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“I mean, I get why they do it,” I reply. “But yeah, it’s bullshit.”
I finish making my bed and drop the pillows down on it then look around the small cabin. It's like a dorm room. Two full beds are sitting on opposite walls with a desk at the foot. There is a dresser perpendicular to the desk and one window in the wall at the head of each bed with the door opposite the windows. It’s small and a bit cramped for my taste. But I remind myself again, that this isn’t the Four Seasons. It’s a fucking rehab camp. Just the thought of being here with people who have real substance abuse problems makes me shake my head.
I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t need rehab because I don’t have a problem with booze or drugs. Yeah, I may drink from time to time but I’m not an alcoholic. I drink socially. With my friends when we’re out at a party or whatever. My mother is just a teetotaler and because she happened to come home early from a work trip and find me passed out in my room, she’s convinced that I’m a drunk and her knee-jerk reaction was to stick me in this fucking camp.
I flop down on my bed and lace my fingers behind my head then close my eyes and try to relax. I have a feeling I’m not going to be doing much of that for the next six weeks. The literature for Forward Path details the mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual counseling we will be receiving. Daily one-on-one shrink sessions. Group sessions. Daily physical activity. Yoga. Spiritual work… whatever that is. They're going to work us near to death in an effort to get us clean and sober. Call me skeptical.
“What’s your name?” my bunkmate asks. “I’m Sara.”
“Jordan,” I reply.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Her bed squeaks and I glance over to see her sitting up, her legs crossed, her eyes intently fixed on me. Sara looks eager to talk to me. To bond or whatever. She looks like a girl who’s not used to having friends or something. The veneer of the tough, anti-social girl in the Doc Martens and thrash metal band t-shirt is gone and in its place, I can see the insecure girl Sara actually is.
“So, what did you think of the Director?” she asks.
“Who?”
“Director Ballard,” she says.
Of course, I know who she’s talking about. The minute I saw that man standing up on the deck above us, I could hardly take my eyes off him. I had to force myself to look away. And when that icy blue gaze of his met mine, I felt my stomach turn a somersault inside of me. My heart raced and a heat blossomed between my thighs, getting me incredibly wet in the blink of an eye. With that neatly styled sandy blonde hair, rugged good looks, and his toned, fit body, Micah Ballard is a gorgeous man who reminds me a lot of Chris Evans. He could have been a model. Or maybe an action movie star. Instead, he’s the director of a rehab camp, which strikes me as odd.
Standing down there watching him, I wanted to run my hands over the tightly corded muscles in his arms, across the hard planes of his chest, and run them up that taut stomach. As I listened to his introductory speech, I fantasized about what his beard would feel like against the insides of my thighs—whether it would be soft or scratchy. More than that, I imagined feeling his gaze holding mine as he buried his tongue inside of me. I’m not normally a girl filled with lustful thoughts—I’m a good girl, truth be told. I’m a virgin. But in a matter of moments, Micah Ballard had me thinking the sort of crude, lascivious thoughts good girls don’t normally have.
“Oh, yeah. Him,” I say casually. “Yeah, he was cute.”
“Cute?” Sara exclaims. “He looks like Chris Hemsworth, girl! The man is gorgeous.”
“Yeah, I guess so. He’s all right.”
“If you only think he’s all right, there’s something wrong with you, girl,” Sara says. “Unless… are you into girls?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t swing that way.”
“I do. Sometimes. I’m bi,” Sara announces proudly. “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Okay, good,” she says with obvious relief. “Anyway, what are you in for?”
I finally give up the idea that I’m going to be able to take a nap before lunch. Sara is friendly and all, but she’s a chatterbox. She doesn’t seem to pick up on social cues like, I want to take a nap and you should shut your mouth. I suppose though since we're going to be living together for the next six weeks, I should probably get to know her. There will be plenty of time for sleep later. Besides, it's not like I'm all that tired. I'm just bored… and I don't really want to be here.
“My mom came home early from a trip. I was throwing a party at the time,” I confess. “She thinks I’m a drunken whore who needs an intervention now.”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A drunken whore.”
I laugh. “No. I mean, I’d had a few that night when she came home and found me. But it’s not like, a chronic problem or anything. I’ve had a few drinks at a few parties over the years. No big deal,” I tell her. “As for being a whore, I’m a virgin. Kind of hard to be a whore when you’ve never fucked anybody. She thinks I am though because she found me kissing a guy. She just assumed I was blowing every guy at the party after that.”
“Sounds like she overreacted.”
“Just a bit,” I say. “What about you? What got you tossed in here?”
