Holy shit. Lace had broken it off with War! And she’d tried to call me before she went into rehab.

I didn’t even notice that King had released me. My mind was still reeling from the implications of that bit of earthshattering news when suddenly War was nose to nose with me. I smelled the fumes on his breath and his face was red and twisted with anger.

“I warned you, brother. Bitches are trouble. But you didn’t listen. And now she’s come between us. Messed us up. Messed up the band.”

“Wasn’t her that did all that. It was you, asshole,” I growled. “You’d sell your own mother if the price was right.”

“Whoa,” Dizzy said. “Easy, guys. Let’s leave the mothers out of it.”

“I can’t believe you.” War shook his head. “You’ve got that bitch up so high on a pedestal you can’t even see her faults.”

The shrill ringing of a cell phone cut through the charged silence that followed the last comment.

“Yes.” Beth eyed us all warily as she answered the call. “I’m here now…No, you were right, Mary. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m done.” She pocketed the cell. Her heels clacked on the concrete as she took a couple of steps forward. Her demeanor was entirely professional. Apparently she was totally unfazed by what she’d just seen. “You guys obviously need a keeper. Mary’s calling in Ian Vandergriff to handle things.”

I cringed. Vandergriff had a reputation industry wide. He was the manager who’d been brought in to straighten out the Dirt Dogs after their lead singer had passed out on stage for the third time in two weeks. I’d heard it had taken less time than that for him to bring them to their knees. The guy was a total hard ass.

Shit.

Beth glanced back and forth between me and War. “Vandergriff’s salary is going to come out of your tour bonuses by the way.”

Great. Just fuckin’ great.

30

Twisting my hands together I sat on my bed and stared out the window at the courtyard, by now a familiar tableau. The soft gurgling of the fountain was the only sedative I had left. No more methadone to keep me company. It had been tapered off days ago.

Just me and my sober self.

Well, and Dr. George. The other rehabbers referred to him harshly as Sawbones. I wasn’t really sure why. The wrinkled old psychiatrist seemed benign with his grey hair and grey beard, his kind eyes and soft tone, like some benevolent grandfather figure.

It wasn’t the session with Sawbones that had my stomach turning summersaults. It was my first mandatory group session, and I wasn’t relishing the thought of laying out all my baggage in front of a bunch of strangers.

A quick glance at the clock had my stomach roiling. Time was up. I took in a careful breath and straightened my shoulders.

You can do this.

I pushed off the bed, stepped into my slippers, crossed the room resolutely, flipped off the light switch, and opened the door.

“Hey,” a musical female voice called out. “Hold up.”

I turned and saw a young woman with long platinum hair locking the door to the room next door to me. She was beaming an infectious double dimpled smile as she walked over. Her smile even put my brother’s illustrious one to shame. Despite my nerves, I found myself grinning back at her.

“I’m Bridget Dubois. I just saw you in the cafeteria the other day. You got in last week, didn’t you?” She didn’t pause to let me answer. She spoke each sentence in rapid fire succession. “You’re coming to the group session, aren’t you? You look a little pale. Don’t be nervous.” A micro-pause. “Really, don’t be.” She glanced at me, white blond eyebrows arching up expectantly. She reminded me of a pixie with her petite frame, her sparkly blue eyes, and her exuberant manner.

“I’m Lace Lowell.” I held out my hand which she took and squeezed once before letting go.

“Nice to meet you, Lace.” She studied my face for a minute before waving for me to follow her down the hall. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to talk the first time if you don’t want to. Believe it or not, I didn’t.” Another dimpled smile. “I think you’ll be surprised. It’s really helped me to know other people have gone through the same stuff that I have.” As we entered the cafeteria together, she continued to jabber while I looked around. The tables had been moved to the side and there was now a circle of plastic chairs near the windows.

I took a seat in the circle beside Bridget and tried to focus on her rather than on the upcoming session. “Why are you here?” I asked quietly.

Her gaze slid away. She stared out the window introspectively before looking back at me. “Usual story.” She shrugged. “I fell in love with the wrong guy. Got pregnant. Family disowned me.” Her light and breezy tone said one thing, but the expression on her face told a different story. This girl had been hurt deeply. There was a lot more to Bridget Dubois than I’d initially thought.

“Lace.” Dr. George took a seat on the other side of me and squeezed my shoulder. “Welcome to the group. We don’t have many rules except that what’s said here remains confidential and that we only speak in generalities about any physical abuse, mental issues, or drug problems. No graphic details here, please. Today’s topic is responsibility. His gaze slid to the brunette across from him. “Brenda, why don’t you start us off?”

I listened to them one after another and started to relax. A lot of the stuff they shared was frighteningly familiar. Bridget was right. Minute by minute, I was feeling less like a freak, less like a loser, and less like a loner to be here.

I could do this.

I made eye contact with Dr. George. He nodded his approval.

“My name’s Lace Lowell,” I began. “I’m addicted to heroin mostly. Although I’ve done some cocaine and other stuff, too. I’m an addict like my mother was. I’ve been using for about two years now. I tried to get my boyfriend to help me taper off, but I realize now that wasn’t going to work out. I’ve got to take responsibility for my own choices or it won’t happen. I’m the one who made the decision to take that first dose, and in the end it’s got to be me who decides not to do anymore.”

I cursed under my breath, ripped out, crumpled up, and tossed another sketch aside. The wadded up ball of paper joined the growing discard pile that looked like white snowballs against the green grass. I was irritated and jumpy. Though my fingers were busy, my mind shifted into reverse. I’d figured out today why Dr. George’s nickname suited him. He had this nasty ability to cut through all his patient’s bullshit like some old time surgeon dispensing with a gangrenous limb.