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He turns to go, then pauses. Looks over his shoulder. “Nice bandanna, by the way. That your gang affiliation, Pink Lady?”
I smile inwardly. Nice way to fully let me off the hook, and really, he did have a quick comeback; that Rizzo shit almost made me laugh. But honestly, I’m just not in the mood to be hit on by some guy. In rehab. “If you must know, it’s a me and my girl thing.” That’s all I’m willing to say. Which is more than anyone else here will get after the day I’ve had.
The month.
Swiveling around just enough to almost face me, he says, “Ah. Well that’s cool. I mean…glad you found your other half and all.” He scratches the side of his chin. Which I notice has a hint of five o’clock shadow. And then what he’s saying…or having an awkward time not saying…sinks in.
“Not a lesbian thing, you duce. My BFF. Shit, why are guys so single-minded?” I chuck the Vanilla Wafer and brush my hands off on my jeans. “Peace out. Enjoy your freedom.” A bit harsh. But thinking about Dar, my mood suddenly takes a dive.
He catches my arm, stopping my quick retreat. “Hey. Sorry. There’s nothing wrong if you were gay—”
His hand is warm and it scalds where his skin touches mine. I shrug out of his hold. “Yeah, I know. Tell that to the million other idiots you call brothers, all right? Dumb fucks.” I turn to leave, and again he stops me, stepping into my path. “What’s your damage, dude?”
“I know you’re pissed about being in here, Melody. But don’t take it out on a guy, okay?” He attempts a smile. It’s sweet, in that “I’m a poor little lost boy” way. Wow. He must have been a good drug seeker back in his glory days. Who could turn down that dimple?
Then the fact that he knows my name catches up to my dimple-delayed brain. “How the hell do you know my name already?”
He shrugs. “It’s a small place. You’re not the new kid here for long.” I notice his hazel eyes. Pupil’s normal size. He really is clean—maybe.
“So that shit you talked up there.” I nod my head toward the front of the room. “Truth? Or some work program you have to complete for your PO?”
For the first time, I see this guy’s face waver. His features pull into themselves, a shadow passing over. “Both, kind of. But it’s by my choice. I report to my PO and she likes to hear that I’m involved with the community.” He makes air quotes.
But that’s not really what I asked. And he knows it. Junkies…they’re all the same. You’ll never actually get the whole story. Some because they can’t own to it, others because it risks ratting someone else out. Whatever the reason, an addict’s story is usually always skewed.
“You told it well, duce. Maybe someday I’ll hear the real one, huh?” I step around him and yank the bandana from my head. I pull my hair up into a ponytail and wrap the band from my wrist around it, getting the heat I felt from his stare off my skin along with my hair.
“Hey, Melody,” he says, and I glance back. “Is that an invitation?”
I laugh. “Sure. Soon as you can spring me from this joint, you can tell me anything you want, guy.” Then I leave before I do something stupid—like ch
eck out that damn dimple again. I can feel his smile burning on my backside.
“It’s a date,” he hollers back.
Right. I’m sure in twenty days, he’ll have that plan all hatched out. But the last thing I’m looking for is another guy to get my kicks with.
I have a more important date to keep when I’m released.
Closing my hand around Darla’s charm dangling from my necklace, I walk out of the room.
The silence is almost worse than the pain.
Night. It’s the best part. Always my favorite. With long rides down twisty dark roads, the hum of my bike echoing off trees and the pavement, my face feeling the cool kiss of darkness. It’s my solace.
Or the loud, smoke-filled bars with a local band tearing up the stage, Dar and me dancing. A bourbon and Coke in my hand, a fresh rail of blow up my nose…where there’s never any silence to hear myself think.
Now, with the walls closing in, folding one on top of another, like a rat trap snapping down, the night is the worst kind of enemy.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I burrow down into the tiny twin bed. My calves ache so badly I wish I could push my hand between the muscle and bone. Just snap the suckers in two. My stomach is on fire. Whatever I ate earlier is about to make an appearance all over the starched, blank walls of this cell.
I’m torn between chills and fever. My body feels numb, but not the numb I love so much. It’s a pasty numb. A wet, sweaty numbness that makes my movements slow and tender. I can’t figure out if I’m burning up or freezing. My skin is raw to the touch.
My roommate is asleep on the small bed beside mine. I want to shake her awake and demand she give me whatever stash she’s holding. Because there isn’t a junkie in this place that doesn’t have at least something to take the edge off. Xanax, Ambien, Valium…something. She’s sleeping too damn soundlessly.
I plant one foot on the tile floor, my calf muscle about to explode as I put the slightest pressure on my leg to stand, and my stomach tumbles. A searing thickness races up my throat and there’s no choking it back.
Puke hits my feet, but I really can’t feel it. They’re no more wet than the rest of me.
