“Good morning, everyone.” Dr. Rosenberg is always chipper. I haven’t seen her have a bad day yet, even when I’m being an epic shit. It’s been a week since I arrived and had the worst paranoid episode that I ever hope to experience. That alone is enough to make me stop snorting coke, except the urge is still there. It’s especially there at six in the morning when the bell sounds and we have to get up to start our day. Everything here works because of the mix of structure and freedom.
Everyone has chores, and with those chores comes the expectation that you do them well. If a task takes you all day, so be it, but it gets done before lights-out. You’re never doing the same chore back to back. One day you could be sweeping the offices, which has been my favorite so far because that’s when I get to spend all day with Kim. Or you could be cleaning the horse stalls, which is what I’m doing later today. The hard labor is supposed to keep your mind focused. Being in the office with Kim kept me focused, though. It kept me focused on her lips as she spoke on the phone and I imagined them wrapped around my dick. Of course, my mind never wandered to places obscene when she’d bend over and her ass would stick out, inviting me to step in behind her and rub my ever-growing hard-on against the swell of her ass. And I never once thought about what it’d be like to take her up against the wall in the supply closet or what it’d be like to hear her call out my name.
I never said I wasn’t a liar either.
For the most part she’s ignored me, but I watch her like a stalker because I can’t get enough of her. I have yet to pinpoint what it is about her that draws me to her. I keep trying, but the answer seems to be blocked. I find everything she does sexy, and I ask myself why her and not any of the other women I’ve been with. What is it about Kimberly Gordon that gets the blood flowing through my veins and has me always thinking about her?
It can’t be because I’m stuck in here. There are plenty of women who would be willing to grab a quick fuck in the bathroom if that’s what I was looking for, but it’s not. She’s got a grip that isn’t wavering, and for the life of me I can’t seem to let go either.
“Morning,” the other ten people in my group say, shaking me from my thoughts. In the week I’ve been here I have yet to meet anyone else. Sure, I talk to people when they say hi, but as far as names go, I haven’t introduced myself. I don’t want to. I’m here to get clean and return to my life. I’m not here to care about others or worry about how they’re doing once I leave Serenity Springs. My life on the outside is so different from theirs, and we don’t fit into each other’s worlds. I know I sound conceited, but it’s the way it is. My parents would flip if I brought home someone from here: “Hey, Mom and Dad, meet my friend Charlie from rehab.”
Yeah, something like that wouldn’t go over well. But how would they feel about Kim if I brought her home? What would my mom say if I introduced her to the one reason I’m finding to stay clean?
Today we’re meeting outside. The setup is nice, if a bit hippie-ish. There’s a small circle with large pillows that we sit on. Dr. Rosenberg is one with nature and likes to sit by campfires singing “Kumbaya.” I suppose there isn’t anything wrong with that, except I’ve never been camping.
And I truly hate being in group therapy. People stare. They gawk, point, and whisper. I want to stand up and ask them what the fuck their problem is, but that would mean I care and I don’t, or at least I’m not supposed to. They know who I am and they’re all realizing I’m human just like they are. Humans fuck up, even famous ones. Some worse than others.
“Today we’re going to talk about self-worth and what that means to you,” Dr. Rosenberg says, earning a few grumbles. It’s hard to have any self-worth when you’re in rehab for drug use. I mean, you aren’t thinking about yourself or what others think of you when you shoot up or snort the lines; all you think about is the feeling you experience after the act is done. In hindsight, the feeling is brief, and given how much pain it causes, is it really worth it? Unfortunately, the answer for me is still yes. I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself. My friends didn’t suffer; in fact, they benefited. I never let them down. I was never late. I performed, and probably better than I can when I’m sober. If I can do all that while high, why am I here? And what happens when I’m out and I’m back to being the mediocre person I was before I started using? What happens when the exhaustion sets in and the cravings are there? Am I supposed to sit down and meditate, seeking an answer that is never going to come?
“Bodhi, do you wish to share today?”
I shake my head, much like I always do during the group sessions. I don’t know these people, and sharing my life and secrets with them isn’t why I’m here. Who’s to say that whatever I say in here won’t make the tabloids when they get out? No one. I didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement when I got here, which probably means that they didn’t sign one either, so there is nothing keeping them from selling my story to the press. No thanks—I’ll keep my mouth shut.
The others share, though, and I’m supposed to find it therapeutic. I’m supposed to find some relatable instance that we both have in common. I think there needs to be a rehab for celebrities only; then we can share in group sessions.
“It’s important when you leave here that you surround yourself with good people,” Dr. Rosenberg says. “You want to avoid the triggers that were in place.”
“What are the triggers?” I ask, speaking out for the first time. “How do we know what to look for?”
“Well, people are your first trigger,” she says.
“So I’m supposed to tell my friends that I can’t hang out with them anymore because they might be a trigger?”
“In some cases, yes. Were they there when you decided to make a life-changing decision?” She looks around at all of us when she asks that question.
Aspen was there with the coke when I complained. She was there every single time I needed it. Is she my trigger?
“Do you remember the first time you needed more? Your addiction started long before then; you just didn’t recognize it. Whether it was your first drink or the first time you got high, or even your second, what was the trigger or the moment that caused you to commit the act? If you can find it, that’s what you need to remove from your life.”
Was Aspen my trigger? Or was it the demands placed on me by Rebel? It’s easy to blame Aspen because she supplied me with what I needed to get high, but why was I so easy to control after that?
Maybe the first time wasn’t my trigger. I can’t even say it was the second, but the third time—definitely. My triggers are simple: time, demands, exhaustion, and the fact that what I needed to achieve success was readily available. So what do I eliminate? What do I give up in order to stay clean?
Dr. Rosenberg studies me for a reaction. I have to look away because I’m not answering any of her questions. She’ll ask me again in individual therapy later, and that’s fine.
The lady next to me, Susan, who I’ve learned is married with two children, was hooked on meth. She’s been here for two months now and has just announced that her husband is her trigger.
“I struggled with losing weight after our second child,” she tells us, already wiping away tears. “I tried everything. Every fad diet I could find, I did it. Sometimes they’d be successful, but the holidays would come around and I’d eat. I didn’t want to pass up eating a piece of birthday cake, or having pie after Thanksgiving dinner. Once I did that, I always said I’d start over on Monday. Well, Monday came and so did the following Monday, and I was still eating, gaining everything back that I had lost. My husband started calling me ‘fat,’ ‘plump,’ ‘a little juicy around the sides.’ When I’d tell him that he was hurting my feelings, he’d laugh it off and say he meant it in a loving manner, but there was no love behind those words. He stopped touching me and wouldn’t go out on our dates anymore. So one day I looked up how to lose weight quickly and there it was. At first I used the pills that contained methamphetamine and saw the pounds coming off. I wasn’t hungry and I had energy to clean my house and go to the gym. When the pills weren’t enough, I started smoking it. There was a guy who hung out at the gym who had a suitcase of whatever diet supplement you wanted, so I bought from him.
“And one day I didn’t wake up on time. My kids freaked out and called their dad, who came home from work. By then I was awake and World War Three was breaking out in my house because my children were late for school and he had to leave work because they were scared and the only thing I cared about was going to the gym so I could get high.”
She wipes away her tears and inhales. “He took the kids to school that day and I went to the gym. On my way home I was in a car accident. I was so high that I was driving down the wrong side of the road. I ended up spending ninety days in jail because my husband wouldn’t post my bond and my parents had sold their house so they didn’t have any assets. I’ve been here for sixty days, and when you add that up, I haven’t seen my kids in over five months.”
When she tells her story it makes mine look like a cakewalk. I didn’t lose anyone. My parents will still be there as long as I stay clean. She’s lost her family, all because her husband is a piece of shit and can’t accept her for who she is on the inside. He was too worried about the part that doesn’t matter—looks. My dad has always said my mother is the most beautiful woman he has ever met and says that her beauty runs deep inside her. He calls other women pretty, but my mom has always been beautiful.
Dr. Rosenberg lets us know that group therapy for today is over. It ends on a somber note, leaving me uneasy. I don’t think that Dr. Rosenberg was prepared for that story today, and neither was I. From what I can tell, the woman speaking is like me, normally quiet and reserved. I’ve seen her a couple of times while I’ve been out walking—she was just sitting in a chair looking at the pond. I can’t begin to imagine how alone she must feel.
Today I’m cleaning the horse stalls. I have never done hard labor a day in my life. Sweeping floors or vacuuming, yeah, I’ve done those, especially when I had to clean up a mess I didn’t want anyone to know about, but this is something entirely new.
I have a pitchfork in my hand and a wheelbarrow by my side. When they were handed to me, the guy laughed, knowing full well I don’t have a clue as to what I’m doing or what this tool even is. I do remember, from elementary school, what they’re called, though, so that’s a bonus point for me.
After a short lesson I’m staring at the task in front of me—cleaning up the manure. Clad in jeans, rubber boots, a T-shirt, and gloves, I walk into the stall, much to the amusement of the horse in the next stall, and start cleaning. It takes me only a few minutes to get the hang of how to use a pitchfork, and honestly I find it therapeutic. Maybe this is why we have chores, because they’re some odd form of therapy. Once I have a stall clean and restocked with new hay, I go over to the next, moving a horse if I have to.
The horses here are gentle and fairly easy to manage. Susan from group therapy this morning comes in. We make eye contact briefly before she takes a horse out of the stall. According to Kimberly there’s a network of trails throughout the property that we can hike, walk, and even ride on if we choose. I have yet to do anything except go to my therapy sessions and work. I find that time in my room, alone, is what I need right now. Besides, I can’t imagine going on a horseback ride by myself.
A few others come in and take the horses out as I clean, and when the final stall is done, I sign out on the chore list and head back to the main house for a shower. I smell horrible, and between the stench of shit and sweat, I can’t stand to be around myself.
“Where ya running off to?” Kimberly’s voice stops me dead in my tracks. She’s wearing shorts today that show off her tan legs. Once again her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but she’s left a few pieces of hair out that frame her face. And her eyes are as blue as ever.
“I need a shower,” I tell her. “I worked the stalls today.” I’m sure she already knows this, but I feel the need to tell her anyway.
“Well, I thought maybe we could go for a ride. I could show you around some more of the property.”
“I need to shower,” I say again, stupidly. I chastise myself for saying something so dumb. I’d already told her I needed to shower, and since I reek, she probably didn’t need the reminder.
Kimberly laughs; it’s sweet and melodic. I want to hear it again, but I’m in no shape to make her laugh. There isn’t anything about me that’s funny.
“Hey, I have a better idea,” I blurt out, trying to hide my grin. I want her to think I’m serious with what I’m about to say.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Her tone is playful and gives me hope. And I need hope. Not to score with her, but to get through my days.
“You should join me in the shower.” I waggle my eyebrows at her and rub my hand over my abs, pushing up my shirt a little so she can see what’s underneath.
Kim shakes her head, but her smile tells me that she likes the idea. She covers her mouth to stifle a laugh, and I chuckle.
“Go shower and meet me in the barn. I’ll get the horses ready,” she says, waving me off. I stand there and watch as she heads up the hill toward the barn, hips swaying, and I wonder what they’d feel like under my hands. It’s just a fantasy, really. And when she turns around, I slowly pull off my shirt and show her exactly what she’s missing. With another shake of her head, she disappears from sight.
It’s funny to think she’s out of my league considering who I am, but she is. Women like her don’t have time for dumbasses like me, regardless of what our bank statements say. Besides, who the fuck hooks up with someone from rehab? Not someone like Kim. She could do so much better than someone like me.
I rush off to shower and change as quickly as I can, afraid she might change her mind if I take too long. Our showers are dormitory style, with a changing area adjacent to the shower. All our soap and shampoo is provided for us, and if you need to shave, you can request to use one of the electric razors they have on hand. Regular razors aren’t allowed because of the threat of suicide.
Once I’m showered and dressed, I find myself running back to the barn, hopeful that Kimberly is still there. When I spot her brushing one of the horses, I sigh in relief. I don’t know why I need to spend time with her, considering that every time I do I’m left with an ache in my groin, but I do. I need the torturous pain of blue balls to remind me about my fucked-up situation. If we were away from here, I’d be done chasing her. I don’t spend too much energy trying to get a chick, which is probably one of my many problems in life, but she’s different. She’s like my fucking reward for being a good boy, even when I want to be so fucking bad when I’m around her.
“Have you ridden before?” she asks as I approach her.
“I used to, when I was kid. My parents had a country house and we’d go there for holidays and vacations, but their careers soared, the house was sold, and vacations were spent on yachts and in ritzy hotels instead.”
“Sounds like a tough life.”
“It was,” I say, sounding ungrateful. She looks at me oddly, and I shrug. “When you’re a kid, you want friends. You want to run outside, play baseball, and chase girls. I always had nannies, and the cameras followed my mother everywhere, so being dirty was never an option.”
I refuse to look at her and see the pity etched on her face. She’s far too pretty to bestow pity on someone like me. I check the saddle on the horse I’m going to ride and walk him out of the barn. Once there, I mount him as if it’s second nature. It’s been years, too many to count, since I’ve been on a horse, and I remember only a few things.
Kimberly doesn’t say anything as she mounts her horse and brings him to a halt next to me. I have a feeling that she’s looking at me, but I’m staring straight ahead. I don’t want to talk about my childhood or hear about the things I missed because my parents were too busy. I may not have grown up normal, but I did things. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve met important people who have defined our world. I’ve done things that most people only dream about. So what if I missed things?
She takes the lead and I follow. We’re going slowly, which is perfect for me. The last thing I want to do is fall off the horse. Besides, the scenery needs to be admired. Through the trees I see fields of wildflowers. On the trails there are animal tracks that Kimberly is pointing out. She tells me about the land and how her father acquired it for his dream of helping others.
“Where’s your mom?” I ask, being nosy.
“She lives in the city. They divorced a few years after Serenity Springs opened. My dad is so dedicated to his work that she felt he abandoned her, so she filed for divorce.”
“That must’ve been hard on you.”
If she’s annoyed, she doesn’t say anything. “It was, but I dealt with it. I’d spend my weekdays with her while I was in school and my weekends here. Holidays were the worst, though, but we managed. Now that I work and live here, I see her on the weekends and she occasionally comes up to see me.”
“You live here too?” I don’t know why the thought of her living here surprises me. I guess I thought she had a normal life away from all of this.
She turns and looks at me over her shoulder, showing me that she’s without a doubt the most positive person I have ever met.
“I do, along with my dad and most of the staff. We have staff housing on the other side of the ranch. My dad provides housing for those who need it. Some of the employees that you’ve met are former patients as well. I’d say about half live on the grounds, some with families as well.”
“That’s pretty nice of your father.”
“He’s doing what he thinks is best.”
We come to another clearing, this one with a pond. She dismounts and takes her horse down to the pond to drink. I do the same, petting him while he hydrates.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks.
I shrug, not sure how I feel aside from being worthless and stupid. “It’s hard to say.”
“What about the craving? Is it gone?”
I’m afraid to look at her, fearful that she won’t like my answer. Hell, I hate my answer. I can honestly say that if there was a bump sitting out in front of me, I’d take it just so I could feel that high one more time. Instead of answering, I shake my head and look down at the ground.
“It’ll get better,” she says soothingly.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’ll find the one thing that replaces that high. It’s different for everyone. If we knew what it was, we’d bottle it and sell it, but we can’t. Each person has to dig deep in self-discovery and hold on to the one thing that gives them hope and gives them the rush they need to get through the day.”
“What if I think I found it? The one thing that will replace the high that I’m craving?” I step around my horse and come face-to-face with her. The sunlight kisses her, making her eyes sparkle. They’re as blue as mine, but different. What I see in hers gives me hope that I can be a better person.
“Then you need to do what you can to hold on to whatever it is that you found.”
I step a little closer, trying to quell my dirty thoughts. With the amount of privacy we have out here it’d be so easy to fuck in the grass or up against the tree. She’d be able to scream out my name as I make her come all over my dick and no one would be able to hear her. That right there would be my high. The exhilaration alone would be enough to sustain me.
“You sound like Dr. Rosenberg,” I say, trying to change the subject before I do something both of us will regret.
“Oh, I don’t think I’m that bad, Bodhi. I want you to succeed. Maybe it’s because you have such a promising future—I’ll get some small gratification from knowing that your success is well earned. You’re not going to fail as long as I’m your friend.”
“You want to sit in the crowd while I’m up onstage and know that you had a hand in my being there?” I step a bit closer to her, and her chest heaves. She can step back, but she doesn’t. Kimberly licks her lips and meets my gaze.
“I’m not much of a concertgoer.”
“So the idea of watching me onstage seduce the women who fantasize about me isn’t something you want to see? Or do you want something in private? Do you want your own show, Kimberly?”
She shakes her head slowly, breaking our connection. Gently I pull her chin toward me so I can see her eyes. Her cheeks flush from my simple touch, causing a stirring in my groin.
“Yes and no,” she whispers among the trees, horses, and other wildlife.
“Which is it, Kimberly? Do you want to see me onstage or would you like a private show?”
“It’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask as my fingers move down her neck. The attraction two people feel toward each other is never wrong, unless one or both of them are married to other people.
“This…the touching. The way I feel. I know better.”
“Do you want me to stop touching?” My hand ghosts over her exposed skin from her neck to her shoulder and along her collarbone. Feather-light touches meant to entice.
“I’m not sure anymore.”
“Of what?”
“Of anything.” Her chest heaves as she says that.
My hand grazes her side, and as if that is her trigger, she launches herself into my arms. I stumble before righting us, careful not to drop her. Her tongue pushes into my mouth as her arms wrap around my neck and her fingers weave into my hair. Finally, after a week of watching her shake her fucking ass in my face, my hands are gripping it and pulling her to me. I open my eyes briefly to check my surroundings and find a tree a few steps away. That is where I take her, and we swap fluids.
With one hand holding onto the branch slightly above, I push her into the tree. She arches her back, grinding herself against me. I’m fucking hard and loving every minute of this little vixen’s attempt at getting off.
“Fuck, I want to touch you,” I say against the hollows of her neck. She nods, whimpering as I bite along her collarbone.
Letting go of the branch, my hand slides easily into her ridiculous excuse for shorts until I’m touching a flimsy piece of cloth covering her already wet pussy.
“I bet you taste fucking divine,” I tell her as my knuckle swipes along her core. She bucks, showing me what she wants. “Look at me, Kimberly. I want to see your face when my fingers push into your cunt.”
She does, and my cock screams, begging to be freed from the confines of my shorts. First one, than two fingers enter, and her eyes roll back. I pump my hand and try to maneuver so my thumb can go to work on her clit, but I’m unable to unless I want to move to one side, and I don’t because the pressure from her rubbing up and down my body is giving me the biggest high ever. I never realized sex could be a drug.
I speed up, watching her face morph into bliss. Her fingers dig into my skin and her mouth falls open, inviting me in. I slam my mouth down on hers, taking her moans deep into the recesses of my soul. It’s a fucking thrill, knowing I’m making her feel this way.
She bucks her hips and starts fucking my hand. I look down where my hand disappears into her shorts and feel my cock get even harder. Watching her get herself off is the single fucking sexiest thing I have ever witnessed.
“Look at you fuck my hand,” I say. “Don’t you wish it were my dick?”
“Yes. Oh God, yes,” she says, going faster. Her head pushes back against the tree as her back arches. The tightening of her pussy around my fingers is fucking amazing, and I can only imagine how my cock is going to feel when it’s finally surrounded by her walls. I give her a few more finger thrusts before she stops pulsing, her breathing labored and her eyes hooded with lust. I kiss her deeply as I pull my hand out, and I make her watch as I lick my fingers, sucking each and every one of them clean.
I set her down gently; her legs wobble, and I smile within, knowing that I did that to her. Her hand reaches for the button on my shorts, but I stop her before she can get it undone because all I can see is Aspen and the way she looked at me the night that everything changed. And as much as I want to watch Kim suck my dick, I don’t want her to think that was why I just got her off. Fuck, I hate sounding like a pussy.
“I want a turn,” she says, her eyes finding mine. Oh, how I want to watch my dick move in and out of her mouth, but I can’t. The last image I have of getting a blow job is with Aspen, and I shouldn’t be thinking about her right now. It’s not fair to Kim.
Instead I do something I never thought I’d do in front of another person, let alone someone who I enjoy spending time with. I step back, undo my pants, and reach into my boxers to pull my dick out. Her eyes widen and I swear to God she licks her fucking lips, but that’s not enough to make me change my mind. I stroke myself once, stop briefly to spread my pre-cum around as some lubrication, then continue to move my hand up and down my shaft without taking my eyes off Kimberly. Each motion brings me closer to the edge, closer to blowing my wad in front of this woman. I want to know what she’s thinking. Does she think I’m weird? Probably so, but it’s the heat of the moment and nothing can change what we’ve done out here, away from everyone else.
I grunt as my release builds, my hand going faster. A small whimper escapes as I jerk out into the open, away from her. I bend over and let my seed squirt to the ground, away from my clothing. I’m unable to look at her, fearful of what her reaction might be. Once I’m tucked away, I seek her out, but her expression is unreadable. She stops in front of me, careful to walk around the puddle of cum on the ground. She touches my arm gently, but the rest of her is standoffish. As I reach for her she steps away.
“We should go,” she says, heading toward her horse. I don’t know what happened, but I can’t imagine she’s pissed that I didn’t let her give me a blow job. Aren’t most women happy when they aren’t on their knees sucking dick?
With what little self-esteem I have left, I mount my horse and fall in line behind her on the trail. Even with her riding her horse, her ass still sways, mocking me.