STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (5 page)

“How’s she doing?” I whisper as I walk into the nursery at the hospital. Perry is in the chair rocking, a smile on her face. There was no way I would have ever made the seminar after talking to Addy, so I just headed to where I really wanted to be anyway.

“She’s doing great. Doctor said that as soon as you got here we could go.” Standing she slides the baby into my arms. “There you go, little girl. Your mama’s here,” she coos.

Once I’m holding Lyric, my heart feels lighter. All of the chaos of earlier dims in her presence. “Hey, hey, little bird,” I croon in my singsong voice she seems to love so much. “Missed you, Lyric. My heart doesn’t beat in rhythm when you’re not around,” I whisper in a choked voice remembering all of the times Stone has said that very thing to me and I to him.

A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the downy chocolate brown hair of my daughter. I place a kiss on the top of her head, pulling in her sweet scent.

“How’s he doing, Willow?” Perry asks softly. Without a word, I just shake my head no. It’s as much an answer as I can give her without saying the words. He's not okay and I don't want to talk about it. Not here. Not when I’m so raw from it all and not when I’m holding my world in my arms.

“Later, please.” I smile to soften my words. “Let’s get this pretty little bird home.” I can feel her eyes on me. I’m glad when she doesn’t push.

“Okay. Cora is waiting at your place for us. She said she wanted to make sure everything was perfect,” Perry laughs softly. “She’s so damn excited, Willow. You should’ve heard her on the phone. I think she might move in.”

With a bemused grin I look over at her. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. I wonder what she made for dinner. You know she cooked.”

“Without a doubt she did.” When my stomach growls at the thought we both bust out laughing, startling poor Lyric. “Shhh, shhh. I have you.” Rocking her and humming “Love Me Tender” which is one of her favorites, she quiets right down. “We’re ready, Auntie Perry.” After a month of living in this hospital, “ready” is an understatement. It’s time for Lyric and I to start our new life. Just the two of us.

Pulling up in front of my house, I’m reminded of everything this homecoming is, and all that it isn’t. As I put the Jeep in park, I glance back at Perry who is sitting in the backseat with Lyric. “You girls ready to do this?” I grin, popping the door open and jumping down. Just as I’m pulling Lyric’s car seat from the back, Cora comes bounding down the porch, beaming at us.

“Took you long enough, eh? I was starting to get worried.” She pulls me into a hug, careful not to jostle the baby carrier, “You okay, Willow? Perry told me. I’ve been worried sick about you all day.” She pulls back and brushes a hand over my head, assessing me. “Been watching the TV for any information. There’s been no update so far.” I nod meekly, anything more is too much. “Well then, let’s get this beautiful baby inside. I made Tourtiere.” Perry glances back at me and gives me a knowing smile. Cora usually only makes the delicious meat pie for the holidays. “I feel you two with those googly eyes. It’s a special damn occasion. Lyric’s home with her mama, and her Auntie Cora wants to celebrate it. Now get your asses in the house and eat!” We giggle at her hostile tone like a bunch of scolded little girls. “Yes, ma’am,” Perry and I say in unison. It’s been so long since I’ve been mothered I don’t mind being bossed around in the least.

Once inside, I unbuckle Lyric from her strappings and hand her to an anxiously waiting Cora. The two of these women have been by my side for the last month around the clock. My strength. Anchors. I don’t know if I would’ve survived all that I’ve been through watching my little girl fight for her life in the NICU. We were close before, but now . . . now they’re my family, and that’s something I haven’t had since I walked away from Stone. Hell, even before that. He stopped being who I needed long before I left. Shaking the thought away I watch Cora with Lyric, smiling wistfully as she makes silly sounds at her. She looks up at me, happiness painting her face. “Go on and put her stuff away, I have her little bassinet thing in the dining room already.” I nod and gather up all the stuff we accumulated while at the hospital and head to the mudroom to sort through everything. I don’t want to bring any of it to the nursery until we get the stink of hospital off of it.

“Holy hell does that smell good,” I call out as I walk into the dining room where Perry is setting the finishing touches on the table, Cora sitting with Lyric snug against her chest. As soon as I’m seated, she lays the now sleeping infant in her bassinet and starts serving steaming plates of deliciousness. I’m a good cook, but I’m no Cora.

“Thank you so much for doing this. It’s nice to be home with her finally, and to have you all here makes it perfect,” I tell them, taking a bite of the pie. With an appreciative moan I listen to the ladies chat about the bar, Perry’s job, hockey. Because Canada. Eight months ago I never would have thought that my life would bring me here. Bring me them.

Cora interrupts my thoughts. “Oh, Willow! I meant to tell you. Carleen called from the bar a while ago and said there was a message on the answering machine from someone at Fall Out. She said they heard one of your demos and wanted to talk to you.” The excitement in her voice can’t be missed.

“I didn’t send out any demos,” I answer, confused and anxious at the mention of the label. Stone’s label. Calling for me.

“Hmmm, he must’ve heard it at the studio then. They booked some studio time last month because of some kind of remodeling at theirs. I didn’t ask any questions. I was just so honored they asked us at all,” Cora answers, preening a bit. “But she said he asked for you by name.” She shrugs. “Won’t hurt to see what they want.”

I’ve not written music for anyone other than Stone in a while. I can’t even think about what song they may have heard, but she’s right, hearing them out wouldn’t hurt and I could always use the royalty money. Now that Lyric’s home, I won’t be able to take as many shifts at The Dirty Bird. “I’ll call them next week. I just want to get settled with Lyric first. You’re sure it wasn’t anyone working with Stone?” Cora nods in understanding.

“His name wasn’t brought up, and the woman who booked the studio time was from Montreal. I remember because I had Bear speak to her,” she reassures me.

“Oooh, Fall Out has some really hot new names, Willow. I did a shoot for them not too long ago. One of their new boy bands,” Perry says, practically bouncing in her seat in excitement. She works as a freelance photographer but does a lot of work for big magazines and heavy hitters in the music industry. It’s how I met her years ago. We’d bonded over our home country and thankfully kept in touch. When I called her and said I needed to get away and that she couldn’t tell a single soul where I was, she opened her home to me and helped me find a place of my own. She saved me and she has no idea. She’s never asked and I’ve never told. Only Cora and her husband know why I ran away from everything and everyone.

“They do, eh?” I ask. Knowing full well that they do.

Perry starts to nod enthusiastically when she catches on I’m messing with her. “Oh shut up, you bitch.” She tosses a roll at me.

“Perry! Watch your language in front of the baby,” Cora scolds.

“Pfft. That baby is screwed with potty mouth over there,” she accuses with a finger pointed in my direction.

“Hey, now. I’ve been trying. Cora put a swear jar and everything in the living room. I figured either I’ll quit swearing or I’ll have one hell of a college fund for Lyric.” We all laugh at that and in this moment I’m happy. It won’t be until they’re all gone and I’m tucking in my baby girl that I’ll allow myself to worry over Stone and the fact that I am now a single parent.

Stone

THE LIGHTS ARE OFF BECAUSE
it hurts so fucking bad to have them on. I've had them off since I got here, what seems like a year ago. I hear someone come in, thankfully not turning on the light. They tiptoe to the bed where I'm curled up in the fetal position, rocking in an attempt to make the pain stop. They won’t give me any more of the meds they promised would help. I need them. My skin is tight and I feel like I'm covered in a million fucking bugs. My insides ache. The constant need to throw up is exhausting. I just want it to end. If this is what being clean is like, I don't fucking want it. Numb. I only want to be numb. That's where my happy lives. I don't need a single fucking thing else.

A gentle hand wipes away the sweat pouring down my face with a warm cloth, and even that against my skin is too much. Moaning, I move away from it. “I'll just put it right here on your table,” the voice soothes. A low grunt is my answer. This is only day three. Day fucking three. I’d rather be dead.

Day fourteen is no fucking better than day three was. The only difference is I don’t feel like throwing up all day and all night. Only for most of it. The restless leg syndrome is enough to make me want to kill somebody though. Today, they’re making me leave my room. I have to at least take a walk around the grounds if not sit in on one of the classes I’ll be expected to attend soon. For the first time since I’ve been here I have the windows of my room open, the scents and sounds of the Pacific almost soothing. Almost. There’s a small balcony that I can go out on, but there are decorative bars that keep me from swan diving off of it. I stand there barefoot, letting the heat of the cement soak into my skin. They brought me a pack of cigarettes yesterday, but my hands haven’t stopped trembling long enough for me to be able to get the matches lit yet. Apparently I can’t have a lighter. People huff the butane. The thought never even occurred to me. Wish it had.

Sitting on the patio chair they have shoved in the corner next to a small table with an ashtray, I again do my best to get a match lit. The only thing I hate more than the shaking hands and the stomach cramps is that they won’t let me have my phone or my guitar. No items from the outside other than the smokes for a couple more weeks yet. It’s not enough that I’m here, in a hell they call Paradise, without any fucking drugs and with a worthless ass pack of cigarettes. Nah, they gotta make sure I really suffer. I go through a whole book of fucking matches before I use the intercom in my room and ask someone to bring me more. This time I’ll ask whoever brings them to fucking strike one for me. It’s the least the bastards can do.

Day thirty-one has me sullenly sitting in a group therapy session as they go over things we want to say to the loved ones we’ve hurt. Letters of apology. There’s not enough paper in the world for my letter to Wills. Everyone is reading theirs out loud as we sit in a circle like we’re about to break into fucking Kumbaya. We’ve been given the choice to call whomever the letter is to or invite them to a session next month when we’re allowed visitors so that we can read them what we’ve written. There’s not a chance in hell I’m reading shit to anyone. I write letters every day, and every day they ask me to share them, and every one of those days I decline. Today won’t be any different. My letters to Willow aren’t for anyone else but her. I send them to the house in Austin. Although I know she’s not there, it makes me feel better. Helps me to pretend that my being an addict didn’t run her off. Guess being clean hasn’t kept me from being delusional. Inhaling deeply on my smoke, I flip to an empty page in my notebook and begin writing.

Wills,

They want me to share my words with them. They must not realize that my words are for you. They always have been. I’m so sick of sharing all my feelings, my pent up shit, emotions I can’t name and don’t want to fucking feel. I only want to share all of my fucked up with you. I need you, Birdie. Man, do I fucking need you so damn bad. Don’t you know I need you, to be me?

Love always,

Stone

I toss my pen aside and snub out my cigarette at the pain those words cause. They leave a huge gaping hole in my chest just remembering them and all the times I’ve whispered them to her. Fuck this place and being clean and being high. Just fuck it all.

Day forty-seven can suck my dick. Right along with everyone else. I sit on the lanai, rain misting over me and everything else on the small space, and smoke my damp cigarette as I write yet another letter to Willow, though I have no fucking clue why. Because I’m mad as hell? Because I miss her? Because they told me I had to?