Read Online Summer (Four Seasons #2) by Frankie Rose - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frankie Rose
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“You ladies here for the N.A. meeting?”
It dawns on me; I can’t say I’m addicted to sex toys. Seabrook House might well cater for that particular addiction, however this session is specifically for drug addiction. Morgan turns toward me, handing me the pen as she answers him.
“We are. You can cue the music. We brought the party with us.”
The man smiles and shakes his head before moving back and holding the door open. I sign in as a guest—it costs a fortune to actually receive treatment here—and then I follow Morgan into the room beyond.
“You gonna do it?” Morgan hisses at me.
“Do what?”
“The sex toy thing.”
“I can’t! These people are here to talk about drugs, not fake dicks. My pretend illness will not be solved in here.”
“Chicken shit.” Morgan bites back a smile. As she looks around the room, her eyes glaze over, as though she’s not really seeing what’s in front of her. There are only three guys in the circle with us, and all very much look the part. One, a Hispanic guy, his hair matted to his head, has his eyes closed as if he’s sleeping. The other two are pale like ghosts. One fidgets like crazy, his nervousness infecting the atmosphere in the room. The other is staring me down like I might be his long-lost love.
It’s probably better that I just look at my hands, so I do. The guy who asked us if we were here for the meeting joins us and sits down. He introduces himself as Samuel. “Good to see you guys this morning,” he says. “I see three familiar faces and a new one.” He grins at me broadly. “Would you like to introduce yourself, young lady, and tell us why you’re here?”
I shift awkwardly. I should have known I wasn’t just going to be able to sit here and go unnoticed. “My name is Avery. I’m just here to support Morgan.” The twitchy guy across the other side of the circle rolls his eyes, like my very existence is pathetic to him.
Samuel smiles warmly at me, nodding his head. “Well, it’s lovely that Morgan has such a loyal friend to stand by her. You’re welcome here either way, Avery.”
I thank him, but I’m suddenly very distracted. My cellphone is ringing. I put it on silent before we came inside, but I can feel it vibrating against my leg now. It never rings. I hardly ever receive texts, and when I do, I’m hit with this insane wave of hope. Hope that it will be Luke, even though it never is.
I try and sit out the rest of the session, listening to the others speak when they choose to, trying to ignore Morgan’s scathing or sarcastic responses to the questions that Samuel asks, but eventually my curiosity gets the better of me. I shift to the edge of my seat, unsure of how I’m supposed to excuse myself without appearing rude. Samuel must catch the awkward look on my face.
“The bathrooms are just across the hall, honey,” he says. I don’t bother to correct him; it’s actually a very convenient excuse. I move silently out of the room, sliding my phone from my jeans pocket as I go. My heart plummets through the pit of my stomach when I see the missed call I received wasn’t from Luke. Far, far worse. It was from my mother. She’s sent a message through, too.
Avery, dinner at the brownstone tomorrow night. Arrive at seven o’clock sharp. If you need a ride, book a car service on my account. ~Amanda
Amanda . That my mother prefers for me to address her by her first name still sticks in my throat. The woman treats me like a shameful secret. She throws money at me every month, making sure I want for nothing, and then expects me to steer clear of her entirely. Not that I’ve particularly wanted to see her, of course. The last time I sought her out of my own accord, I found her kissing another woman in the street. Could I care less if my mother is a lesbian? Definitely not. Love is love, regardless of the gender of the people who experience it. Did I mind that she’d chosen not to tell me that
It dawns on me; I can’t say I’m addicted to sex toys. Seabrook House might well cater for that particular addiction, however this session is specifically for drug addiction. Morgan turns toward me, handing me the pen as she answers him.
“We are. You can cue the music. We brought the party with us.”
The man smiles and shakes his head before moving back and holding the door open. I sign in as a guest—it costs a fortune to actually receive treatment here—and then I follow Morgan into the room beyond.
“You gonna do it?” Morgan hisses at me.
“Do what?”
“The sex toy thing.”
“I can’t! These people are here to talk about drugs, not fake dicks. My pretend illness will not be solved in here.”
“Chicken shit.” Morgan bites back a smile. As she looks around the room, her eyes glaze over, as though she’s not really seeing what’s in front of her. There are only three guys in the circle with us, and all very much look the part. One, a Hispanic guy, his hair matted to his head, has his eyes closed as if he’s sleeping. The other two are pale like ghosts. One fidgets like crazy, his nervousness infecting the atmosphere in the room. The other is staring me down like I might be his long-lost love.
It’s probably better that I just look at my hands, so I do. The guy who asked us if we were here for the meeting joins us and sits down. He introduces himself as Samuel. “Good to see you guys this morning,” he says. “I see three familiar faces and a new one.” He grins at me broadly. “Would you like to introduce yourself, young lady, and tell us why you’re here?”
I shift awkwardly. I should have known I wasn’t just going to be able to sit here and go unnoticed. “My name is Avery. I’m just here to support Morgan.” The twitchy guy across the other side of the circle rolls his eyes, like my very existence is pathetic to him.
Samuel smiles warmly at me, nodding his head. “Well, it’s lovely that Morgan has such a loyal friend to stand by her. You’re welcome here either way, Avery.”
I thank him, but I’m suddenly very distracted. My cellphone is ringing. I put it on silent before we came inside, but I can feel it vibrating against my leg now. It never rings. I hardly ever receive texts, and when I do, I’m hit with this insane wave of hope. Hope that it will be Luke, even though it never is.
I try and sit out the rest of the session, listening to the others speak when they choose to, trying to ignore Morgan’s scathing or sarcastic responses to the questions that Samuel asks, but eventually my curiosity gets the better of me. I shift to the edge of my seat, unsure of how I’m supposed to excuse myself without appearing rude. Samuel must catch the awkward look on my face.
“The bathrooms are just across the hall, honey,” he says. I don’t bother to correct him; it’s actually a very convenient excuse. I move silently out of the room, sliding my phone from my jeans pocket as I go. My heart plummets through the pit of my stomach when I see the missed call I received wasn’t from Luke. Far, far worse. It was from my mother. She’s sent a message through, too.
Avery, dinner at the brownstone tomorrow night. Arrive at seven o’clock sharp. If you need a ride, book a car service on my account. ~Amanda
Amanda . That my mother prefers for me to address her by her first name still sticks in my throat. The woman treats me like a shameful secret. She throws money at me every month, making sure I want for nothing, and then expects me to steer clear of her entirely. Not that I’ve particularly wanted to see her, of course. The last time I sought her out of my own accord, I found her kissing another woman in the street. Could I care less if my mother is a lesbian? Definitely not. Love is love, regardless of the gender of the people who experience it. Did I mind that she’d chosen not to tell me that
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