hug every now and then. Or how about one of you attend one of my hockey games? Or for Christ’s sake, say you love me and actually fucking mean it?” I had screamed back. Apparently that was the wrong thing to do.

  Who knew my mother’s line of questioning had been rhetorical?

  It’d been that outburst that had my father calling Trinity Heights to see if I could get a spot in, ‘no matter the cost.’ And still, neither said that allusive ‘L’ word to me. Neither bothered to live up to the lie Connie had tried to feed about their supposed concern.

  Made me wonder if they’d ever said it to each other. But of course I know that thinking is wrong. I know they love Ben. I know they’ve expressed it to him, I’ve actually heard their affection for him and the pride they feel that he’s their son. So it’s not that my parents are cold, heartless bastards all around.

  They’re just cold, heartless bastards to me.

  I hear through the echo, murmured voices and the sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up, I see a girl around my age shuffling toward me. She’s got long light brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and a downcast face. As soon as she’s close to me, she looks up and I notice she has light brown eyes, nearly matching the color of her hair. They’re like caramel. Or butterscotch. The first thought that comes to me is she’s really pretty. The second thought is though her skin is dark, I believe her to be Hispanic or something like that, her color is actually pale. Sickly almost.

  She sits in a chair not far from me with a thud. Her eyes go toward where my parents are standing, now joined by two men. I assume one is this girl’s father or guardian or something. Their coloring is similar. The other I’m guessing to be Ian Gustavson, the owner of this fantastic establishment.

  Bringing my attention back to the girl, I wonder what her deal is. Like I said, she’s very pretty, attractive, and even though she looks a little on t
he sick side, I can’t help but wonder why she’d end up in a place like this. She’s not super skinny, in fact, she’s not skinny at all. She’s got curves and curves and Jesus fuck, she has curves.

  Okay, she’s hot. Like really hot.

  Where Britney only days earlier, with her painted face and skimpy clothes, was trying way too fucking hard, pushing breasts covered in padded bras at me, this girl, even in her defeated stature looks amazing. I mean even her skin doesn’t look messed up. It’s actually very clean and smooth looking. I bet it’s real soft to the touch.

  “What’s your deal?” she asks me after a while, snark lacing her tone. I must have been staring for a long time. She’s hot and I am intrigued.

  “Nothing,” I answer quickly. “Just wondering what they got you here for.”

  She appraises me for a long time, but not in the ‘checking me out’ kind of way. I’ve had lots of girls check me out. I mean one not even a week ago. This though, this girl, there’s no interest from this girl. Her eyes, though on her feet, are filled with annoyance, although I’m not certain if that’s at me or the circumstance. Either way.

  She’s essentially sizing me up. I know how I look. Dirty blond hair, perfectly cut – my parents with their desire to have me not draw attention to myself, and school with its uniform requirements, wouldn’t allow for anything else. Clear green eyes. No marks or blemishes visible on my lightly tanned skin. I am wearing designer clothes, the newest Jordan’s, and probably pull off preppy white boy to a ‘T’ to her.

  It’s all a façade of course, but how is she to know that? I would probably think the same thing seeing me. But of course, once conversation opens, people realize the look is just that; a look. It’s not me because I hate these clothes, actually have a tattoo or two hidden, and would prefer my hair a little longer. I’m okay with the shoes though. Who doesn’t like Jordan’s? At the end of her appraisal, she smirks. “Celia Santos. Heroin. You?”

  “Chace Delane. Alcohol and scripts.”

  “Hmm. Nice to meet you.” There’s something in her voice that teases. It’s raspy like a blues singer’s voice. It draws me in and makes me want to run all at the same time. This girl is trouble. Britney is trouble because she likes the drama. She likes Brent beating other guys up over her. She likes guys falling all over themselves for her because they know she puts out so they let themselves forget about the pissed off, roid-raging boyfriend. But this girl, Celia? She’s trouble because she doesn’t seem to be that way and guys will still fall dumb for her.

  I may have just met her five seconds ago, but there is something innocent about her. Something sweet and completely sassy. Something that says she shouldn’t be here. No matter what she’s just admitted to in regards to the heroin aspect. Something that says it’d be real easy to lose myself in her if I let the opportunity arise.

  As a sixteen year old male, it seems at least one part of me is definitely interested in that opportunity… arising.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I retort taking her hand in mine. Now, there’s no spark or jolt or any of that bullshit one hears about in those frilly movies and books. But there is a warmth that spreads through me at her touch. Her hand may be on the cool side, but the feel of it against my own is like a furnace. It makes my heart beat like crazy.

  She smiles at me, her cheeks tinting pink as she glances down at our conjoined hands. My thumb is rubbing small circles against her skin, loving that I was right about how soft it is. The sickly look seems to disappear too under that blush, as we have a small moment.

  Too bad it can’t last.

  “Chace, let go of that girl’s hand right now. Come on. They have your room ready.” My father’s voice is commanding in the echoing room. And the disdain in his tone, especially in the way he referred to Celia is very evident. He obviously feels she is beneath him.

  “I’ll see you around,” I tell Celia, ignoring the glares my parents are no doubt giving to both of us. She smiles at me again and nods her head slightly. But her smile quickly disappears as the man I saw earlier approaches and speaks to her.

  “Jesus Christ. Come on, Cecelia. Leave that boy alone. My God, you are exactly like your mother.”

  As I follow my parents and a large man who introduces himself as Chuck, my counsellor and representative at Trinity, to the left side of the building, I see Celia following her father and a blond woman toward the right. Before she disappears behind the doors she looks my way and offers a smile. I give one back before my father pushes me forward.

  “Male dormitories are in the east wing, females in the west. There is no integration. You want to hang out with one of the girls, you do so in the view of everyone. You’re not here for social hour. You’re not here to flirt. You’re here to heal, overcome, and move forward.” We come to a stop just outside room 213B. “Any questions so far?”

  I shake my head no. My parents however, are a different story. “How segregated will he be from…everyone?”

  Chuck shoots me a quick glance before turning to my father to answer. He obviously understands who my father is referring to. “Chace will have a roommate,” is his answer. He’s clearly being obtuse and it forces me to look down to hide my grin. “For the first few weeks, we work on detoxing the body. He will meet with me three days a week during this time. Once Chace is well enough, we will drop the meetings down to two days a week and so forth. He will also join group. That meets two days a week. School is treated as though he is being homeschooled. A tutor will be here every day to make sure he stays up-to-date.”

  “And those…group meetings? Are they segregated too?” That’s my mother. The snobbery is strong with these two.

  “No. Group meetings are coed and the ones Chace will be attending are run by myself or Stacey, another counsellor here.”

  “Oh.”

  It’s strikes me as fascinating how my parents do not even know who I’ll be in the presence of here, but the ‘look’ of one girl, a girl who may never cross my path again – though I hope that won’t turn out to be true – has them acting like this. Considering this is rehab, and not the Ritz fucking Carlton, I’m willing to bet, a good chunk of the populous here are not exactly upstanding citizens. Or if they are, they wouldn’t be invited to the Governor’s for brunch, all things considered.

  Though, funnily enough, even with their pompous asshole attitudes, my parents would not be invited either. And that’s all on them, and their lack of standing in the real world.

  Chuck opens the door to my new home and we all step inside. It’s a small space, with baseball blue walls, two twin beds lining a wall each, and desks at the end. A window sits in the center of the far wall. On the right side, a bed is made, with pictures and a poster of a Nissan GTR taped to the wall. Obviously they belong to my new roommate. On the barren left side, my bags sit atop an unmade bed, though I see bedding waiting for me.

  “You are allowed a few clothing items from home and can wear them on weekends or ‘free days’ which are mostly holidays. We have a strict uniform system; white sneakers or slippers, light gray or blue pants, and matching shirts and sweatshirts. Soft colors. Non-distracting colors.” Chuck looks me up and down and grimaces. “So, unfortunately, you will have to hand over your kicks until your stay here is up.” I nod. I knew this. But I didn’t want them left at home since these have always been my favorite pair and I worry about my shit being tossed in my absence.

  “You’re allowed a few pictures, and one poster. As you can see. No pushpins or anything sharp to hang them with though.” Chuck continues to prattle on about what’s expected of me, what to expect from Trinity, and when the first time my parents are allowed to come up for visits. I ignore him then. I don’t really expect them to even think about me once they walk out of this place. I step further into the room and move to sit on the bed, lowering myself with a sigh and let my thoughts take over.

  I think about the fact that I can’t play hockey anymore. I’m not trying to be an asshole or conceited when I say this, but I
am good. Damn good. I was captain for a reason. I had scouts looking at me from colleges and teams, including the Dallas Stars. Even at only sixteen years old. But none of that matters anymore. Those schools, those teams won’t want me now. Not when I’ve been sent to fucking rehab. And at age sixteen.

  I think about the fact that I won’t have any contact with anyone from my school. I was being melodramatic when I claimed Nolan is my only friend. I have other friends. A group I hang out with, most of which are teammates. But Nolan is the only one I’ve grown up with, have hung out with the most. He’s the only one who really knows how uncaring my parents are toward me. Unfortunately, he’s seen it firsthand their lack of feeling and contempt for me.

  But whatever. I’m here now. I don’t know if we’ll keep in contact. I can’t have my cellphone. My computer access is strictly for school work and the occasional email home – if I had anyone at home to email, though I suppose Ben could count.

  Basically, I’m going back in technological time being in this place.

  “Do you have any questions for me, Chace?” I look up to see Chuck standing in the doorway. My parents are not there, however. Chuck must notice that I’ve noticed this. “I am going to be honest with you. You need all the support you can get to become healthy. Having your parents on your side, even if they are seemingly disappointed in your actions, makes moving past addiction easier. It gives you a reason.” He leans against the doorframe and I can feel the pity rolling off of him in waves. “I want to help you get well. I just think, well, it might be a little more difficult for you. Your parents, they don’t seem like the warmest people.”

  “Understatement,” I mumble. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect them to care anyhow. I’ll be fine.” I know he wants to argue that. But I break eye contact. I’ve no doubt I’ll have to open up to him about my issues in our private sessions, so I have no desire to do so now.