Navy SEAL Bad Boy Page 8

  “Ok, then. Sleep well.”

  I hear the door swing shut and Holly lets out a deep breath. I wait before moving a muscle. I’m not sure if the staff has left or if she’s hovering outside Holly’s door.

  I hear Holly slide out of bed and make her way over to the closet. She pulls open the door with fear tattooed across her face. “That was close,” she hisses.

  It was. Too close. If I got caught in here, Holly and I would both be kicked out. That would mean the end of my career, the end of her treatment, but most importantly: the end of us.

  “You need to leave,” she looks up at me apologetically. My balls ache and, for a split second, I entertain the thought of getting caught and all that comes with it, if it means fucking her. Somehow I shake my head free from the thought.

  No. I’ll go back to my room and take care of myself. It’s not worth the price. Not when it could cost me her.

  I nod, and silently slip out of her room, down the hall, and back into my own bedroom. I can still taste her juices on my face, see her lips hovering over my cock, and feel her heat on my skin. I reach down under the blanket and take my dick in my hand. It’s not even close to being as good as it was with her, but it’ll have to do.

  16

  Holly

  “I can’t believe it’s already been a month,” Jake mumbles, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the parking lot. “We’re halfway through this,” he pries his eyes from the cars filling up the usually empty spaces, and glances over to me.

  “I know, it’s incredible,” I agree. I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face when I look at him. It’s automatic. I’ve never met someone who made me feel this happy.

  I’ll have to add it to the long list of things I’ve denied myself over the years. Happiness, sobriety, comfort, love. I guess I never thought I deserved any of it. I allowed a terrible mistake that took my sister’s life, to steal mine as well. I realize now, she wasn’t the only one who died that night. I may have still been walking and breathing, but I was only existing. A shell. My spirit left me that night along with hers. It’s only now, in this past month, that I’ve felt it return.

  “Do you see your parents yet?” Jake nods toward the groups of people exiting the multitude of vehicles outside.

  I scan the crowd, but don’t recognize anyone. “Nope, not yet.”

  Those of us who are at the midway point of treatment are getting a visit from our families today. Before this, we hadn’t had any contact with them. I guess the idea is that they want us to focus solely on ourselves and our recovery, not the possible baggage that many of us have with our loved ones.

  “I don’t see mine either,” Jake looks out the window quickly, as if to reconfirm what I just said.

  Butterflies erupt into chaos inside me as my eyes travel slowly down his face. His deep blue eyes that stop time and blur the world around us, his pale pink lips under his sexy brown beard. My mind flashes back to the night he snuck into my room. To how amazing his lips felt between my thighs. Heat flashes through me, flushing my cheeks, and I bite my bottom lip. That was the most amazing feeling I’ve ever experienced.

  I hate that we decided to cool it after that night. After almost getting caught, it was too close for comfort. We promised each other to practise some self-control and not have any more midnight visits. I’ve been tempted to go back on that promise every single night. However, I think it’s helped us both a lot to put more of our effort into this program and less into sneaking around. Even Jake, Mr. Tough Navy SEAL, seems to be taking it more seriously.

  “Hey, what’s on your mind?” Jake smirks down at me.

  I look down at my feet, knowing I’m a shit liar, “Nothing, why?”

  “Nothing, huh?” His voice is like velvet. “Your eyes just glazed over and you’re blushing like crazy,” I can hear the amusement in his tone. “It doesn’t look like nothing from here,” he presses me.

  I look up at him from under my eyelashes, feeling shy. “That night,” I whisper, determined to keep our secret from the nosy crowd of patients surrounding us.

  “I love when you bite your lip like that,” Jake murmurs. I didn’t even realize that I was doing that. I immediately push my mouth closed and feel my skin burn with a deeper shade of red. “God you’re sexy,” he continues.

  “Thank you,” my voice is weak, but my heartbeat is pounding strong. I can hear it rushing the blood in my ears.

  Jake steps toward me, closing the already small gap between us, I breathe him in. He smells like coffee and a walk through a cedar forest after a heavy rain.

  “I think about it every single day. And, when we get out of here,” he drops his voice so his words can only reach my ears, “I’m going to make that night look like amateur hour.” My nipples pebble under my shirt and my clit aches for him.

  “I can’t wait,” I whisper, tucking my hair behind my ear, I look up into his face. I’ve never met a man who can make me wet from a simple look.

  Jake looks around and takes a step back. The foot of space feels like a canyon between us, but I understand why he has to move away. We always have to be aware of how close we stand, how often we talk, how long we stare. Otherwise, it could mean the end.

  “Hey, there’s my folks,” Jake’s voice returns to normal as he points to an elderly couple making their way to the building.

  I scour the growing crowd at the front door for my own mother and father, but can’t make them out.

  The receptionist out in the lobby buzzes open the front doors and the families begin to shuffle inside the main building.

  “I should go see them,” Jake smiles down at me. “See ya later, ok?”

  “Ok,” I smile and watch him strut across the lobby to greet his parents. They’re much shorter than him, even his father stands a good six inches smaller than he does. Of course, it’s not hard to feel like some kind of elvish creature next to Jake. He’s at least six-two, but feels a lot taller from the way his heavy, cut muscles fill his towering frame.

  They walk away down the hall together and I redirect my attention to the crowd pouring into the building. My eyes laser in on the unfamiliar sea of faces, carefully watching each stranger enter the facility until it dries up into a slowly trickling stream. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here motionless, watching. My head twists like an owl, desperately searching for my parents. Instead, I see the last few people enter the building and cheerfully greet their daughter at the door. It’s the reception I haven’t had in years.

  Tears fill the corners of my eyes and my gut knots as I spin around on my heel to look back out to the parking lot. I stare for too long, with my breath held, silently hoping that they’re just late to show up. That they’re just slow to get out of their car. That there’s some reason that they didn’t show up, other than the truth.

  I gaze out the window like a puppy in a shelter for longer than I should. The realization finally hits like a tsunami, drowning me in despair. They aren’t here, and they aren’t coming.

  They haven’t forgiven me. Even now, after I’ve tried to put my life back together and get clean. After so many years of us being apart.

  They still don’t love me.

  17

  Jake

  I lead my parents to one of the rooms normally reserved for group therapy. Today, they’ve been reassigned as a place for patients to talk to their family members, although not privately. I look around the room at the other people I’ve come to know sitting in here with their loved ones. It’s not exactly an intimate setting where you can pour out your soul. Not that I want to do that anyway.

  I was annoyed when I found out I couldn’t just take my folks down to my room where we could grab some chairs and chat for a few hours. The staff here informed me that it’s another one of the rules that all visits are confined to public areas only. That way the roving counselors can check in on all of us and make sure nothing is getting too out of hand.

  I think the real reason is that the
y don’t want people who haven’t seen their husbands or wives in over a month to turn this into a conjugal visit. I quickly look around the room for some empty seats. I spot a few available over by Mabel. I have to give her a second look, because her transformation is jarring. Usually she can be found shuffling down the halls in slippers, no matter the time of day, and baggy sweaters that could double as dresses. Today, she’s all dolled up, in a pale yellow dress. Her white hair is pulled up into a bun with tiny tendrils framing her face, like smoke rising up from a campfire. She’s even wearing makeup and, on her feet, where a fuzzy pair of pink slippers normally reside, she’s got a black pair of flats on.

  Sitting next to Mabel is an old man wearing a sports jacket and dress pants. From the way he looks at her, I know without a doubt in my mind, that the reason we need to have our guests in public places is exactly the reason I suspected. They don’t want sweet, little Mabel and her horny husband getting filthy on their watch.

  “Let’s grab those seats,” I point to the ones I’ve scouted and my parents comply. Mom seems pretty chipper; a big smile is pasted on her face. I know it’s her default mode that’s she’s slipped into right now, she’s not actually deliriously thrilled to be at a rehab facility visiting her son. She’s just putting on a brave face. I glance over at my father. It’s a lot more than I can say for the old man; his mouth is twisted down and his eyebrows are furrowed together as he glances around like he’s looking for someone to yell at.

  “I’m glad you came,” I smile. “I know it was a really long way to travel. What do you think of British Columbia?” I make small talk.

  “Oh, Jake, it’s really beautiful. It reminds me of when I was a little girl and your grandfather took the family on a trip down the Pacific Coast Highway. Just breathtaking, isn’t it Don?” Mom tries to pull my father out of his funk and into the conversation.

  “I guess.” He looks at his hands. He won’t look at me. When they first got here, I gave Mom a hug and held out my hand for Dad, but he wouldn’t shake it.

  “How’s my superstar brother, Cameron, doing?” I plod onward, ignoring my father’s radiating anger.

  “Oh, he got drafted by Miami,” Mom answers excitedly. He and Chelsea will be moving on down to Florida next month. It’s so exciting, isn’t it Don?”

  “Sure is,” Dad’s voice is flat. He’s still staring down at his palms, like he never realized he had hands before and he’s trying to figure out how they work.

  I take a peek around the room to see if any other families are having as much fun as mine. Most of them are either murmuring closely like Mabel and her man, or happily chatting away like the others in here. Not one is slumped over and sullen like my father.

  “What about you Jake? I’ve been so worried about you,” my mother’s eyes fix on mine. I can see she’s not lying, under the layer of makeup she’s wearing, dark bags are still visible beneath each eye.

  “I’m really doing well, Mom. Please, don’t worry.” I answer truthfully.

  “It’s my job,” she smiles at me and, for the first time since she walked in here, it’s genuine.

  “Is this a good program?” She continues, “Is it working?”

  I will spare her the details about how long it has taken me to feel like this has been anything but a waste of time, rehab-wise. Obviously, my time here with Holly has been anything but. However, I don’t think she wants to hear about that either. Especially since Holly and I don’t have a real future together. The idea pains me, and I push it away.

  Instead, I remember how, about a week ago, we had a guest speaker that put it all into perspective for me. Instead of the usual array of ex-addicts they parade in here to give us speeches about how much better their lives are now, they had a guest speaker I could relate to. A soldier.

  Sure, he was a Canadian, so not exactly a SEAL, but we’re all brothers in arms. I sat up straighter when he talked about how his addiction started after he returned from duty. One thing he said really stuck with me, “Addiction is tricky, it starts for one reason. In my case, I needed to get out of my own head sometimes. However, even though it starts because of one particular cause, it always continues for another. It morphs. Takes you over. Until you’re not using because of shit you experienced or saw anymore. You’re using because you’re an addict.”

  That hit home for me.

  I look up at my mother, she’s watching me closely. How many nights of sleep have I stolen from her? How much worry, how much anguish, and how much sorrow have I exchanged for her rest?

  “Mom, I really am doing well,” I finally answer. “I didn’t think I needed help when I first came, but I know I’m in the right place now. It’s working,” I smile. “My name is Jacob Armstrong and I’m an addict,” I smile weakly, trying to make light of the confession.

  “That’s wonderful to hear, Jake. Not that you’re an addict, of course, but that it’s working. I’m so happy to hear that it’s working. I’ve been praying for you.” Tears brim her eyelids and she clasps her hands together in front of her heart.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Don, did you hear that? Jake’s getting better.” She urges my father to participate, but he just juts out his jaw in silence. “Donald, will you stop sulking and speak to your son,” she raises her voice, clearly feeling as annoyed as I am by my father’s attitude.

  “I’m not sulking. I have nothing to say to him,” he spits out the last word like it burned his tongue.

  “Donald Armstrong, I told you not to do this,” my mother leans into him as she hisses her words quietly. I know that the idea of our family making a scene horrifies her.

  “I’m not doing anything,” my father pouts. “I told you I never wanted to come here. You can sit there and act like everything’s all better just because he says he’s an addict or whatever. But, that don’t make a lick of difference to me,” his voice is starting to fill the room.

  “Keep it down, Don,” my mother scolds him. I look around the room, and other families are trying hard not to notice our family scuffle.

  “Why? Why should I keep it down, huh? So, people in this room don’t know what a failure our son is? So, they don’t find out how much he humiliated our family? How he got caught with cocaine by the police and he decided to run away, like a coward?” A wave of crimson is rising up his neck and splashing onto his cheeks as his voice keeps getting louder.

  “I’m sorry for that, Dad,” I admit. “I’m ashamed of what I did, there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about it. Trust me,” I try to jump in.

  “Oh, you’re sorry? Well, then that makes it all ok, doesn’t it? Did you hear that, Bev? He’s sorry. All fixed.” He claps his hands together like he’s brushing of dirt.

  “Don,” my mother drops her head from the now staring eyes of other families in this room, “stop.”

  “No, I won’t.” Dad hops to his feet abruptly. “I won’t sit here and act like everything is ok, just because he’s sorry. Or act like it’s all water under the bridge just because he wants a participation medal for being here. It doesn’t change anything!” He points in my face, “It doesn’t change what you did.”

  I jump to my feet and stare my father down as anger licks at the back of my throat. “How about instead of pretending that what I did was ok, you just pretend not to be such a shitty excuse for a father. Try that on for your first acting lesson, ok Pops? Because I might not be winning any awards for the shit I’ve done, but you aren’t winning Dad-of-the-fucking-year anytime soon either.” I jut my finger back in his face as my mother hangs her head in the crossfire.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He spits back, “You gonna give me some sad sack story about how this is all my fault? That you have some kind of Daddy issues. Save it.” He rolls his eyes hard.

  “You can do that, sure,” I snarl. “You go ahead and stand there like you’ve got any room to look down your nose at me, but you know that you aren’t a good father. Just ask Cameron.” I bite back. “You
think a good father only shows love and respect to their kid if they follow the path they want? You think a good dad is only there for their kids when they’re succeeding? You don’t care about me, you never did. Cameron used to joke that I was the golden boy, and what a joke it was. I was the golden boy alright, as long as I lived my life to make you happy. You wanna laugh and say I’ve got ‘Daddy issues’? You’re right, I do. Because I never grew up with a real father, I grew up with a tyrant who just wanted me to live out your failed dreams.”

  My father’s face is absorbed by crimson and he balls up his fist, “You tryin’ to say I’m the failure here?”

  “Yeah, you are. You failed at living your big, wild, military dreams and then you failed at being a dad. I guess I learned from the best.”

  “Hey! Hey! What’s going on here?” A staff member enters the room and races over to us. My father and I don’t move. We’re frozen in rage, staring each other down.

  “If you two can’t be civil and sit down, we might need to end this visit,” the man with wire-rimmed glasses and a comb-over informs us.

  “No need to end it, we were already done,” Dad doesn’t blink or unlock his eyes from mine. “Let’s go, Bev. We’re leaving.”

  “Don, please. Can’t you just sit down and talk this out. We came all this way,” Mom protests weakly.

  “I said, we’re leaving!” Dad roars.

  Mom stands up and runs her hands over her dress pants, pulls her purse on her shoulder and forces herself to hold her head up.

  I don’t watch as my father storms out of the room. He doesn’t deserve any more of my attention. Instead, I look at my mother. I hate that she’s crying. I hate that, after everything, I’m still causing her more pain.

  “I love you, Jake,” she whispers and gives me a hug.

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  “He’ll come around. I know he will,” she tries to reassure me.

  “Sure.” I answer, giving her a quick squeeze. Mom follows my father out into the hall and out of the building.