“I convinced myself that the band no longer matter to you guys. All I saw was you had wives and girlfriends now and your priorities changed. Black Falcon was no longer the number one thing in your life like it was mine. I didn’t understand what you guys were going through but now, I completely get it. Since meeting Frannie, she’s made me understand that you can love two things: music and your woman. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, Tyke,” Noel says. “I’m sorry that we made you feel that way. Next time come talk to us before going off the deep end.”
“Yeah, man, we’ll understand. We won’t know you’re feeling left out or anxious if you don’t tell us how you feel,” Riff adds. “That’s what we’re here for, to help each other in rough times.”
I nod while relief washes through me that we’re finally getting everything out on the table. “I swear there will be no more drama from me. I fucked up. I know that now, and all I can do is say that I’m sorry, and that I will work hard, every day, to stay clean and focused.”
“We know you will, man, and we’re all here to support you—and kick your ass if you start to fuck up again.” Trip holds his fist out for me to bump. “We’re brothers.” He glances at Riff and Noel, who nod in agreement. “All of us. We’ve got each other’s backs. Always. That’s what makes us the greatest fucking rock band on this planet.”
I pound my knuckles into his and wipe away the tears that have fallen down my face. “I love all of you guys.”
I sniff and try to regain my composure as I turn in Frannie’s direction and place my hand on her knee. “I especially love this lady right here. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for showing me how to open up, and letting me see that sharing my feelings is okay.”
She places her small, warm hand on mine, and she smiles. “I love you, too.”
Finally, after struggling for the last few years, I feel at peace, and the nagging thoughts of doom are the furthest thing from my mind because, surely, nothing this good is bound to fall through. Everything in my life seems to be falling into place.
“Creep” – Radiohead
Tomorrow is the day the blackmailer will be expecting their two-million-dollar payment. Tyke and I have both come to the conclusion that we aren’t paying the money, so it’s inevitable that we will be outed.
Deciding to go on the road with Tyke is a huge deal. I’ll essentially be leaving everything I’ve worked so hard for behind, but I’ve decided I would like to try my hand at helping the less fortunate with their addictions. I think helping people who have absolutely nothing will be a better way of dedicating my time. I’d even love to find a place where I could simply volunteer my time.
I’m focusing on the letter of resignation I’ve been working on for the past twenty minutes on my laptop when a knock on my office door startles me. “Come in.”
Wayne strolls in, looking impeccable as ever in his pressed suit and matching graying hair. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but Timothy is about to start doing random room inspections while Randall is leading a group activity outside, and I would like you to assist him so it can go faster.”
I close the lid of my laptop and smile. “Sure. I’d be happy to help.”
“Great, thank you. Timothy is already on the second level,” Wayne informs me and exits the office just as quickly as he came in.
When I find Timothy upstairs, he has a clipboard in hand, making notes. His towering frame was intimidating when I first arrived here, but I’ve come to know him as a big teddy bear, one who’s strictly by the book. I don’t know him personally; I just know that he takes his job very seriously.
“Hi,” I greet him as I step next to him. “Wayne asked me to help you toss the rooms. Are we looking for contraband? I’ve never searched someone’s things before.”
Timothy nods and pulls his gaze away from the paperwork in front of him. “We sweep everything. Addicts, especially ones who have been here before, are very good at hiding anything they don’t want to be caught with. The ones sent here through court orders are the ones who are the most likely to hide things. The ones who elect to seek treatment themselves tend to be the clients who really do try to abstain from whatever they’re addicted to. Don’t take those assumptions as gospel, though—go through every nook and cranny. Here,” he hands me a pair of rubber gloves, “You’ll want to wear these.”
“Got it,” I say, understanding exactly what I’m to do. “What room would you like me to do first?”
He checks his clipboard again. “I just came from Tyke’s room—he’s clean. Arnold is next on my list, so you can take him, and I’ll take the next one on the list. If you find anything, come get me and we’ll inventory it together.”
“Will do.” I step over to the room next to Tyke’s and point at the door. “This one is Arnold’s?”
After I get confirmation that it is the right room, I twist the knob and head in. My hands grow clammy in the rubber gloves as I begin poking around in Arnold’s drawers. Everything in here appears to be typical—socks, underwear and a never-ending collection of sweaters, which I still find fucking weird considering the temperature outside.
Next, I move on to the closet, where I find all of Arnold’s khaki pants hung neatly in a row.
“Doesn’t this guy ever get tired of wearing the same shit,” I mumble to myself.