The Gritty Truth (The Whiskeys Dark Knights at Peaceful Harbor #7) - Melissa Foster Page 0,57
He’d seen it so many times in the weeks after he’d gotten out of rehab, he could spot the are you on the edge looks a mile away. He hadn’t been tested like this since those first few weeks, and they all knew it. Dealing with the trials and tribulations of reentering the world without the safety net of being so drugged up that nothing could faze him had been a massive undertaking, but he’d fucking nailed it. This thing with Roni was totally different, and it was kicking his ass, but he’d have himself put in a straitjacket before he’d use drugs again. Although he wasn’t a fool. Anything that fucked with his head and his heart at the same time required backup.
Jed lifted his chin and said, “How’s it going, Quince?”
Shitty. “It’s goin’.”
“Don’t worry, man,” Bear called out to him. “The way Roni was looking at you Friday night, she’ll be calling before you know it.”
He wasn’t so sure about that.
“Hey, bro,” Truman said as he closed the distance between them. “You okay?”
Truman searched Quincy’s eyes, and it took everything Quincy had to keep from snapping at him. He loathed feeling that way toward his brother, but what he hated even more was making Truman worry about him.
“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” Quincy gritted his teeth. “Sorry, Tru. I’m agitated, pissed off that I made shitty choices and thrust this nightmare on Roni. But I’ve got it under control. I’m heading to an NA meeting.”
“You are?” The relief in Truman’s eyes was palpable. “That’s great, man. I’m proud of you. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, thanks. I’m good. But I appreciate the offer. Would you mind if I pick up Linc from Red after the meeting?”
Truman stroked his beard, grinning. “Need a little buddy time?”
“That’s always great, but I actually need a little Red time.”
“No problem, man.” Truman stepped closer and said, “What can I do to help?”
“Exactly what you’re doing, offering to help, being there to listen like you did this weekend. I hate to make you worry, but it’s good that you do. And as much as I hate being checked on, knowing everyone cares is important.” He looked at Bear and Jed, who were respectfully looking away. He raised his voice and said, “I’ll get through this, you guys. Don’t worry. I’m not going to fuck up anyone’s life. Most importantly, my own.”
The question is, how can I convince Roni of that?
“My door is always open, buddy. We believe in you,” Bear said.
“One hundred and fifty percent,” Jed agreed.
Truman clapped a hand on Quincy’s shoulder and said, “Two hundred percent, bro.”
With a nod, Quincy headed out to his truck.
ATTENDING THE NA meeting was exactly what Quincy needed to center himself. Every time he walked into a meeting, he was reminded of his first time, when he’d desperately wanted to succeed and feared he might not be strong enough. He’d looked around the room and had seen people from all walks of life working the program, validating the things he’d learned in rehab. And just like the first time, he walked out after the meeting feeling even stronger and more in control than he had when he’d walked in.
Thank fucking God.
He drove to the Whiskeys’ house on the outskirts of town, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him to drive to Roni’s instead. He wanted to see her, to make the promises he shouldn’t. He wanted to do whatever the hell it took to make her his again, to hold her in his arms and see her smile, to wipe away her devastation and disappointment. As he drove down the long tree-lined driveway and parked in front of the Whiskeys’ modest two-story home, he tried not to think too much about why he felt the need to see Red, because doing so would bring his thoughts back to his worthless mother. He was just thankful Red and Biggs were in his life.
He thought about Roni and wondered who she’d talk to now that her grandmother was gone. Angela? Elisa? He tried to imagine her discussing his past with them, and his gut twisted. Who in their right mind would encourage her to give him a shot when she’d worked her ass off to escape the very life he’d walked willingly into?
He climbed from the truck and headed up the walk toward the front door. Tinkerbell, Bullet’s rottweiler, bounded around the side of the house, barking.