Addicted (A Billionaire Romance Novel) (2 page)

To deal with the pain and disparity of his loss, my doctor prescribed me anti-depressants and sleeping medication. When I first began taking them, the doctor warned me about the risks, as did the pharmacist, of becoming addicted. I blew them off. How could these tiny pills cause an addiction? It didn’t take long for me to get dependent on them, and soon I was addicted to them. Running out of my prescriptions before they were due, I’d call my doctor and beg for a refill. I’d lie and say that my anxiety was worsening. My doctor could tell that my habit was becoming an addiction and tried to ween me off of them. Initially, I attempted to roll with the punches, but reality crippled me. I couldn’t cope with the loss of my son and turned to street drugs.
 

At first, it was Oxy’s, Xanax, and Valium. I was paying forty bucks a pop for one pill though my dealer would sometimes hook me up with a little extra on my bad days. They quickly became unaffordable, which caused me to seek out other drugs. And let me tell you right now, I’d never done a drug in my life before Alex passed away. I never experimented in high school or college. My dealer told me that he had some heroin that I could try—on the house. At first, I rejected the idea. It’s no secret that heroin’s some pretty serious shit. Danny, my dealer, said that he could slip me five envelopes of heroin for the price of one pill. Again, I resisted.
 

“I’m not shooting anything into my veins,” I protested.
 

“You don’t have to. You can grind it up a little and snort it,” he reassured me. “Come on, it’s on
the house. The first one always is,” he said with a sly smile on his face.  
 

Reluctant to try it, but still seeking my high, I agreed. It was nice at first. You know, it was a lot cheaper than my pill habit, and the rush was euphoric. Over time, I could tell that I was becoming addicted, but I couldn’t stop myself. As I developed a tolerance to it, snorting it was no longer working. The highs weren’t the same, and they didn’t last nearly as long. Before I knew it, I was spending the same amount that I was when I was popping pills. I went back to Danny, he suggested that I smoke it. The rush that I experienced with smoking it gave me a high that I’d never had before—and I loved it! Being the junky that I was becoming, that didn’t last long either. The next step, he told me, was shooting it. Refusing to mainline it, I continued smoking it and popping pills to go along with it. There were days
that went by where I didn’t know whether I was coming or going, but that only lasted for so long. Eventually, I caved and gave into my addiction and began shooting it.
 

My sister Theresa came over one day to check on me. She’d been trying to reach me by phone but when I didn’t answer, she became alarmed. My dealer had sold me bad heroin, and if you think there’s no such thing, think again. He’d just gotten a new batch and said it was supposed to blow me away; that, it almost did. When my sister came to my house and knocked on the door, there was no response. My car was there and she could hear the television in the living room, so she decided to break in. She found my near lifeless body unconscious on the bed with a needle barely sticking out of my vein and a belt tied around my skinny arm. If it weren’t for her calling an ambulance, I would’ve died. You’ve likely heard of
Mother Theresa, well, meet my Sister Theresa—my lifesaver.
 

After spending time in rehab, I’ve finally gotten my life together and have just celebrated six months of sobriety. It’s been a tough journey, a struggle to make the right decisions, but I’m glad to be alive. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing is ever guaranteed. I’ve also learned to accept the things I cannot change—that’s the Serenity Prayer—which I have to remind myself every day. My hope is that one day, I will be able to fill the void that’s been in my heart since I lost Alex, though I don’t know if that’s possible. Even though he had tiny feet, it would take some mighty big shoes to make me feel complete again
.
 

Chapter One
 

During my time in rehab, I learned many things. One of the things that my counselor and peers, taught me was to accept the things I cannot change. Let me tell you, that’s easier said than done. It’s hard to accept the facts of life. You always wish you had a do-over or a fresh slate. I know that I can’t change that my son is gone, which is hard to accept, but I learned that the grass is never greener on the other side. During my stay at Life Tree Rehab Center, I realized that it was better that I had the opportunity to experience motherhood than to have never had it at all. Some of the women there cried because they’d gotten pregnant during their addiction and either lost the baby or were forced to give it up. The state deemed them as unfit mothers; at least I was able to experience the joys of having Alex. Some of the women there confessed to abortions. I
must admit, abortion was never anything that crossed my mind during my pregnancy with my son.
 

When I first began the treatment program, I had some serious soul searching ahead of me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in complete denial about everything in my life. My sister, Theresa, had made life seem so simple. I guess I expected my life to be a love story like hers, but mine was a total disaster. When Rob left Alex and me, to say I was hurt would be an understatement. I always asked him about getting engaged and getting married; he blew me off. My mom told me that it was normal for younger men to be afraid of commitment and that I should just give him time. My time ran out when he left. The women at the rehab center, ironically, had similar stories.
 

One of the girls that I bonded with was named Bridget. On the outside, she was harsh and mean. She had a demeanor about her that said, “Don’t fuck with me,” but honestly, she was one of the nicest women I’d ever met. She and I shared the same drug addiction: heroin. Others were addicted to crack, angel dust and cocaine. During our weekly gatherings, we’d all sit in a circle and discuss issues that we all faced. It took a lot of courage to sit in a group since I’d closed myself off to everyone. That was my least favorite thing about the rehab center, but the staff said it was imperative to attend the meetings. It allowed us to understand which situations can lead to addiction and when to recognize the warning signs.
 

After Rob was gone, I seriously contemplated whether I would ever allow myself to get into a serious relationship ever again. It was a slap in the face, one that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I couldn’t handle another heartbreak like that again. Sure, I wouldn’t say that Rob and I were soul mates by any means, but I loved him and he was Alex’s dad. We were supposed to get married, but fate had other plans. Even though my feelings for him faded over time, I still wouldn’t allow myself to get involved with another man. It seemed as though marriage would never be in the cards for me.
 

My days were filled with playing with Alex and going to work. It was hard making ends meet. I was working as a bartender in the Power and Lights District in Kansas City. Tips were excellent, especially on the weekends. There were a few regular customers who would come in just to sit and talk. When they’d leave, they’d drop a ten or a twenty inside my tip jar. I tried to work as much overtime as I could to ensure that we had the things we wanted in life. Our basic needs were
met and we never lived extravagantly, but I wanted us to live comfortably. My parents watched Alex while I was at work, and when they couldn’t my little sister, Caroline would. I was very blessed to have the support that I did, though, I didn’t realize it at the time. It’s funny how hitting rock bottom can open your eyes and make you see things that you never saw before.
 

Rob, Alex’s dad, came to the funeral. Oddly, he didn’t seem to care how I was doing. I’m not sure exactly what I expected; maybe a hug or an ‘I’m sorry’, but that was far from what I received. He was angry—at me. He said that he blamed me for Alex’s death. I didn’t realize it until I shared this with my counselor, but that may have very well contributed to my drug abuse problem that I later developed. Rob said his goodbye’s to Alex as they lowered his tiny coffin into the ground and was on the next plane to Washington before I could blink
an eye. It was hard to see him at the funeral, but it was harder dealing with his cold shoulder and horrible attitude.
 

After the funeral, we had a luncheon that was catered by my sister’s church. Theresa has always been there for me since we were little kids, and she saw to it that the day went smoothly. There was enough food to feed a small army and at the end of the luncheon, everyone gathered to release balloons in honor of Alex; to celebrate his life. One of the women from the church gave me the best advice that I’ve ever heard. She said not to tell my baby goodbye; she said that I should tell him ‘I’ll see you later.' Gloria, the woman who offered these wise words, said that one day, we’ll all be reunited in heaven. The thought of seeing my baby again sent joy radiating through my body, even if it would be another 40 or 50 years.
 

As time went by, I became more withdrawn; almost non-existent. My family would invite me over for dinner; sometimes my parents and other times, my sisters. I couldn’t face them; I felt as though Rob was right. Alex’s death was completely my fault. If I had kept a closer eye on him, he might still be here. I blamed myself a lot for his death. The thoughts of it began to consume me. I started having nightmares about his death, and when I did, I always woke up screaming in a sweaty mess. Sometimes Rob would be in the dreams while other times it was just Alex and I. Unable to sleep at night, I began staying up to avoid the nightmares. I’d wake up around 5 PM, most of the day was gone. I’d jump in the shower and go to work. When I’d come home at the end of my shift, I’d play solitaire or go sit on Alex’s bed and stare at the papers he did in school. His tiny, sloppy handwriting. I can still remember the day he came home and boasted about how he knew
how to write his name. He showed me how to make each letter, which wasn’t bad until he made the ‘x’. The ‘x’ looked more like a‘t’. I smiled and told how great of a job he did, positive that he’d work out that ‘x’ next year; but the next year would never come.
 

My mom was the one who noticed my depression, and encouraged me to see a doctor. I always thought people who said they were depressed were lying; they must want attention, is what I told myself. My mom detected my weight loss and observed the dark circles under my eyes. She said she hadn’t seen me smile since before the funeral, which was true. Refusing to make the call, she called our family doctor for me. Dr. Jenson said that I had all of the classic signs of depression and prescribed medication that would help combat those symptoms, and sleeping medication to help me sleep at night. None of it worked. When I went
back for my follow-up appointment, Dr. Jenson could tell that the medication wasn’t operating as intended so he switched me to a different drug and upped the dose.
 

With my new prescription in hand, I could tell that it was doing something to my body, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I felt loopy and out of it, but it did help take my mind off of reality, which was great. Not having to deal with reality was a godsend to me. I no longer had to think about Alex or how Rob had blamed me for our son’s death, and I didn’t care that my house was trashed. I didn’t care if the dishes and laundry were piled up. Life was beautiful—until it quit working. I went back to the doctor and asked for something stronger, which he obliged. My new prescription was even more awesome. It would knock me out for hours on end, but that soon wore off too.
Selfishly, I began taking more than prescribed and would run out before I could get my next refill.
 

Dr. Jenson knew that I wasn’t taking them as prescribed and refused to write me another script. This was when I turned to street drugs. I wish that I never worked at that bar. Sure, I’d made plenty of money while working there, especially when I was taking care of Alex, but this is where I met Danny. There had been whispers in the bar that Danny was a drug dealer, but you hear lots of rumors when you work at a bar. I tried not to believe everything I heard, but the talk about Danny seemed to stick. Once I thought about it, I realized that it probably wasn’t a rumor and that it was true. The way so many people approached him in one night, almost every night, was insane.
 

One day, when it was slow, he was sitting at the bar making small talk. I decided to ask him if
the rumor was true. At first, he denied it, but I assured him that I wouldn’t blow his cover to authorities. Reluctantly, he finally told me that he was. I casually asked what he sold, and when he said that he mainly dealt pills, weed, and a few other things, I almost fell over. Here I was, in need of drugs, and this man who had what I needed sat right before me. This was when I made my first deal.
 

The rush of buying drugs—granted they were just prescription pills—was crazy. I snuck to the back and popped them when no one was looking. Soon, I became such a pro at popping pills that I didn’t even need water to take them. Danny would come in, order a drink and when he paid, he’d slip me a couple of pills with the money. I’d hide his money under the coaster that his drink was on when everyone was busy. Nobody suspected a
thing. This is what made it so easy. It’s ironic how everyone can know you, but not
actually
know you.
 

My counselor, Barb, said that I need to avoid these types of situations. Initially, I protested and said that’s how I made my money; working at the bar. She suggested that I find a new job, one where drug dealers couldn’t easily slip me drugs and there were fewer temptations. I had no idea where I would work. Factory jobs were out of the question since I had no previous experience, I refused to work fast food, and I had no computer skills so that left secretarial or call center work out of the equation. Barb said that before she would sign my discharge papers, I would need to find a suitable job. Turning to my family for help, my little sister offered me a job working with her at Fast Fuel. As the store manager, she said she could easily train me within a couple of days and the work was easy.