Recovery by Nicole Dykes (best time to read books .txt) 📗

“At least they felt good.”

“Until they didn’t,” I shoot back, but he doesn’t look at me. He just stares straight ahead, looking at the podium as people crowd in.

“I can’t handle this shit. I fucking hate school. I hate everything.”

I hate everything.

And I'm back to thinking about Mya.

“I know you think that, but you’re fucking young.”

“What the hell does my age have to do with it? You’re twenty-five. You’re young, but I know you hate life too. You put a smile on your face, but I fucking see it.”

I recoil, hating the kid’s words because they’re accurate. I try really fucking hard to appear carefree, but I fight demons every day. I sit up straight in my chair, my long legs stretched out. “Fine. Be fucking pissy.”

“I will.”

Broody motherfucker.

We sit through the meeting in silence, neither of us sharing today, both stewing in our own pissed-off feelings. I’m supposed to be the mature one though, the one he can talk to about anything, the shoulder to lean on.

So, when the meeting ends and we walk outside, I don’t let him off easy. “Spencer, talk to me. Did something happen? You’re less pleasant than your normal sunny self.”

His jaw clenches, and I nearly laugh at how angry he looks. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Talk to me.”

“It’s everything. Like I said, I want to fucking use every single day, and you know what? My dad wouldn’t give a flying fuck if I did, as long as I don’t embarrass him.”

I have no idea about the kind of pressure this kid is under. His dad is wealthy and in the public eye, a rock star of sorts. His kid landing in the news isn’t great for his image even if he has a bad boy persona. It’s bad PR for his teenage son to be fucked-up on drugs.

“I care.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do.” It’s easy to say because I do.

He sighs, dragging his hand through his blond shaggy hair. “I hate him.”

“I know.”

“I hate this.” He waves toward a car parked on the side of the street where a man with a camera is perched, not even trying to hide it.

“You hungry?”

He nods his head, and I wrap an arm around his shoulder, flipping the camera off behind my back as we walk to the car. “I can’t tell you it’ll get easier, kid.” We climb into my car. “But you’re doing well. Don’t mess it up as a personal fuck-you to your dad.”

“It was easier when I was high. I didn’t give a fuck.”

“It’s no way to live.” I pull out of my parking spot and head downtown to grab a burger, still thinking about Mya but glad I have the kid to distract me for a bit.

He’s a good kid, and he deserves better than he got.

Never in a million years did I think I’d say that about a rich kid.

I take a shower and wash Jase off me, scrubbing away the betrayal but still feeling sick to my stomach.

Am I officially my mother now?

I mean, my dad was a white tattooed junkie. From the jumbled up story I got from her, she was working and trying to save for college when she met him, fell for his shit, got hooked, and then he bailed.

Never to be seen again. I’ve seen one picture of my father that she keeps tucked away in a drawer, hidden from the world, trying to shield her heart from the pain he caused her.

Not that she was an innocent victim. She chose drugs and dick over everything else. She let him in.

Just like I let Jase in.

Jesus. Fuck! I let him come inside me.

I get dressed and go down to the bar, still seeing red and feeling ill. I see Quinn behind the bar and try to keep my cool, but I'm so damn hurt that she probably knew and didn’t tell me. “How could you keep that from me?”

Her blond eyebrow arches as she studies me with caution. “Keep what from you?”

“That Jase is a fucking junkie.”

I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for her explanation, but she just laughs at me and waves me off. “Jase isn’t a junkie.”

“He goes to NA meetings.”

She nods her head now, and it’s clear she was privy to that information. “I know.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded, feeling like I'm on a completely different planet. “Quinn, we go way back. You know me. You know all about my mother. How the hell could you not tell me that?”

“That Jase goes to NA meetings twice a week? And has since I've known him?”

“Yes.” I throw my hands up in frustration. “People don’t go to those meetings for fun, Quinn.”

She wipes the bar with a rag, her face saddened. “No. They don’t.”

“So how could you not tell me that?”

“Why are you so worked up?” She studies me again with guarded caution because yeah . . . I’m sure I seem a little unhinged right now. I’m out of my mind with fury.

“Because I fucked him!”

She looks at me with surprise, but no judgment. “Well, who the hell told you to do that?” She’s almost laughing, and I could scream.

I plop down on the bar stool and put my head in my hands. “He’s gorgeous. And fucking charming. So charming.” I lift my eyes to meet hers, and she doesn’t argue. “I mean . . . I just thought he was safe.”

“He is safe. He’s a good guy, Mya.”

“He’s an addict, Quinn.”

She lifts a shoulder, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But he is a good man. We wouldn’t be friends with him—hell, Logan wouldn’t employ him—if he wasn’t. But he is. He’s proven himself.”

I shake my head and drop my hands to the bar. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Well, I didn’t tell you to sleep with him. And you know, maybe some get-to-know-you questions would have been a good idea before falling into bed.” She shrugs her shoulders. “But whatever. What’s done is done.”

“I let