HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (110 page)

Another inmate stood, Karla’s finger like a magnet drawing metal up and out of those chairs.

“Three. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.”

I’d known religious people in my time, though none of them frequented the nightclub. It confused and concerned me that anyone would turn their lives over to the idea of a higher power or idea of one. How else could we be responsible for our own lives? It seemed much too easy to let some God take care of us.

“Four. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”

Moral inventory? That sounded painful—and time consuming. I wasn’t sure I’d like what I found if I ever tried to make one.

“Five. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.”

The justice system was convinced that I had done wrong, and the prison system was worried that I was on a fatal path. Why was it that I didn’t think I’d done a damn thing wrong? Sure, maybe I had a little too much to drink on some occasions. Maybe I couldn’t remember everything that had taken place on those nights. But I’d been a businesswoman, and a damn good one at that. I’d been there for girls who needed me. I’d built a thriving empire on nothing.

The nature of my wrongs? I was the one who’d been wronged by all of this.

“Six. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.”

Ready, nothing. I didn’t have any defects to remove. That was ludicrous. Plus, I wasn’t so sure there really was a God. This program wasn’t going to work for me. I could already tell.

“Seven. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.”

“Eight. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.”

That gave me pause. If the justice system had been correct in convicting me—and this was just a scenario I was playing around with in my head—then I’d wronged a lot of people. Dozens. If I had to make amends to all those people, I’d be working at it for years. I wondered if Marlee had contacted all of the boyfriends she’d screwed over. How many of them had there been? Dozens, like me? Was she still working through them?

“Nine. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”

I remembered that strange memory I’d had of the night that Cocoa left. I’d obviously been drinking that night, otherwise I’d have remembered something as big as that. Cocoa had been my right hand, after all, and losing her had been a blow. But were my memories of that night true? The gunshots, the screams, the crash of glass. If I’d injured Cocoa that night, would trying to make amends with her injure her any further?

“Ten. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.”

I wasn’t sure what to think anymore about all of this. I thought I’d understood what it was all about, thought I’d figured it out, but it kept making me think. Could it be possible that I was like the rest of these people? Was it possible that I actually belonged here?

“Eleven. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.”

It seemed like I was going to have to get up close and personal with the idea that there was a Higher Power or something. It was clear to me that the program hinged on this idea. Maybe, if I could convince myself to be open to the thought of God, it would provide me with greater clarity. Was I really an alcoholic? Did I really need help? Should I embark on this journey at all?

Marlee was the twelfth inmate selected. Her voice rang out clear and true, not hesitating in the slightest.

“Twelve. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.”

“Amen!”

Karla had said from the beginning that the only requirement to belong to this group was to want to stop drinking. That was a problem for me. I didn’t want to stop drinking. Even now, after listening to the twelve steps, I was craving nothing more than another taste of Willow’s hooch. I didn’t have any high hopes anymore for whiskey or any other liquor I’d had on the outside. I wanted hooch, plain and simple. It was attainable. I knew what I had to do to get it.

“We’re going to jump right into sharing,” Karla said. “I know it’s everyone’s favorite part.”

“Damn right.”

“Amen!”

I peered around, trying to spot the “amen” inmate. Was she really going to punctuate every statement with amen?

“Let me remind you that sharing can be no longer than five minutes,” Karla said. “Keep the focus on yourself, please. And please be respectful of your fellow alcoholics. Don’t interrupt during sharing. Now. Who’d like to begin?”

Nearly every single hand in the room shot up.

Why were people so eager to share? I could only assume that they were going to talk about their failings, talk about all the times they’d fucked up. Why did we have to witness that? Couldn’t we be content knowing that we’d fucked up ourselves? Why did everyone else have to know?

“Come on up,” Karla said, pointing at the GED inmate sitting beside me. She popped up, beaming as if she’d been chosen to get a prize.

“My name’s Desiree, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said, smiling as if it were some kind of good news.

“Hi, Desiree.”

“Hi,” she said again. “It’s exciting to share with someone new in the crowd.” She waved at me excitedly and I fought the urge to slump down into my seat.

“Alcohol is the reason I’m here in prison,” Desiree said. “I accept that. I realize that it was harming me more than I realized. I was a party girl. I loved all sorts of alcohol, but shots were my specialty. Tequila shots. Tequila shots were my downfall.”

Shit. The sweat prickled across my brow and I actually salivated at the thought of a tequila shot. There was such a ritual to it—licking your hand and sprinkling the salt on it, then licking your hand again. Expelling your breath and throwing the fiery liquor back, inhaling as you bit down on the lime. The acidity of the citrus cutting the curl of the alcohol in your stomach.

I would spread my legs for Tama right now, in front of all these people, if I could just have a shot of tequila. One. Fucking. Tequila. Shot.

“When I drank tequila, I felt invincible,” Desiree continued. “I felt like nothing could happen to me, that I could do whatever I wanted. One night, I nearly finished a whole bottle of tequila at the bar by myself. I knew the bartender—we fucked sometimes when I didn’t have the cash to pay. We called it my tab—just put it on my tab, Bob.”

There were some dry chuckles to that.

“He was awful,” Desiree added, her voice a little softer. “He was disgusting. He used me, and I let him. All for a drink.”

I stared forcefully ahead, aware that Marlee was looking at me. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that this shook me up. How could Desiree, a bright young girl, pretty as could be, sidle up next to someone disgusting? Was that really what I was willing to do, too? Was I looking at my future?

“That night that I’d had nearly all the tequila, Bob told me that I’d stay with him so I wouldn’t be out on the roads,” Desiree said. “We both agreed that I was too drunk to drive, but I didn’t want to stay at Bob’s. I had money that night, and I paid for every shot. I didn’t have a tab, but I knew he’d try to come collecting anyway. He’d force himself on me, and I knew I didn’t stand a chance—not with how drunk I was.

“So when he was cleaning up, counting the money in the register and stuff, I told him I was going outside for some fresh air, that I felt sick. He let me go because he didn’t want to clean up my puke right after he’d already mopped up the floor for the night, so it was easy enough to get to the car.”

Desiree gave a smile, but it wavered a little.

“Tequila made me invincible, remember?” she asked. “I’d agreed with Bob that I was too drunk to drive, but I told myself that I could do it. Never mind that I stumbled over my own two feet getting to my car. Never mind that I dropped my keys twice—twice—trying to even open the car door. Never mind that I hit my head getting in, shut my coat in the door, stalled the car out four times trying to get it started. Never mind that I sideswiped the entrance gate to the parking lot and scraped the whole side of my car, or that Bob came tumbling out of the bar, shaking his fist and screaming at me to stop, that I’d kill someone or myself.”

Desiree’s lips trembled. “I wish it had been me, sometimes,” she said. “Then I would’ve paid for my crimes. Not that nurse. Not her. I think about it all the time—how sleepy I was, how badly I wanted to be at home and in my own bed, how much farther I had to go. I must’ve passed out for a second, because all I saw was a pair of headlights, and I was bearing down on them. It was too late to try to swerve away. I hit the other car head on. She was a nurse. She helped people for a living. She was just trying to go home after finishing up on third shift at the hospital. She never made it. I kept her from it. The doctors at the hospital said it was a miracle that I didn’t die, too, but it didn’t feel like one. It still doesn’t.

“I killed that woman. I shouldn’t have been on the road that night. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I’m doing time now and facing my consequences. But I never want to drink again. It makes me sick when I get the urge to. Still, I’m six months sober. It’s helped me so much to be in prison, away from temptation. I’m happy that I’ve been sober, and I’m happy that I’ve found AA and the power to stop drinking. I just wish that it hadn’t taken an innocent life for me to see the errors of my ways.”

I could see even from my row, way in the back, that Desiree’s face shone with tears, but she smiled all the same as everyone applauded. What did she get from this? Why rehash her past over and over again? It was like never-ending punishment. When was there the chance to really move on?

“Thank you, Desiree,” Karla said, standing back up at the podium. “Now, who’s next?”

All of the inmates who spoke had different stories, but they were still all the same somehow. They were all addicted to alcohol, though every circumstance was different. All of them had had a formative moment when they wanted to stop drinking. I couldn’t quite relate. Worrisome things had happened to me—and I might very well have done even more heinous acts, if my foggy memories served me correctly—but I still didn’t want to stop drinking.

As pathetic as it sounded, alcohol had become a constant for me, especially in the last few years at the nightclub. Things were changing, girls who had always been there for the business and me were leaving, and the bottle was always there. It was always there, always available, always willing to comfort me. If I had a bad day, I forgot about my troubles in it. If I had a good day, I celebrated my successes in it. And if I had a mediocre day, I broke up the mediocrity with a few drinks.

Why would I forsake my friend? Nothing too terrible had happened, had it?

Still, watching the meeting progress was something of an eye opener. These women were letting it all hang out—every ugly detail. I felt like there was a lot of over-sharing going on, but perhaps that was the whole point. Get it all out there. Lay it all out on the table for everyone to see. Don’t worry about judgment, because everyone in this room has been there, right where you are, struggling to stay afloat in a terrible situation.

Maybe that was the secret behind this. It wasn’t a constant punishment, the wounds reopened every time you shared. The wounds were bandaged even tighter, new skin growing over them, becoming less painful and less noticeable every time they shared their story. Every time they shared, they cried out for help, and every time, there was a roomful of people ready to haul them up to the surface for air.

If what everyone was saying was true, more and more participants were learning how to tread water on their own, stay on the surface without sinking below it, drowning. They were all swimming in this together, trying to get past what had held them captive for so long.

“We have time for just one more share,” Karla said. “Remember, if you didn’t get a chance to share during this time, share with your sponsor or someone else in the group after this meeting is over. Marlee. Please come on up.”

Marlee rose gracefully from my side and made her way to the front of the room. As she passed the rows of inmates, some of them reached out and touched her hand or her arm, seeming to either pass strength on to her or borrow her strength for themselves. I wondered how many times Marlee had shared her story up at the podium, torn herself open, showed everyone her guts, and stuffed them back inside her body. How many more times would she do it? Would she ever stop?

“My name’s Marlee, and I’m an alcoholic,” she said, smiling grimly.

“Hi, Marlee.”

“I was sixteen years old when I went on a date with a boy I really liked,” she said. “I was nervous. I’d been on dates before, but none of them seemed to matter up until now. This one mattered. It mattered more than anything else.

“When he offered me alcohol to help take the edge off, to help me find my courage to kiss him, I took it,” she continued. “I’d never had a drink before, but I’d do anything to make this boy like me. He was older than I was, and I didn’t want to be the laughingstock of the school if anyone found out that I’d chickened out of making it with him. He was gorgeous—every girl wanted him. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the entire county.