Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Fuck, yesterday was the shit storm that just did not stop coming.
Apparently, it wasn’t enough to work a ten-hour day and confront the dying man who played a heavy role in fucking me up.
I had to go fucking Superman one of my only friends from a bar – in the next fucking city – where someone spiked her fucking drink during a concert.
Dragging my exhausted body out of bed, out of my room, and into the kitchen instead of the shower is done for one purpose and one purpose only.
Ibuprofen.
The open concept design allows for me to glare at the unwanted visitor passed out on our couch while I twist off the lid to the bottle.
Couldn’t take her ass home because I don’t know where the fuck she lives.
Couldn’t drop her ass off at her sponsor’s house because she doesn’t fucking have one.
And I couldn’t take her ass to the hospital to have her system flushed of the shit because I know her parents would’ve had her ass thrown back in rehab for something that wasn’t entirely her fault. Addiction is enough of a prison sentence without constantly having others force you in a physical one.
Don’t get me fucking wrong.
She shouldn’t have been at that fucking bar.
She damn sure shouldn’t have been there with people she couldn’t fucking trust to watch her back.
But she doesn’t deserve to be back behind mental bars because she’s trying to figure this sobriety shit out.
Seconds after a bottle of water from the fridge is in my hand, Kara teasingly calls out, “Can I have one too, Clark Kent, or does that cost extra?”
I catch the door before it can close and grab her one as well. “You’re probably dangerously dehydrated.”
“Is that why I’m naked?”
“Probably.” The slithering of her body that’s being covered up by a sheet to a sitting position is done during my stroll over. “When I went to bed you, though, were still wearing fucking clothes.”
“Shame,” she mutters under her breath louder than I feel she anticipated.
“You hadn’t hit a heat phase.” I extend her a bottle and plop my ass on the arm of the couch. “I stayed up for a few hours to watch for normal shit that sometimes happens like seizures or hallucinations that cause you to do shit like claw at your skin.” Twisting the top off is done in tandem with me informing, “Thankfully you didn’t have any of that shit. And just to be fucking clear, those fresh cuts on your arm, are not from last night.”
She gives the area a mindless touch while I pop the two pills and swallow them down.
This shit is a rarity.
We’re warned to be careful even taking over the count shit for headaches and allergies.
But fuck me, I need the shit today.
There’s no other way I can function with only three hours of sleep.
I let Law know she was here.
He let me know it was the right thing but to also monitor for signs I hadn’t even thought of.
Most of the night, I sat on a nearby barstool and rewatched episodes of Parks and Recreation that I’d already seen – not wanting to watch ones I hadn’t without Pres. She’d call during my drive back with Kara, and I didn’t answer.
Not that I didn’t want to.
Not that I’m trying to hide my good deed.
Kara was just oddly moaning and groaning and panting like she was fucking possessed.
And there was no fucking way she would’ve bought anything I said.
I’m not a fucking moron.
I texted when I got home, said I was sorry I missed her, that I loved her, and that I’d call her this morning.
Which I will.
Right after I sort this shit out.
Kara flicks away a bleached blonde strand of hair and begins to open her bottle of water. “I don’t…um…I don’t remember anything after Boys in Bands came on.”
“That sounds like emo shit.”
“Kinda was?” She comments in return after having her first gulp. “Little bit of Thirty Seconds to Mars, little bit of My Chemical Romance, and like a dash of Dashboard Confessional.”
“Chasing your fucking glory days?”
“Chasing something,” she mutters between sips.
“Let me ask you something, Kara.”
“Shoot.”
“Is all this a fucking game to you?”
Her eyebrows immediately dart down. “What?”
“Is staying clean something you actually plan on fucking doing or is it something you happen to be doing until you grow too bored with it?”
“I didn’t drug my fucking self last night, Collins.”
“No, but every time I fucking look away for thirty fucking seconds your ass is in some shit! Strip clubs-”
“It was Amy’s fucking birthday!”
“Night clubs-”
“My old sorority sisters wanted to go dancing!”
“Fucking MC patch parties.”
“I wanted to get fucking laid!”
“How about wanting to fucking stay sober, huh?!” I viciously bite. “How about wanting more in your goddamn life than the same bullshit that got your ass fucked up to begin with?!”