Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89934 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Maybe if he hadn’t been such a selfish prick, she’d be alive, healthy, and raising her son as she should be.
Curly demanded Lock sign himself into a treatment facility within the next week. It was either that or he’d lose his patch and no longer be a Hell’s Handler’s Motorcycle Club member. Even though Lock had had the intense urge to flip his president off and kick him out of his damn house, he’d known deep down that losing the club would be the final straw. It’d put him into a depression so deep he’d end up in a box in the ground beside his twin.
What would happen to Caleb then?
At least he’d had enough humanity left to consider the child.
So, he’d allowed Curly to find a drug treatment facility and voluntarily signed himself in for a thirty-day recovery program.
Did he have an addiction?
Lock didn’t think so. He hadn’t smoked, inhaled, or shot up nearly as much as his club seemed to think. Nor was he suffering from the sweaty, tremoring, and vomiting withdrawals he’d nursed Deanna through countless times.
For the first few days, he’d been an admittedly sullen asshole, refusing all attempts to bond with the other junkies or share his story. They were all chronic drug users who’d destroyed their lives and ruined their loved ones’ lives with their drug-seeking antics. He was nothing like them—those people who couldn’t make it to their first cup of coffee in the morning without injecting a load of shit into their veins.
But then he’d overheard one of the counselors talking to this nineteen-year-old girl who’d been admitted the week before him. Her grief resonated with him. It sounded similar to his in some ways. The counselor had suggested she’d developed a psychological dependency on the drugs to relieve her of the pain of heartache from the loss she’d suffered.
Curious about what had happened to her, Lock paid attention for the first time during a group therapy session.
The middle-aged counselor gave the girl an encouraging nod and an empathetic smile, even though he still focused on his notepad. “Jenna,” he said as he glanced over the top of his reading glasses. The girl stared down at the floor. “I’m so sorry for your loss. And even more sorry for the tragic and unexpected way it happened. That kind of trauma changes you on a chemical level, doesn’t it?” He didn’t wait for Jenna to respond. “Can you walk us through what emotions you’ve been feeling since your boyfriend died?”
Her finger froze, the only sign she’d heard the counselor’s probing question. Jenna was free to refuse to answer. They were reminded of that on the first day and at the start of every group session. They did not have to participate if they found anything too private or personal to discuss in front of others or weren’t ready to voice something. Keeping quiet was the route Lock had chosen thus far. But, as he’d been informed at least a hundred times since walking into the building, he’d come there of his own free will, and active participation would also be his choice, though a smart one.
My own free will. Ha.
Clearly, none of them had met Curly or been on the receiving end of his threats.
After a few minutes of thick silence, Jenna lifted her gaze, and Lock glimpsed the anguish in the girl’s deep blue eyes for the first time. “Guilty,” she whispered so low he almost didn’t hear it.
No one spoke, not even the damn counselor. He merely let Jenna stew in her feelings. The room fell deathly quiet. Lock’s heart slowed until he could count the agonizing seconds between each beat. He didn’t dare breathe as he waited for the girl’s next words.
“I feel guilty.” She only spoke a notch louder. “I can’t sleep, so I go over the minutes leading up to the fight again and again. Every choice I made, everything I could have done differently, and all the ways I am possibly to blame for Mike dying.”
The counselor and every person in the room stayed so quiet they could have heard a gnat’s wings vibrating the air.
Lock gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles ached and turned white as snow. What would she say next?
His gaze shifted to the counselor, who seemed to have endless patience in these heavy situations. Lock wanted to grab the girl, shake her, and scream how it wasn’t her fault. Why couldn’t she see that? Shit happened sometimes. She was too young to lose herself in the same soul-crushing guilt that had dragged him under.
Still, the counselor didn’t say a fucking thing. Why wasn’t he reassuring Jenna that it wasn’t her fault? His muscles tensed until they felt like rocks beneath his skin. Sweat broke out across his forehead. His chest was so damn tight.