STONED (Wrecked Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
whatever. “Can you give me something for the pain then?” The bitterness is there in my voice no matter how I try to bury it.
“I’m sorry, no. The attending psychiatrist will be in here shortly now that you’re up and actually communicating, and they’ll be in charge of your care and your meds. We’ve been weaning you off in order to help with your detoxification. The rest is up to him.” Glaring I watch as he straightens. “You’re a very lucky young man. This could have ended worse than it did. The amount of drugs in your system should have killed you. Would have killed you had you not been brought in as quickly as you were.” When I don’t express my gratitude or acknowledge what he sees as my luck, he closes the chart in his hand and hangs it on the foot of my bed with a clang. “Do you have any questions that I can answer for you, Mr. Lockhart?” I give a curt shake of my head. “I’ll let Dr. Risa know that she can come see you now.” And then he’s gone. Shoes squeaking across the floor as he exits.
Not sure why, but I test my restraints one more time. When they don’t budge, I just close my eyes and try to quiet my racing thoughts enough to go back to sleep. Or back into a coma. At least there I was allowed some fucking drugs.
“I’ve been in here for five fucking days. I want to go the fuck home, Law,” I shout. Pacing in front of the window of the too small hospital room.
“Dude. That’s not even an option right now. You have two choices: jail or rehab. That’s it. End of story,” Lawson tells me for the tenth God damn time. “Judge busted his balls working with the record label and the lawyers to get the charges against you dropped and that’s the only bargain they’re willing to make.” Arms folded across his chest, he has his feet planted wide like he thinks he’s Billy fucking bad ass. He’s not.
“I don’t need to go to fucking rehab,” I spit, scratching at the back of my neck and the prickling under my skin. “We’re supposed to be back on tour in a few days,” I remind him. Trying a different tactic.
“Tour’s been canceled until you get your shit clean, Stone. It’s not a negotiation.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m a kid. I’m a grown ass man. A fucking rock star! I fuck who I want, I drink what I want, and I do whatever fucking shit I want.” My voice rises louder and louder until I’m yelling, veins bulging in my neck, and still, Lawson looks unfazed.
“Yeah, well, motherfucker, you’re not doing any of that now, are you? Where’s Willow, bro? You ain’t fucking her, that’s for damn sure. Can’t get any of that smooth ass whiskey you love so much in here or those fucking pills, and you damn sure can’t get any of that nose candy you’ve been trying to kill yourself with,” he bites out with a little more heat than before but still looking calm and collected as I stand here sweating and ready to throw the fuck up. “You keep living like a rock star you’re gonna die like a fucking rock star,” Lawson vows solemnly. “Now get your shit. The plane leaves in an hour. You check into rehab tonight. Judge pulled some strings, has you set up in a nice place called Paradise in Hawaii. Real fucking fancy. Has your alias and everything else taken care of already.”
“Law—”
“No other option, Stone. This is your only choice,” he interrupts. “Listen, if you ever want to get Willow back, you have got to be clean, man. I promise to hire someone different, someone more competent than the guy we have now, to find her while you’re working on you.” Holding out his hand to me he asks, “Deal?”
Turning away from him to stare out the window, still scratching at the skin that feels too fucking tight, I mumble, “Just take me to fucking Paradise.”
Willow
“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! I’M GOING to be so late,” I mutter as I weave in and out of traffic on the 401. It’s usually a two-hour drive to the university with traffic. I have an
“I’m sorry, no. The attending psychiatrist will be in here shortly now that you’re up and actually communicating, and they’ll be in charge of your care and your meds. We’ve been weaning you off in order to help with your detoxification. The rest is up to him.” Glaring I watch as he straightens. “You’re a very lucky young man. This could have ended worse than it did. The amount of drugs in your system should have killed you. Would have killed you had you not been brought in as quickly as you were.” When I don’t express my gratitude or acknowledge what he sees as my luck, he closes the chart in his hand and hangs it on the foot of my bed with a clang. “Do you have any questions that I can answer for you, Mr. Lockhart?” I give a curt shake of my head. “I’ll let Dr. Risa know that she can come see you now.” And then he’s gone. Shoes squeaking across the floor as he exits.
Not sure why, but I test my restraints one more time. When they don’t budge, I just close my eyes and try to quiet my racing thoughts enough to go back to sleep. Or back into a coma. At least there I was allowed some fucking drugs.
“I’ve been in here for five fucking days. I want to go the fuck home, Law,” I shout. Pacing in front of the window of the too small hospital room.
“Dude. That’s not even an option right now. You have two choices: jail or rehab. That’s it. End of story,” Lawson tells me for the tenth God damn time. “Judge busted his balls working with the record label and the lawyers to get the charges against you dropped and that’s the only bargain they’re willing to make.” Arms folded across his chest, he has his feet planted wide like he thinks he’s Billy fucking bad ass. He’s not.
“I don’t need to go to fucking rehab,” I spit, scratching at the back of my neck and the prickling under my skin. “We’re supposed to be back on tour in a few days,” I remind him. Trying a different tactic.
“Tour’s been canceled until you get your shit clean, Stone. It’s not a negotiation.”
“Don’t treat me like I’m a kid. I’m a grown ass man. A fucking rock star! I fuck who I want, I drink what I want, and I do whatever fucking shit I want.” My voice rises louder and louder until I’m yelling, veins bulging in my neck, and still, Lawson looks unfazed.
“Yeah, well, motherfucker, you’re not doing any of that now, are you? Where’s Willow, bro? You ain’t fucking her, that’s for damn sure. Can’t get any of that smooth ass whiskey you love so much in here or those fucking pills, and you damn sure can’t get any of that nose candy you’ve been trying to kill yourself with,” he bites out with a little more heat than before but still looking calm and collected as I stand here sweating and ready to throw the fuck up. “You keep living like a rock star you’re gonna die like a fucking rock star,” Lawson vows solemnly. “Now get your shit. The plane leaves in an hour. You check into rehab tonight. Judge pulled some strings, has you set up in a nice place called Paradise in Hawaii. Real fucking fancy. Has your alias and everything else taken care of already.”
“Law—”
“No other option, Stone. This is your only choice,” he interrupts. “Listen, if you ever want to get Willow back, you have got to be clean, man. I promise to hire someone different, someone more competent than the guy we have now, to find her while you’re working on you.” Holding out his hand to me he asks, “Deal?”
Turning away from him to stare out the window, still scratching at the skin that feels too fucking tight, I mumble, “Just take me to fucking Paradise.”
Willow
“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! I’M GOING to be so late,” I mutter as I weave in and out of traffic on the 401. It’s usually a two-hour drive to the university with traffic. I have an
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