Locked and Loaded (Bullet, #6) (15 page)

She hadn’t expected silence, though.

Constance’s face was white, and Jennifer could see her mental grappling, trying to come up with something to say.  Before she could, though, Jennifer had to finish her thoughts.  “Constance, every damn day I come in here, you have something or someone to complain about.  No one can do a good enough job, if we’re to believe you.  You seem to forget that no one is perfect, that we all have a learning curve...and guess what?  Even then, we all sometimes make mistakes.  Yeah,
all
of us.  If you think you’re so freaking perfect, then why don’t
you
apply for the jobs no one else can do right?  Or maybe just shut the hell up and appreciate what other people do, even when they screw up on occasion.  We’re a
team
, not enemies, and I’m tired of hearing you complaining all the time.”

She stood for several long seconds, expecting Constance to say something.  Instead, the woman just continued staring at Jennifer until Jennifer got tired of standing and walked away, back to her own cubicle.  It wasn’t until she almost sat down that she heard someone in a cubicle several yards away start clapping tentatively...followed by another and another and another, until the room was a sea of cheers.

It was good to know she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

But that also meant she needed to confess to the boss before someone tattled on her.  Yelling at a coworker, whether she was in the right or not, would be frowned upon.  She took a deep breath and stepped out of her cubicle so she could visit the boss in his office.  She realized on her way there that she’d actually forgotten about Zane in those few emotional minutes, which officially made her speech a win-win.

––––––––

W
ITHDRAWAL WAS NEVER a piece of cake, but it was something Zane could do.  He’d practically spent the entire week in bed, nursing himself with pain relievers and sipping water.  It was an ugly thing and maybe—if he dared hope—
maybe
it would be the last time.

Monday morning, he emerged from the cave of his bedroom, formerly a haven of sorts, but now a den of yuck.  He’d asked his cleaning lady to take a week off and she was going to hate his ass when she came back to work today...although it wouldn’t be her first time cleaning up his nasty messes.  Ah, but she made better money than a lot of people with college educations simply by putting up with Zane’s bullshit and filthiness—and she knew it.  Not only did she do a good job, but she never complained about it.  She rarely smiled but she wasn’t a grouch, either.  She was quiet and efficient and a hell of a workhorse.

And today she’d earn her paycheck.

He’d make things a little easier on her, though.  He pulled the sheets and comforter off the bed and made his way downstairs to the laundry room, pouring in what he hoped would be enough detergent to wash away all his sins.  Then, after a cup of coffee, he took a long, cleansing shower and emerged feeling better than he had in ages.  It was almost like the time a few years ago when he got the flu.  He’d spent a couple of days in bed feeling like he was going to die and then, all of a sudden, he felt like a new man—spent but happy to be alive and feeling wonderful.

He was trying not to think about the afternoon...when he was going to meet his new therapist for the first time—a guy named Dr. Eugene Harvey, a man Jenna highly recommended.  She’d told him, “I know a lot of people who have gone to him out of desperation.  Like he’s their last hope.”

Zane had laughed.  “What are you trying to tell me, Jenna?”

“That’s not it, Zane.  I’m saying I think he can help you, even if no one else can.  Why not just skip the middleman?”

Her logic, while frightening, had been sound.  And her words continued rattling around Zane’s head, even while he chugged down I-25 on his way to Lakewood where the guy’s office was.  If he was as good as Jenna said, he’d be worth the long drive.

Zane even arrived early.

Like most similar places (Zane would know, because he’d always tried them at least once or twice to convince himself that he’d made an honest effort), it was a nondescript building, much like many of the other buildings around it.  Inside, it was cool and decorated in earthy beige and off-white shades, probably so as not to excite any of the excitable, impulsive individuals walking in the door.  But, as Zane checked in at the front desk and then turned to sit down in the quiet lobby, he looked at some of the faces buried in books and magazines or looking at the serene watercolor paintings on the wall and didn’t see anything that looked excitable or impulsive about any of the people sitting here.  Instead, what he observed was what he felt inside himself:  these people looked broken.  Tired.  At the end of their ropes.

A last hope, indeed.  Here was hoping Dr. Harvey and his fellow associates could live up to their hype.

* * *

“D
o you mind if I call you Zane?”

“Nope.  That’s my name.  I still answer to it.”

Dr. Harvey smiled.  Good.  At least he seemed to have a sense of humor.  That was good...because Zane sometimes had to use comedy to deal with the dark, shitty, nasty things in life.  Sometimes it was the only way to survive.

“So...tell me why you’re here, Zane.  What you hope to accomplish.”

“I already told the woman on the phone.”

“I know...but sometimes things get lost in translation.  And sometimes we don’t want to say more than we must to someone who isn’t going to be part of the solution.  True?”

Zane nodded, all while assessing the guy.  The doctor was probably in his forties or fifties.  Zane wasn’t a good judge of age, but he knew he was right.  The man’s hair wasn’t fully gray, but it was thinning at the hairline, moving back as if it were a battle line and the hair was losing the fight.  His watery blue eyes seemed to take in everything and—much like Jenna—seemed nonjudgmental and caring, even while maintaining a professional distance that Zane could feel, almost as if it were a palpable thing.  The guy had a bit of a belly, too, but it was hidden underneath a jacket and tie.

Jesus.  Who’d wear that get up in the middle of summer?

A psychologist.  Of course.

“So...?  Tell me a little about yourself, Zane.”

Zane shifted in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position and failing.  Well, he knew he wasn’t going to feel any kind of ease until he spilled all the beans, so no better time than the present.

“Not sure what you want to know.”

“Tell me what brought you here.”

Hell...there were more answers to that question than Zane could possibly sum up in his first hour.  But he could give it a try.  “I’m an addict, doc, plain and simple.  I like booze and I like weed.  I like smack and pills and just about every drug I’ve ever tried.  If it gets me high or numb, it becomes part of my repertoire.  And I’m a rock musician, so access is easy and usually cheap, but if not, I don’t need to spare any expense.”

“You’re clean now?”

“For the moment.”

Dr. Harvey jotted something on his clipboard before saying, “Tell me about a typical day.  Before you got clean, that is.”

A typical day...that was almost funny.  Each day was completely different—a new city, a new girl, probably a new drug or a new way of taking it—or a brand-new way of combining a couple for an unusual effect.  But...there was a definite pattern and maybe Dr. Harvey needed to hear it to help him.  “How much time we got?”

The doctor smiled, and it even reached his eyes.  That, Zane thought, was a very good sign.  “As much time as you need, Zane.”

“Man, I could tell you some stories.”  Yeah, but the doctor wasn’t a guy Zane needed to impress—not that he would have wanted to anyway.  In fact, the harder he tried to impress the shrink, the more pathetic he’d likely seem.  “But a typical day.  Okay, so...that would probably be on tour.  Get up, have some coffee and maybe a little coke...definitely a little Oxy.  Depending on where we were, either find my way onto or off of the tour bus.  Eat something.  Try to keep it down.  Hang with my band doing some shit—that varied from day to day, but we usually do shit together until about midway through tour, when we get so sick of each other, we’re ready to kill.  Then get ready for the show.  Party half the night, meaning take more shit; fuck the other half.  Lather; rinse; repeat.”

Dr. Harvey jotted a couple of words down—at least, that was what it appeared to look like from where Zane sat—and then asked, “So no particular drug of choice?  No preference?”

Zane shrugged and sat back, already feeling a little less tense.  “Not really.  They all did different things.  Like...I’d drink, because that’s pretty damned acceptable and normal and sometimes it’d wash down whatever else I was taking.  It could be beer or whiskey—I didn’t give a shit, because alcohol was always the starter...never the main attraction.  I like H and Oxy, because they take the pain away.”

“Any particular pain you’re addressing?”

Shit.  Zane hadn’t given that much thought in years.  But the shrink asked...so Zane might as well tell.  “My back bothers me off and on.  When I was a kid, my dad used to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of me...and there’s a spot on my lower back that hurts like fuck sometimes.  Oxy cures that shit.”  Zane was impressed that the doctor never even blinked when Zane flung expletive after expletive at him.  That was good and indicated that they’d probably get along just fine.

“Psychological pain?  Emotional trauma as well?”

“Yeah.  Probably.”

“What else?”

Zane paused for a few seconds to let his thoughts settle once more.  “Weed usually just puts a haze on everything and makes life feel okay, you know?  Like...I could be having the shittiest fucking day, be angry as hell, then I smoke a joint, and
ah
.”  He reclined in the chair and laid his head back as though letting go of all his worries, all the tension of the day.  “It’s the best thing for me if I’m pissed off.  Takes all the edge off.”

“You’re speaking in present tense, Zane.”

He gave it some thought.  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“That’s okay.  Nothing wrong with that.  I just wanted to point it out.”

Zane nodded.  “I usually don’t do—er,
didn’t do
one strain or another.  I usually went with a hybrid.  But anyway, um...did I answer your question?”

“I think so.”  Dr. Harvey sat up and pushed his glasses to the top of his head.  “How often were you sober?”

“On the road?”  The shrink nodded his head.  “Um...never if I could help it.”

“And regular sex was part of the routine?”

“Oh, yeah.  Goes along with it.  Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, doc.  You’ve heard that before, right?”

Dr. Harvey smiled again, not an unsympathetic gesture, but he leaned forward.  “Do you have any other compulsive habits, Zane?”

“What do you mean?  Like what?”

“Well...let’s just say that addiction comes in many forms.  Maybe you gamble impulsively...or you’re addicted to the internet.  Maybe you obsess over sex.”

Zane laughed—the first fully relaxed moment he’d had since entering that building.  “Doc, I’m a rock star.  Yeah, I’m not the front man, but I score plenty.  And I’m a guy.  Tell me what guy my age
doesn’t
obsess over sex.”

Dr. Harvey took a deep breath and looked down at the papers, flipping pages and seeming to look for some information, but Zane got the feeling the guy was toying with him.  “You’re in your twenties, correct, Zane?”

“Yeah...”

“Contrary to popular belief, men do
not
think about sex every seven seconds.  Teenage boys, maybe, but men with jobs or families or obligations don’t think about sex as frequently as has been reported.”

“What’s that even mean?”

Dr. Harvey took in a deep breath.  “I’d like you to consider the very real possibility, Zane, that perhaps you are addicted to a great many things, things you’ve never even considered...and maybe we have our work cut out for us.”

Oh, fuck.

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M
AYBE IT MADE her a bitch, but Jennifer asked Zane for a little space.  He’d called her up and told her he was in regular counseling now.  Jennifer quickly countered, “One session does
not
mean regular, Zane.  Call me in a few weeks.”

Yeah, it definitely made her some kind of a cold-hearted bitch, but she had to protect herself and her daughter.  She’d done a shitty job thus far and needed to do better.  If Zane called her in a couple of weeks and said he was going regularly, then she would begin to take him seriously.  But she knew from past experience that Zane often went into some kind of counseling or rehab and relapsed pretty quickly.  She wanted some evidence this time—something more concrete, showing he was committed to permanent, ongoing recovery.

Until then, she wasn’t going to let him know he had a daughter.

She knew that that too made her a bitch, but she didn’t care.  He hadn’t earned the right to know.  She just kept picturing that slutty blonde in his house that night—naked, curled up in a ball, filing her fingernails with the chipped red polish, inviting herself to the party, so to speak.  What if Jennifer had agreed to move in with Zane and that had happened in front of Zoe?  Maybe it wouldn’t scar her now, but it sure as shit would when she was older.  Jennifer did
not
want her daughter to have a warped idea about men.  She wanted Zoe to hold up Jennifer’s grandpa as a role model—although, being in his eighties, she didn’t know how long Zoe would have with him to look up to.

It didn’t matter.  Jennifer was aware of the fact that, in spite of the many times Zane had spouted words of love to her, the evidence suggested that Zane was quite good at sweet talking.  His follow through, however, was lacking, and so Jennifer was going to be more demanding this time—and from now on.  Her heart couldn’t take it anymore.

She and Val were meeting for lunch—a girls’ day out.  Val was bringing Hayley, her daughter, and Jennifer was bringing Zoe.  The girls were more than a year apart in age, but it still didn’t stop Jennifer from hoping the two would become and remain good friends throughout their lives.  Jennifer and Val had lost touch for a few years when Jennifer was finishing out college and Val was pursuing a music career, but they had never completely lost touch and continued to have a strong bond.