Rock My Body (Black Falcon #4) (8 page)

I simply shrug my shoulders in defeat. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Very well.” He nods curtly before handing my stuff to the nurse. “Timothy, let’s get started. This way, Mr. Douglas.”

I follow behind the doctor and nurse as requested. We don’t immediately go into the house, though; we veer off the porch toward a small building that I didn’t notice. Tucked into the thick tree line, it’s white like the house, and appears to be a small cottage.

Dr. Shepherd steps up onto the stoop and pulls a ring of keys from his pants pocket, sorting through them before finding the one to unlock the building. The moment we step inside, it’s clear this is some sort of intake place to greet visitors, and most likely new enrollees. A small waiting room with four chairs faces the reception desk sitting in the middle of the room. Behind the desk is a small room that reminds me of a doctor’s office with an exam table sitting catty-corner in the space.

Dr. Shepherd pushes the exam room door open a little wider and gestures me through. “We need to conduct a full physical exam before we get you settled into your room. Timothy will remain out here to go through your things. I must make you aware that if we find any drug paraphernalia of any type we will dispose of it in your presence. These are not items we will return to you, even if you elect to withdraw yourself from the program, because they are illegal substances.”

I nod. “Understood.”

Oh shit, will that nurse get an eyeful when he goes through my stuff. There’s not a lot of product in there, but enough for emergencies if I needed it. Enough that the mere thought of flushing it makes me cringe.

“Coming?” The doctor’s words pull me out of my haze as I realize I’m just standing there staring at Timothy as he shoves his hands into a pair of gloves and then unzips my bag.

It’s too late now to stop what he’s going to find, so I might as well get this exam over with.

“Yeah.”

Dr. Shepherd wastes no time pulling a gown out of the cupboard and sets it on the exam table. “Strip down to your underwear and put on the gown.”

The doctor exits the room without any additional instructions. I scratch the back of my neck as I stare at the fabric lying in front of me. Is this really what I’ve been reduced to? A man whom others deem incapable of making sound judgments on his own? A man forced to get full-body exams because people feel that he has an addiction issue? I don’t fucking think so, but I’ll go along with it just to secure my spot in the band.

I love that band. It’s my life, and I’d do anything for it.

A couple of quick raps hit the door and then Dr. Shepherd pushes in. He doesn’t meet my stare, only keeps his head down and continues to jot notes on what I assume is my chart.

“You had quite the supply in your duffel bag
and
guitar case.” It’s clearly not a question but a statement of the obvious.

What’s really left to say after that?

I shrug. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I like to be prepared.”

He glances up at me with a raised eyebrow and a semi-amused expression. “A sense of humor is a good thing to have. It’s important to keep that because what you’re about to go through will not be easy. It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life, but once it’s over, you’ll feel like a new man. I promise you that.”

I sigh. “I’m sure this is absolutely the most difficult thing in the world for someone who has an actual problem, but Doc, I’m not one of those people. I can quit anytime I want to. I use it to have fun. It’s not an addiction.”

Dr. Shepherd leans against the counter across from me and crosses his arms over my file. “Tyke, almost every single person who comes into this exam room for the very first time says the exact same thing. Admitting you have an addiction and deciding to make a change is the first step to recovery.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll breeze through this program. You’ll see,” I tell him with complete confidence. “While I’ll admit that my body has become dependent on a few things I use regularly, I don’t admit to having a problem.”

He tilts his head. “Then why did you agree to come to treatment?”

“My band,” I answer honestly. “They really didn’t leave me much choice. If I didn’t come here, they voted to throw me out, and I can’t let that happen. Black Falcon means everything to me.”

“I see.” He jots a couple more things down in the chart. “Well, while you are here, Mr. Douglas, I hope that you use the time wisely, and open yourself up to the possibility that you may actually have a problem severe enough for your brother to reach out to us. He’s worried about you, about losing you, and he feared he didn’t have what it takes to help you because nothing he’s done over the last year has succeeded. While I can’t make you see the issues at hand and want to get better—that part is totally up to you—I can give you the tools and the support to begin your recovery.”

He sets the chart down on the counter and washes his hands. “I’m just going to do a standard exam and go over your medical history. We’ll discuss where you’re getting your benzodiazepine supply. After that, you’ll get dressed, collect your belongings, and Timothy will help you get settled into your room.”

After about fifteen minutes of being thoroughly violated, consenting to STD testing, and witnessing a pat down of all my clothing, I’m left alone in the room to get dressed again. I quickly throw my 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 no chance I’m finagling it into a yes. So, I don’t even bother trying.

This place is going to suck so badly.

The moment we step up on the porch, the front door opens, and the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen steps through it. Her eyes are so blue they remind me of a crisp summer sky, and I can’t tear my gaze away. Her jet-black hair only accentuates the heavenly color of her eyes, while her curvaceous body causes me to lick my lips. She’s like the perfect mix of heaven and hell—angel and sinner rolled into one.

The musical laughter coming from her has my eyes drifting to her full, pouty mouth. What I wouldn’t give for one night with her. The things I could do to her to make her scream my name from that mouth. I could throw her my best pick-up line to try to make that happen, but I fight the urge. This is neither the time nor the place to pick up a woman.

The moment her gaze lands on me, I lose my breath. Every fiber within me halts, and I am fixated, unable to move away from her. Her lips curve into a natural smile as her eyes give me a quick once-over.

Holy fuck. Being here might not be so damn bad after all.

The vixen extends her hand. “You must be Mr. Douglas. I’m Dr. Mead.”

I raise my eyebrows, and my eyes widen as I take her hand in mine, feeling the smoothness of her skin. “You’re a doctor?”

Her cheeks redden, making her even more fucking attractive. “I’m an addiction therapist.”

I bite the corner of my lip and allow my eyes to wander down her body, not making any attempt to hide the fact that I like what I see as I study the way her sundress molds to her. “I’ll definitely be looking forward to my treatment now.”

She shakes her head while rolling those magnetic eyes of hers, doing her best to pretend to be annoyed by my comment, but I know she’s full of shit—her continual blush is giving her away. “I’ll see you in group, Mr. Douglas.”

I turn and watch her saunter away, enjoying the view of her hips swishing from side to side as she heads off the porch toward one of the cottages.

She likes me hitting on her. I know it.

“Come on, Romeo,” Timothy says next to me, causing me to chuckle.

“That’s the first complete sentence you’ve said to me since I got here. I was beginning to think you were mute,” I tease, but my eyes remain glued to the hot little doctor’s ass.

“You’ve got other things to focus on,” Timothy says as he opens the front door. “What you’ve got to go through the next couple of days won’t be pretty, and I doubt hitting on the woman who is here to help you through it is the best idea.”

Reluctantly, I pull my gaze away from the woman and pat Timothy on the shoulder as I pass by him to get inside. “I told you guys. I don’t have a problem.”

He shakes his head, leading me up the stairs. “Remember that when you’re detoxing so I don’t have to remind you that an addiction is what’s made you feel so bad.”

Once we get to the top, he points to the hallway to the left of the stairs. “Women’s quarters. That’s off-limits to you.” He gives me a stern look, and I raise my hands in surrender. “The right is men only. You’re the second door down that hall, on the left. Go unpack and then come down and find me, and I’ll give you the tour of the grounds.”

I adjust the strap on my shoulder. “Will do.”

When Timothy turns and heads back down the stairs, I have the sudden urge to salute him like he’s a fucking drill sergeant. That guy is definitely no fun.

I push open the door to my room and quickly discover that I have no way to lock it behind me.

Talk about no fucking privacy.

The room is a hell of a lot smaller than I’m used to, a twin bed and small dresser with a television on top of it taking up most of the space. A tiny closet just deep enough to hang my clothes in faces the foot of the bed. Most hotel rooms I’ve stayed in lately are mansions compared to this place.

I lean my baby against the empty corner and then plop down on my bed. I scrub my hands over my face, and all I can think about is what I wouldn’t give for some weed to help take the edge off this situation. It’s been the only thing that’s kept my nerves calm over the last few years, since we started making music full time. People always believe being a rock star is so easy, but they have no clue just how much work goes into coming up with new material, doing appearances, and dealing with all the bullshit tasks the label makes us do. When all that piles up on a band that has the kind of turmoil we do, it’s enough to put anyone on fucking edge—which is why I don’t see why me dabbling a little hurts. I do it to stay mellow. The guys just don’t fucking get it.

I lie back on the bed and shut my eyes, suddenly tired and annoyed with the entire situation. What in the hell am I doing here? This kind of place isn’t for a guy like me.

Just as I’m about to fall asleep, someone begins to pound on my door. “Downstairs for dinner, Mr. Douglas.”

I sigh deeply. I knew that guy was going to be a pain in my ass.