I jammed both thumbs into Presley’s eyes. He hollered and stumbled backward. With the space he made, I rammed the heelof my hand under his chin. His head snapped back, and he lost his balance, fell backward, and crashed into the mixing board.
I wrenched open the door and collided with Luke. “Call the police,” I gasped, rubbing my aching throat.
His gaze panned behind me, where Presley was half-slumped on the floor. “What the f?—?”
“Just do it, Luke. Now! And don’t let him leave.”
“On it.”
I lurched down the hallway, pitching myself through the door to my office. As soon as I slid the lock in place, my knees gave way, and I crumpled to the floor. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.
It’s okay. You’re okay.
Fight or flight. I’d fought, and now my body had gone in to recovery mode.
Taking the advice I’d given to Erin, I took several deep breaths. Gradually, my chest slowed down, and the shakes assaulting my body eased.
That was when the tears came.
I lost track of time, of how long I sat on the floor of my office when there was a perfectly comfortable chair and a small couch I could’ve picked instead. Why had I allowed myself to be alone with Presley for a second time? Why did I do that? Stupid. So fucking stupid. I should’ve fired him weeks ago when he tried to kiss me, but I’d given him the benefit of the doubt.
This time, I’d make sure the fucking book was thrown at that guy.
A tentative knock came at my door. “Aspen, it’s Luke. The police are here.”
“One sec.” Using my desk for leverage, I hauled myself off the floor. After snagging a tissue from the box on my desk, I blew my nose, then used a fresh one to wipe my face. After ensuring my clothes were in place, I opened the door.
A uniformed female officer with kind eyes smiled at me. “Miss Kingcaid.”
I nodded, standing back. “Come in, please.” I gestured to the sofa, and I sat behind my desk. Somehow, it gave me a sense of control. The commanding CEO rather than the powerless victim.
“Would you like to tell me what happened?”
“Yes,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Presley Knox assaulted me, and I want to press charges.”
Chapter 29
Joz
Guilt is easier to deal with than grief.
The plasticand probably uncomfortable chairs were arranged in a loose circle. Not that the seating mattered. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and weak coffee. I waited in line at the drinks station, the peak of my cap pulled low, sunglasses on. Couldn’t drop the disguise even in pointless scenarios like this one. Everyone here knew who I was. The ripples of recognition had run through this place like a bad case of diarrhea after a vindaloo the day I arrived.
I made a coffee, tipped in the contents of two packets of sugar, gave it a stir with a wooden stick, and picked a chair closest to the exit. A woman in her early thirties sat on my left, head down. A guy barely out of his teens picked the seat on my right.
First group session. Wouldn’t be the last. Every single one would involve pain and anguish, and a honed sense of failure tinged with a sliver of hope. I knew the drill. I’d lived the drill.Didn’t think I’d be here again, though. Eight fucking years sober, and I’d fucked it up in one stupid night.
I missed Aspen. The yearning to feel her warm, soft body wrapped around mine had kept me awake for two nights straight, staring at a cracked ceiling, looking for answers that stubbornly remained in the shadows. Why had I turned to drugs in a time of crisis when I should’ve turned to my girl? Guess that was the reason I was here to find those answers and make sure I made a better decision next time.
Next time. There couldn’t be a fucking next time. Many addicts who fell off the wagon after being clean as long as I was didn’t make it. Our bodies weren’t attuned to the strength of the drug we used to take without thinking. Truth was, I got fucking lucky.
The counsellor, a woman in her fifties, introduced herself as Judy. She wore compassion like a well-loved T-shirt, and her eyes gave a don’t-fuck-with-me glint that said she’d been around this block a time or two.
“All right, everyone. You know the drill. We’ll go around the group and check in. Name, how you’re feeling today, whatever’s on your mind. Keep it short or go long. It’s up to you.”
One by one, the attendees spoke. A wiry man around my age confessed he’d almost walked out this morning but had somehow found the strength to stay another day. A middle-aged woman wrung her hands as she admitted she still craved the drug that had forced her to hit rock bottom and lose her home and her husband. The teenager sat beside me whispered that he didn’t want to die.
Fucking hell. Desperation clung to my skin. I wished I could claw it out with my bare hands. The memories came rushing back. I’d struggled with group sessions the last time I entered rehab, and nothing had changed in the intervening years. Hearing everyone’s despair, their shame, their guilt atdisappointing their loved ones, who so badly wanted to help but didn’t have the skills. Fuck, man, it killed me.
