Before she could respond, Riley had poured her a Sprite and handed it to her with a wink. The smirk that graced Lizzie’s face was sexy as hell. Max shifted closer to where they all stood, pushing the forgotten bag of coke into his back pocket, his attention well and truly diverted.
He observed Lizzie for the forty minutes she stayed, captivated. She was charming and funny, giving as good as she got when the banter started in earnest. She even glanced in Max’s direction a few times. He smiled gently and nodded in reaction. The pink hue that lit her cheeks when he did was delicious.
Ordinarily, Max would have been at her side chatting up a storm with charismatic lines of flowery shit that, experience had taught him, chicks loved.
But something held him back. Something foreign and scary. Something that told him this Lizzie would hand him his balls if he tried to be anything but real and honest.
So he watched, knowing as she left that he had to see her again.
The grounds of the rehab center were vast. Fifteen acres, to be exact. Before the south-central Pennsylvania snow had gotten too deep, Max had meandered about the lands, stopped for a smoke, and meandered some more. The quiet was ear piercing and made him twitchy as all get-out. He was used to the hustle and bustle of New York City life, and the sprawling fields and fresh air were hard to get used to.
When he wasn’t at one of his fifteen sessions a week with Elliot, with his sobriety counselor, or wandering aimlessly, Max sat in his room, listened to music, or read. And that was just fine when he was going through the initial cocaine withdrawals, which were fucking awesome and slowed him down to a damned snail’s pace. Two weeks on, however, and he was starting to get itchy feet. Elliot had promised that, once he’d plateaued on his meds, Max could start working out with a personal trainer. Frankly, Max was dying to get into the gym to work off some of the tension and stress that curled his shoulders inward. But he had to wait. As an alternative, Max was offered the chance to join a yoga class.
Something slow. Something easy.
He’d laughed in Elliot’s face. No, he’d explained. He wasn’t a yoga type of guy. Instead, he’d retired back to his room.
Not that he minded being in his room. And honestly, “room” was a broad term. It was more like a hotel suite. It was fixed up sweet with a huge bed, comfortable chairs, nice artwork on the walls, and an en suite bathroom. Apparently Carter had picked the joint because of its more relaxed, homey vibe, as well as it being small with only seventeen “clients” at any one time, ensuring one-on-one, twenty-four-hour care and support. Max knew Carter had paid through the nose to get him in on such short notice.
Although the Narcotics Anonymous twelve steps to recovery were very much part of Max’s healing process, the facility also offered more holistic-type therapy, which Max was sure would benefit someone. Just not him. He wasn’t into all that mind, body, and soul mumbo jumbo. He just wanted to get clean the fastest way possible so he could go home.
Still, after fifteen days, Max had to admit, somewhat begrudgingly, that rehab wasn’t all bad. He missed his friends and the comforts of home like crazy, of course, but it was kind of like being in prison. Only cozier. With nicer smells, nicer drapes, and easier smiles from the staff. Sure, the sessions with Elliot were a heinous chore that made Max want to do nothing but go fetal, and the group sessions were even worse, but the guys he’d met in group had definitely made his stay more interesting. Talk about crackpots.
Take Stan, for example. Stan was twenty-eight years old and a coke addict. Like Max, he’d delved into the white powder time and time again as a way of forgetting life and all the bullshit that came with it. He was a five-foot-six, tenacious Puerto Rican who could talk the hind legs off a motherfucking donkey. And he did. Regularly. But that was just fine with Max. If Stan was talking, that meant Lyle, the group leader, and Hud, a sobriety counselor, weren’t looking in Max’s direction expecting him to say anything.
For the ten group sessions the seventeen of them had had, Max still hadn’t spoken a word. Didn’t want to speak a word. Didn’t know where the hell he’d start putting that shit in organized, fluent sentences. Jesus, being sober and lucid did nothing but encourage his once-quieted thoughts to relentlessly hammer his tortured brain from the minute he opened his eyes every morning. The luscious coke blanket he’d used unashamedly every day, numerous times a day, to silence the fuckery taking place in his head was a distant memory. Max simply pulled the substitute blanket—the hood of his sweater—farther around his face, burrowing deeper into the fabric, and tried to relax.
Easier said than done with Stan waxing lyrical about his regrets. Oh, the regrets.