Read Online Rock My Body (Black Falcon #4) by Michelle A. Valentine - Free Book Online
Authors: Michelle A. Valentine
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clothes back on and head out the door. The male nurse’s gaze meets mine as he sits at the desk, my things spread out in front of him. I don’t care who you are, when someone else goes through your personal belongings, it ruffles your feathers.
I cross my arms across my chest and do my best not to rip into the guy for what I’m sure is just his job.
Dr. Shepherd clears his throat. “As you can see, Mr. Douglas, we’ve searched your things thoroughly, and we’ve recovered several items of contraband.” He gestures to the four baggies sitting in front of my clothes. “Two bags of an unknown white powdered substance, one baggie of some sort of dried herb that appears to be THC, accompanied by several rolling papers, and one baggie of pills that looks to be benzodiazepines. As discussed, we will be disposing of these items in your presence before we clear you into the facility.”
Timothy rises, his at least six-foot-five frame towering over me, and he gathers the baggies. I could tell them no—hell fucking no—but know that I can’t. No sense in me getting all testy in a situation I know I can’t change.
I sigh. “Lead the way.”
I follow Timothy and Dr. Shepherd into a restroom behind the desk, watching helplessly as everything I need to make my time here sustainable swirls around in the toilet before being sucked down the drain.
After the empty baggies are discarded, I follow the two men out of the bathroom. Timothy sits back down and begins doing paperwork. The guy hasn’t said one word to me since I got here, which is completely fucking odd and doesn’t make me feel comfortable around him, but I’m grateful that I’ve only got one of them firing questions at me.
Dr. Shepherd folds my file and lays it on the desk. “Anything else you have on you that we didn’t find? Now’s the time to come clean without any judgment.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, everything I brought with me was either taped inside the guitar, which you obviously found, or in the duffel bag.”
“Good. We really want to focus on the twelve steps of recovery with you, Mr. Douglas. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve already started the program by completing the first three steps in order to get here—acknowledging your addiction and deciding to change, exploring your rehab treatment options, and finding the support that you need.”
I furrow my brow. “But I didn’t pick this place. My brother did.”
He nods. “Yes, but it was ultimately your choice to come here. Knowing your brother will support you helped make you comfortable, I’m sure.”
“I guess, but Doc, I have to be honest with you—I really don’t have a problem. I like to party, but that’s nowhere near having an addiction issue. I’m only here to keep my spot in the band,” I tell him.
He raises one eyebrow. “Noted, but I hope you are here to take a hard, honest look at your life and the direction it’s going. We can only help you as much as you’ll allow us.”
His words play over in my mind. While I know what he’s getting at, he doesn’t get that, unlike most people that waft through his door, I don’t have a problem. I’m not an idiot, and I sure as fuck am not in denial about the shit I do.
After a short pause with no words passing between us, the doctor requests that Timothy show me to my room so I can settle in. I follow the nurse out the door, and we head back up toward the house carrying my duffel bag in my hand and my soft guitar case slung over my shoulder. One thing I will say for this place: it’s quiet. It reminds me a lot of the land I grew up on in Kentucky. Large hills covered in thick trees surround the open area where the main house sits, and small cabins spread out about fifty yards back from the main house.
I wonder for a split second who gets to stay in those before I ask, “Any chance of me getting a cabin?”
“No.” It’s a stern answer, given by a deep rumbling voice in such a way that I know there’s
I cross my arms across my chest and do my best not to rip into the guy for what I’m sure is just his job.
Dr. Shepherd clears his throat. “As you can see, Mr. Douglas, we’ve searched your things thoroughly, and we’ve recovered several items of contraband.” He gestures to the four baggies sitting in front of my clothes. “Two bags of an unknown white powdered substance, one baggie of some sort of dried herb that appears to be THC, accompanied by several rolling papers, and one baggie of pills that looks to be benzodiazepines. As discussed, we will be disposing of these items in your presence before we clear you into the facility.”
Timothy rises, his at least six-foot-five frame towering over me, and he gathers the baggies. I could tell them no—hell fucking no—but know that I can’t. No sense in me getting all testy in a situation I know I can’t change.
I sigh. “Lead the way.”
I follow Timothy and Dr. Shepherd into a restroom behind the desk, watching helplessly as everything I need to make my time here sustainable swirls around in the toilet before being sucked down the drain.
After the empty baggies are discarded, I follow the two men out of the bathroom. Timothy sits back down and begins doing paperwork. The guy hasn’t said one word to me since I got here, which is completely fucking odd and doesn’t make me feel comfortable around him, but I’m grateful that I’ve only got one of them firing questions at me.
Dr. Shepherd folds my file and lays it on the desk. “Anything else you have on you that we didn’t find? Now’s the time to come clean without any judgment.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, everything I brought with me was either taped inside the guitar, which you obviously found, or in the duffel bag.”
“Good. We really want to focus on the twelve steps of recovery with you, Mr. Douglas. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve already started the program by completing the first three steps in order to get here—acknowledging your addiction and deciding to change, exploring your rehab treatment options, and finding the support that you need.”
I furrow my brow. “But I didn’t pick this place. My brother did.”
He nods. “Yes, but it was ultimately your choice to come here. Knowing your brother will support you helped make you comfortable, I’m sure.”
“I guess, but Doc, I have to be honest with you—I really don’t have a problem. I like to party, but that’s nowhere near having an addiction issue. I’m only here to keep my spot in the band,” I tell him.
He raises one eyebrow. “Noted, but I hope you are here to take a hard, honest look at your life and the direction it’s going. We can only help you as much as you’ll allow us.”
His words play over in my mind. While I know what he’s getting at, he doesn’t get that, unlike most people that waft through his door, I don’t have a problem. I’m not an idiot, and I sure as fuck am not in denial about the shit I do.
After a short pause with no words passing between us, the doctor requests that Timothy show me to my room so I can settle in. I follow the nurse out the door, and we head back up toward the house carrying my duffel bag in my hand and my soft guitar case slung over my shoulder. One thing I will say for this place: it’s quiet. It reminds me a lot of the land I grew up on in Kentucky. Large hills covered in thick trees surround the open area where the main house sits, and small cabins spread out about fifty yards back from the main house.
I wonder for a split second who gets to stay in those before I ask, “Any chance of me getting a cabin?”
“No.” It’s a stern answer, given by a deep rumbling voice in such a way that I know there’s
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