Absolutely fucking nothing.
A few days ago, I stumbled upon a library tucked into the main building, though. I’m thankful for that, since I’ve read both books I brought here more than once already.
Admittedly, it probably wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so antisocial. A lot of the other residents pass the time by hanging out outside, hiking, or going down by the water together. While I, on the other hand, have zero interest in making friends. My mind, of course, lands on the one person who keeps attempting to hang out with me, even though I’ve made it clear I donotwant to hang out with him. He’s obnoxious and way too chatty, doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. All I want to do is bide my time until I can get the fuck off this island and back home to my band.
It's bullshit that I even have to be here in the first place. I don’t have a drug problem. There is a difference between recreational drug use and addiction. If I had an addiction, wouldn’t I have gone through some sort of withdrawal when I checked in and lost access to substance?
Yeah.
Exactly.
I don’t have a goddamn problem.
Well, I do have one problem currently—this fucking group therapy session I’m forced to sit and endure. We’ve spent the last twenty minutes listening toGageramble on and on about how rough his rich, privileged life is, and how he started doing drugs as a way to rebel against his loving parents.
Must be nice.
Half of these fuckers wouldn’t know true trauma if it smacked them in the face.
When the hour is finally up, I’m the first one to leave. You couldn’t have paid me to stay in that uncomfortable plastic folding chair for a second longer. Barely out the double doors, my name is called. Whipping my head around, I watch one of the guys from group approach me. Don’t have a fucking clue what his name is.
Lifting my eyebrows in question, I say nothing as I wait.
He offers me a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes as he comes to a stop about a foot away from me. “It wouldn’t kill you to participate, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he replies flippantly, exhaling a breathy laugh. “We’re several sessions in, everyone is opening up, sharing personal, intimate parts of their lives. Everybody, except you. It’s fucked up, if you ask me.”
Rubbing two fingers to my temple, I feel my blood pressure rising as I glance around the room for a moment before my gaze lands on this fuckwit again. “That’s funny,” I mutter quietly, taking one single step toward him, closing the distance between us, and forcing him to have to crank his neck to look up at me. “I don’t fucking remember asking.”
He holds up both hands, feigning innocence. “Hey, man. All I’m saying is, if you aren’t going to participate, you shouldn’t be able to come and sit in, listening to all our shit.”
Dragging my eyes over him, expression dripping in disgust, I’m sure, I take in his pink polo shirt with the collar flipped, khaki Chinos, and his ridiculous boat shoes, and I know all I need to. He’s a rich preppy asshole, living off his mommy and daddy’s money. Pretentious and privileged.
“Listen up, Chad,” I spit out, but he cuts me off.
“My name isn’t Chad—”
“Don’t fucking care. Seems you got a real fucking problem offering up shit nobody asked for,Chad.” He glowers at me at the sound of his non-name. “If I were you, I’d learn to mind your own fucking business.”
He huffs out a laugh, a scowl on his face. “Yeah? Or what, drummer boy? What are you gonna do? Shove heroin down my throat and kill me?”
“You motherfucker,” I spit out, forearm going to his throat as I shove him back into the wall with it. His eyes go wide, spit flying out of his mouth as his hands come up to my arm.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Footsteps squeak against the linoleum as they run over to us, an arm pulling me back—or trying to—as I whip my head around, gaze colliding with an annoyingly familiar pair of dark greens. His lip is still busted, chin discolored with yellow bruising.
“You trying to get hit again?” I growl, staring into the face of the guy who I can’t seem to fucking get away from.
Dickhead uses the momentary distraction to slip out of my hold and scurry away.
Rowan chuckles, shaking his head. “No. Come on.”
The blood’s roaring in my ears, I’m still so fucking pissed off. It’s the only reason I can think why I actually follow this fucker. Letting him lead me wherever we’re going. I don’t know why or how he keeps showing up. Is he fucking following me? Dragging my gaze down his body, I notice he’s dressed like a fucking homeless person again. A ripped and faded band tee, paint-splattered, holey, navy blue sweats, and a pair of what look like army combat boots.
“Why do you dress like you’ve just rolled out of the fucking dumpster?” The question falls from my lips before I can even stop myself.
He glances over his shoulder at me but doesn’t stop walking. We’re now outside of the facility and heading toward a trail. “What?” He chuckles.
