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Nolan takes an unwelcome seat beside me. “This is really good, Killian. I didn’t know that you were an artist.”
I don’t take the bait, ignoring him as I continue to move my hands across the canvas. I’m no different than anyone else—I’m not fucking special. Art is subjective. If you look deep inside, everyone is an artist in their own way.
Nolan takes one of the pieces of charcoal in between his fingertips and presses down hard, smudging it across his skin. “You truly have a gift. I always wished that I was able to do something like that, but art was never my strongest subject. Did you take classes in school or did you take—”
“Cut the shit, Nolan,” I snap at him, not bothering to lift my eyes away from the canvas. “What do you want?”
“We have a session in five minutes. I thought maybe you’d want to change the scenery instead of sitting in my boring office.”
“I’m good.” My gaze doesn’t leave my work in front of me. As much as I want Nolan to leave, he’s irritating the fuck out of me. I’m feeding off the irritation. My work comes to life as the anger fucks with my nervous system. “I’m going to skip today.”
I feel Nolan’s gaze trained on the side of my face. “It’s not optional.”
“So, write me up then.” I shrug my shoulders dismissively as I switch to a smaller piece of charcoal. I build off the waves, moving my hand along with the ebb and flow of the deeper parts of the ocean.
“Killian.” Nolan’s voice is firm and definitive. It strikes a nerve and my jaw tics as I grip the dark piece of porous material in between my fingertips. “This isn’t school. There’s no system for writing people up and sending you to detention. You either do the work or you’re out.” He pauses as he flattens his hands on the surface of the table. “In your case, you do the work or you go back to jail. I’ll be in my office; the choice is yours. If you’re not there in ten minutes, I know what choice you’ve made.”
The feet of his chair screech along the linoleum as he abruptly shoves his chair away from the table and rises. I glance up at him, meeting his harsh gaze. He gives me a disapproving look, one that’s mixed with disappointment. My expression doesn’t falter and I stare at him blankly. Nolan shakes his head and stalks away, no doubt going to his office.
I drop the piece of charcoal onto the table, gripping my head in my hands. I’m so fucking tired of all of this. Talking is a waste of time, especially when I’m not talking to the one who needs to hear my words. I’m tired of diving back into the fucking past.
Digging my fingertips in, I grip my face in frustration. I gotta get my shit together if I want to get out of this place. I pull one hand away from my head and bring it back to the side of my face, abruptly smacking myself. My palm bites my skin, setting it on fire as I slap myself again.
Shaking my head, I drop my hands to the table and shove my chair away. It tips over, falling backward as I push it out of the way with my feet. An exasperated sigh slips from my lips as I walk past it, leaving it lying where it fell.
If I ever want a future that doesn’t involve being locked up, I need to make this work.
I’ll play their game and tell them what they want to hear. Play the system like I did in jail. I don’t think they’ll let me out of here early for good behavior, but if I play my cards right, something is bound to work out in my favor.
My back straightens, my shoulders pressed back as I take a deep breath and head for Nolan’s office. I’m ready to go back to Hell and slow dance with her in the flames. A devil disguised as a god. A demon disguised as an angel.
I’ll meet her there, because Hell is where we are at home.
ELEVEN
AINSLEY
It’s been a long fucking day. We have three new admissions, as well as multiple calls about beds for detox. As the opioid epidemic grows, treatment centers are filling up. It hurts my heart, seeing how things play out from opposite sides.
I’ve been the addict, the liar, the user. And now that I’m clean, I’m on the other side. I’ve experienced addiction through the eyes of an addict and through the eyes of loving someone that was addicted. Killian might still be living in denial, but he was no different than me.
I watched him grow dependent on the drugs that we were using. He wouldn’t have been doing them behind my back if he wasn’t trying to hide how bad it was getting. And maybe that’s part of the reason that he wanted me to go home and get help.
Killian knew that he couldn’t help me, especially when he wasn’t ready to give up the drugs.
That was never the true source of his addiction though. If he really wanted to turn them down, he could without batting an eye.
He wasn’t addicted to heroin.
He was addicted to me.
I should cut the cord—we both know that this isn’t healthy. It doesn’t seem possible, the thought of us ever having a normal relationship. And perhaps that isn’t in the cards for us. But after spending the weekend with Cartier, after hearing her tragic fucking story, a normal relationship doesn’t matter to me anymore.
I’ll keep feeding his addiction as long as he keeps feeding mine.
Because I’m just as addicted as he is.
* * *
