Текст книги "Broken Crown"

Автор книги: Susan Ward

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Broken Crown

Sand & Fog Series

Book 1

Susan Ward

Copyright © 2015

Susan Ward

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 1515371077

ISBN-13: 978-1515371076

Cover Photo and Illustration: Sara Eirew

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

“It is good, very, very good that none of us can truly see the future. It is good for all of us that the future, no matter what we see, is really black.” ~Chrissie Parker

 

 

Prologue

 

CHRISSIE’S JOURNAL 

The older I get the less I feel a part of my own story. I don’t think that is unique or strange for a woman in her forties. I hear it all the time from my girlfriends, how they slowly disappear and get lost in their marriages, their children or their careers. I don’t know if that is what’s happened to me. I don’t like to overly analyze it. I am quieter now and I savor the quiet in me.

I watch more sunrises and I stir the pot less. I’ve learned that things happen around me, because of me, and to me, and there is not much you can do or really have any true understanding of which kind of event each is. I breathe, I watch the sunrise, I love, and I cherish my tokens and my tears, kissing them both thankfully for they both are a part of me, bringing me here to where it is comfortable to be less a part of my own story.

As badly as I have done many parts of my life, it was never because I didn’t love. The old cookie tin in the closet holds both my love and my regrets.

I pull out my tokens and tears one by one and I stare at them, these pieces of meaningless nothing to others that are markers of the milestones of me.

I kept the photo of Alan and me for twenty-five years. It is the one of us that I keep with me always: Alan asleep beside me, leaning against my breast, at that quiet moment on the terrace during sunrise before he exploded into the universe, not just a star, but a non-waning supernova.

It is funny how a moment, the most significant moment of your life, can happen without you even being aware. At eighteen the photo made me cry. It was splashed across the tabloids with black tar innuendo and other photos, private violations that made me cry. It still makes me cry at forty-two, but the reasons are different. We looked so young. Alan, commanding in his universe, and yet lost and holding on to me. I was young, too, but I’m holding on to him. Somehow we made it through that complex and layered three weeks, but we were both so young.

There is another photo in my tin, cut from the newspaper from the day stories of the suicide ran in 1994. Kurt Cobain. The two photos are eerily similar: hair tumbling forward, the world at their feet and the air full of sorrow. I remember how shaky and sick I got when I first realized Kurt died at twenty-seven. If we are both alive after twenty-seven, Chrissie, we will both know what we are. I almost called Alan that day, but I didn’t.

Between the two pictures sits the silly half dollar from the bet Neil made me that night at Peppers. Neil was right, Kurt did change music forever, but I never paid my half of the bet.

It has been ten years since I buried Neil. I still miss him every day. There are many in my life who do not understand how I could love him, but I did and I still do to this day. We said it to each other simply that last day we lived as man and wife: you can’t help who you are in love with. We both had other loves, but it didn’t prevent us from loving in that human, connected way.

The objects tucked together make sense to me, but it is the picture of Alan that I look at the most. I knew the first time I left Alan that he was the love of my life. What I didn’t know that day is that the love of your life doesn’t always become the love throughout your life. Sometimes they are a thought, a private joy, a secret hurt, a ghost in passing, the ghost always at your side or a promise in the future.

Alan would become all those things for me and I would never again love anyone else the way I love Alan.

It is good, very, very good that none of us can truly see the future. It is good for all of us that the future, no matter what we see, is really black. I could not see the future, a heartbreaking and frightening thing, at eighteen. I can’t see it at forty-two, now a comfortable and quiet thing.

I listen to my family return to the house, bags being dropped, children running the halls looking for me. This is my life, the core, the everything that is me. It is a perfect place for me to step back, enjoy living, and be less part of my own story.

I am blessed that Jesse was here with me for nine years. Nine years; I did not always do it well, I did not always do it honestly, but I never regretted being married to Jesse.

So this is what I think happened. I don’t really know for sure. I pieced it together from things I was told and reading Alan’s biography.

It is peaceful to be in that place where the most significant parts of your life are not the parts you actively live on your own. They are the parts shared with you, the part of others you try to mend, the moments you are no part of and yet the catalyst for them to have been.

I sit back in the quiet and I let life, even my own, happen around me, where it is more comfortable.

 

 

Chapter 1

“Alan Manzone”

January 2013

It’s a long fucking flight from Tokyo to New York City. I should never have agreed to allow the biographer to travel with me on my jet. I don’t even let the band travel with me anymore. I like to be alone. In the silence of my own thoughts, the best parts of my life exist. They sure as hell don’t exist in the real world. And haven’t for a very long time.

A moment of drunkenness and missing her—thinking of her…consumed by her—and I agreed to this so I wouldn’t be flying across the Pacific with only my memories of her. My manager, Brian Craig, thought it would be good for the writing collaboration. Maybe get the author to soften the pages and make me look likeable. Apparently, it was not going well. Apparently I was coming across a total asshole. No surprise there. I am an asshole. It sells records. It makes money. What the fuck does Brian think got us all here? Rich. Famous. At the top of the music industry. My musical genius and greater genius at self-promotion, i.e. how to fascinate the world by being an asshole every minute of my life.

I smile and wait as the biographer fumbles around trying to compose his next question. That’s the book you should write, mate. How to be an asshole and make a fortune doing it.

But no, we are doing another tired celebrity biography and here I am, alone with the putz they hired to finish the work since Jesse Harris, my first biographer, died last year—I cut off my thoughts. No, not going there today. It’s hard enough staying calmly composed while this asshole rummages around in my personal shit, without thinking about that.

I need to be careful what I say while having this private, out of the limelight, one-on-one time with that literary wanker who thinks he can write something that will make sense of my life…and a big fucking payday for him, no doubt.

Why the hell did I agree to continue with this? Jesse’s death gave me a no-litigation way out of the contract with the publishing house since I was not obligated to continue with the publisher’s choice of a replacement author. I should have shit-canned the project then. I don’t need a celebrity biography to memorialize my life and career. I sure as hell don’t need the publicity.

What more can a man want in his life than what I’ve achieved? I have money, more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. My face is adored and recognized by millions. I’ve got pussy shoved at me 24/7. There isn’t a woman on this planet I can’t have. I’m obnoxious to everyone and they tolerate me. I do what I want always. My entire life is about me. How many men can say that and have it be true? It’s why everyone wants to be me.

Fuck, I know that sounds arrogant, but it’s the truth. I wait sprawled on the long bench seat, scotch in hand, looking rock star chic and wondering if this jerk will ever get around to asking another question. At least when I started this project with Jesse it was fun and interesting. I could probe him about his marriage to Chrissie in between the questions he posed to me.

We’ve only got twelve more hours until we land. Another question, Miles, so we can finish this fucking thing finally. I’ve got things to do in the States. Once I set foot on US soil, I’m ditching you there. I’m not taking you along for the ride to see in real time the epilogue of my sorry life tale.

I make the scotch swirl in my glass, a subtle gesture of my impatience with him. He’s probably sitting there, wishing he were me. Fuck, second arrogant thought in under five minutes. I down my drink…and he would be wrong to want to be me.

Miles Abernathy looks up from his notepad. “I spoke with Jackson Parker before joining you in London. I asked about the Chicago incident. He refused to comment.” Those beady eyes focus on me from behind his heavy-rimmed glasses. “Can you explain what happened in Chicago?”

I can feel my gaze begin to simmer and I wonder if he’ll back off since I’m giving him the fuck off stare. That was territory specifically noted as a no-go. I haven’t talked about it, not once, in twenty-five years. Jack hasn’t either. Why would this idiot think I’d be willing to share? And I hate euphemism. Chicago incident. Fuck, he’s a writer. He should have been able to frame that question better.

I arch a brow. “Which part do you want me to explain? When I drove a motorcycle off stage injuring two fans? The going to jail? The part where at a party I snorted a mountain-sized speedball intending to kill myself? The waking up in the hospital? Rehab in California, maybe? Or the day in that Chicago apartment where Jackson Parker filled a syringe with enough heroin to kill a horse and threatened to pump it into my veins? Or do you want to know how Jack kept me from shooting up for six fucking hours in a dingy Chicago squat by laying a picture of his daughter in the center of the table beside my smack and talking nonstop about Chrissie?”

Miles’s eyes widen like a bullfrog and his face turns crimson. He definitely wasn’t expecting that answer and I definitely wasn’t expecting to answer with parts of the truth. Fuck, why did I do that?

“Did all that really happen?” he asks, stunned and excited.

I shift my gaze to my drink. “As far as I can remember, yes.”

He hits the icon on his phone to start recording. “Start at the beginning. As much detail as you can provide will help me when I sit down to write this chapter of your story.”

Why do people still want to know about Chicago?

*  *  *

Chicago, November 1988      

My eyes open to a stark room flooded with too-bright morning sunlight, and I try to move and realize I can’t. I’m in a hospital strapped to the fucking bed, and there are handcuffs on one of my wrists as if the canvas restraints weren’t enough to make this fucking humiliating.

Don’t these assholes know who I am? Who the hell tied me to the bed?

“You’re alive,” says a calm voice. “You’re not dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I turn my head. Jesus Christ, that’s ’60s iconic musician Jackson Parker sitting in a chair, staring at me. What the fuck is Jack Parker doing here? We don’t even know each other. Why the hell would he be here?

“Where am I?” I snap.

Jack leans forward in his chair. “Mercy Hospital, Chicago. Don’t fight the restraints. They’re not coming off. You tried to kill yourself.” His gaze sharpens. “Do you remember any of past two weeks?”

Oh shit, what the hell did I do? A vague memory of riding a motorcycle on stage and then into the crowd is followed by flashing images of a party, of snorting something, and then nothing.

My temper flares. “I didn’t try to kill myself. Tell them that. I want the fuck out of here.”

Jack’s lips pucker. That irritated him. “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter. You need to shoot up or maybe you just want to finish what you tried to do with that speedball. I’ve been where you are. Well, technically not exactly where you are. Nope. Never been in a hospital bed tied down for my own good. Never tried to kill myself, though I did fucking nearly do it with a bottle. But I’ve been where you are, no doubt about that. Do you think you’re the only man to ever lose a child?”

My black eyes begin to simmer and against my iron command over my own thoughts, Jackson Parker’s personal story flashes like billboard images in my head. Jack on stage at Woodstock. He’s a fucking musical genius and the voice of his generation, an undisputed walking, breathing, adored worldwide fucking legend. The death of his beautiful wife, Lena Mansur, the virtuoso violinist. The suicide of his enormously gifted punk rock son, Sam Parker. And yes, fuck what it said in the press. It was a suicide. I know that about Sam the same way Jack knows my snorting that pile of smack was deliberate. No need to say it. And no need to deny what I did. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter who has been where you are. Jack Parker is right about that one.

“Who the fuck told you about Molly?” I ask, infuriated.

Jack’s expression softens into something almost amused and definitely annoying as hell. “Brian Craig.”

My temper explodes internally as I keep my face carefully expressionless. The second I get out of here, I’m firing my fucking manager. If Brian Craig thinks he can tell my personal shit to anyone and I’ll tolerate it, he’s got another thing…

“He’s also the one who called me,” Jack continues compassionately. “Asked me to come. Asked me to help you. I wouldn’t fucking be here if he hadn’t told me about your daughter, Molly. Got me on a plane from Santa Barbara. Got me to leave my daughter, Chrissie, while she’s home from school over the winter break. Got me here. Now it’s up to you how this plays out.”

I look away. There is something unnerving about those brilliant blue eyes. Like he can read my thoughts. I wish I could fucking do the same thing. What exactly is it we’re playing out?

“What precisely are you referring to?” I snap.

“Oh, I forgot. You don’t know your current circumstance.”

My gaze shifts back to him. “Enlighten me.”

Jack pulls a yellow sheet of paper from his pocket. “Do you know what this is?”

Fuck, how am I supposed to be able to read it from across the room? I glare and shake my head.

“This is the term of your release from the Cook County Correctional System.”

“Release?”

“You fucked up pretty darn good. You’d be in jail for that motorcycle stunt if your lawyers hadn’t been able to convince the judge to let me try to help you instead of putting you in a cell.”

He takes a key from his pocket and undoes the handcuffs. He removes the restraints as well.

He smiles. “I should have removed those long ago. Call it a symbolic gesture leaving them on. I wanted you to get a clear picture of the direction your life could take when you woke. You are not under arrest any longer. The judge released you to my custody this morning. You’ve already passed the seventy-two-hour psych hold for the suicide attempt. You are now a voluntary patient here.”

First fucking piece of good news I’ve heard this morning. Eventually Jack will leave or I’ll drive him away. Then I’ll be done with this and can get the hell out of here.

“Thinking about cutting out, are you?” Jack says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that would only see you back in jail. You’re on probation. Let me enlighten you of the terms of your probation. One: you are in my custody. You do what I say when I say. I report directly to the judge. You fuck up, I call the judge, he puts you in jail and you are facing three years there.”

Three years? My eyes widen.

“Now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?” Jack states confidently. “Consider us glued at the hip for the next six months. That’s the term of your probation. Finish it successfully and no jail time, all charges dropped. I gave my word to the judge to help you. You’re my responsibility. I take that seriously. I don’t break the law and I won’t lie for you. Are we clear?”

Fucker. “Crystal clear.”

“You’re feeling pretty good right now, but it’s not going to last. The doctor has been medicating you to keep you from full withdrawal. I wanted you clear-headed and focused enough so we could have a lucid conversation this morning. They gave you your last dose of methadone seven hours ago. But now you’re going to do a straight seventy-two-hour detox. Get the shit out of your system. And if you survive that, I’ll be back, and we can talk about what happens then.”

Jack Parker stands and leaves the room.

Three hours later, I’m not feeling so cocky. They are going to make me go fucking cold-turkey detox. The sweats have started. The pain. The shaking. It’s too much. I’m not fucking doing this, especially since I haven’t completely abandoned the notion of killing myself and once Jack left my memories of Molly became inescapable.

I search the hospital room. In a locker I find a bag. My clothes smell disgusting, but they are in here. Shit. No money. No cigarettes.

I go to the door and ease it back an inch. Hallway empty. The nurses check in every half hour or so. They’ve just left. I’m dressing and getting out of here.

It is surprisingly easily to escape a voluntary detox program. I was spotted going down the corridor. No one even tried to stop me. Then I’m into the elevator and out the front doors without incident and I’m free.

Now, standing on the pavement out front, I’m not sure what the hell to do. I haven’t got any money, I’m in a strange town, and I need a fucking wake-up shot. If I call anyone, they’ll send for Jack and this time I’m going straight to jail and not to a hospital bed. I don’t doubt Jack Parker when he says he won’t lie for me.

I hail a cab and climb into the backseat.

The driver hits the meter. “Where to?”

I stare out the window. “I don’t know. Just drive.”

The car doesn’t move. I can feel eyes staring at me from the rearview mirror.

“Jesus H Christ! Aren’t you—?”

Bingo, a fan.

“—Alan Manzone.”

I force my million-dollar rock star smile to my face. The one that is half snarl and half fuck me.

“I should tell you upfront,” I say. “I haven’t got any money, but I assure you someone will send it to you with a little something extra for the inconvenience. Just get me the fuck away from here. Now.”

The car starts to move. “No worries, man. I’m honored. Anything you want, you just ask me. No one knows Chicago like I do.”

I soften the curl on my lips. “A cigarette would be appreciated.”

A pack is eagerly tossed into the backseat to me. I take one from the box, light it, and inhale deeply. The nicotine feels good mixing in my blood but, fuck, it won’t do shit to stop the crawling on my skin. Much longer and I’m going to be vomiting.

“I’m looking for a party.” My gaze shifts to meet the driver’s in the rearview mirror. “A special kind of party. Do you understand?”

The cabbie looks over his shoulder at me. His expression changes. He gets it. He can see it on my face.

“Sure, man. I know a place. I’d be honored if you’d let me hook you up.”

He hits the turn signal and before long we’re in a seedy section of the city and I’m ready to fucking kill him.

Two hours later, we’re best friends.

A day later, I’m alone in a Chicago flat with a mountain of heroin, debating whether to check out on the land of the living again. I stare at the filthy squalor someone calls a home—whose fucking place is this?

I reach for the works on the table. Who cares if this is where I fucking end it? No one will remember me anyway. The only hope I had for anyone ever giving a damn about me long term—for anything other than sex, fame or money—was my daughter, Molly.

But that fucking cunt Jeanette let her die. Didn’t even call me to tell me my own daughter was ill. Let her die, buried her, and then came to my apartment in New York to make sure the checks would still come after she told me we’d lost Molly.

Fucking women. Every woman I have ever known has been a disappointment. Only interested in what they can get from me. I load up the syringe with enough to kill me. Fuck them all to hell…

A knock on the door stops me. I wait, hoping whoever is on the other side goes away. More fucking knocking and my temper explodes. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fuck!

I drop a towel over the table in an attempt to hide what’s lying there and go the door. I open it an inch. It is shoved into my face.

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Jackson Parker says scathingly, shutting and latching the door behind him. “Did you think I was fucking joking? If I can find you, so can the cops. But they are not going to have to look hard if I tell them where you are.”

I shove him away. “Fuck off.”

Jack’s intimidating blues eyes do a fast once-over of me. “Sit down.”

I don’t know why I obey. I do. I sink onto a chair.

Jack rips the towel from the table. “Thinking about killing yourself again, are you? Or do you just need something to take the edge off today?”

His expression is insulting.

He sits in the chair across from me. “Go ahead. Shoot up. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I stare at him. I don’t know why. I can’t shoot up with him sitting there. What the fuck is that about?

“Why don’t you just go away?” I growl.

Jack nods. “I can do that. But I’m not into making fast decisions. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to stay here.” He checks his watch. “Six hours. I’m going to talk. You can do whatever you want. Shoot up. Drink. Hell, have a woman suck you off if you can still get it up. You might want to make the most of our time together. It could be your last party for a long while. You either walk out this door with me back to detox or you go to jail with the cops I’m going to send for. But I’m not making you decide which for six hours.”

Oh fuck, I’m not staying here with him for six hours. I’m about to snatch my stash from the table and bolt through the door when he drops a picture next to my drugs.

“Look at it,” he snaps.

My gaze shifts. It’s a fucking teenage girl. She looks just like him and, damn, it makes me think about Molly and I don’t want to.

“That’s my little girl,” Jack says. “She’s alone during the holidays so I can be here trying to help your sorry ass. The least you can do is hear me out. I’ve been gone for a week. I’m asking for six hours. Sit the fuck down and listen.”

Jack starts talking. Jesus Christ, he’s talking about his daughter. Oh fuck, in minute detail. Musical prodigy. Six instruments by nine. The minutes tick by in endless droning about Chrissie. How she is a big fan of my music and has my posters on her wall. Blah. Blah. Blah. Why the fuck does he think I want to hear this? And fuck, why can’t I shoot up while he’s talking at me? I’m half out of my mind. My hands are shaking. I’m sweating like a pig. And the fucking needle is just lying there and I can’t make myself reach for it.

What is it about Jack’s voice and Chrissie’s picture that’s stopping me? I’m an addict…oh Christ, I’m an addict. After eight years of sobriety, I’m back up to my neck in the drug shit again. I can feel it sharp and painful and real inside me. Fuck, I didn’t want this. I just wanted to die, not live as an addict for a second time in my life. A damn incompetent addict at that. Nothing should be able to stand between me and my fix. Why am I not grabbing for the needle? It’s fucking ridiculous. I’ve got what I want. It’s here. One shot. I’ll be dead before that asshole breaks for a breath.

Why can’t I take it?

My stomach starts convulsing. How long has Jack been sitting there talking at me? I look through the window. It’s dark. When did he get here? I can’t remember. Why the fuck won’t he shut up and leave?

“We all need something to hold on to in this life,” Jack says. “You need to find something to replace Molly or you’re going to go down and it’s not going to be pretty. You ride the ride as it’s given to you. If you ride the ride long enough something comes your way worth riding the ride for.”

I glare at Jack, but manage to hold back my words. There is no point in saying anything. He just ignores me and continues talking. But fuck, why does it have to be so trite? Ride the ride? Really. What kind of fucking ’60s shit is that?

“My daughter is everything to me and I’m here with you,” Jack hisses, his anger surfacing.

Everything, huh? Then why the fuck is she so sad? I look at the picture. She has gorgeous blue eyes. His daughter is beautiful. I’ll give Jack that. Lovely, but the girl has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. They are leveling and moving and captivating.

I study Jack, his unending narrative out of sync with the picture in front of me. Why the fuck is your daughter so sad, Jack? Why the fuck can’t you see it? And I’m positive he can’t. Not by how he rambles on about his oh so perfect Chrissie.

Anger shoots through the drug withdrawal claiming my senses. I’m angry for her, that little girl in the picture, because her father is a self-righteous ass, thinking he can rescue me when I don’t want to be rescued and doing a crappy job of raising her and can’t see it.

What a fucking ass. I just want to fucking die. Why won’t you let me? Go help your own daughter. She’s one fucking wrong turn away from offing herself. I can see it in her eyes, what I feel in me. She’s going to kill herself, Jack. If you don’t wake up soon, figure out what’s going on with the girl, you are going to lose her like you did Sammy.

“Why the fuck won’t you go away?” I growl. “I don’t want you here. I don’t care what happens to me. Leave off and get the fuck out of here.”

Jack springs to his feet. Ah, I’ve finally struck a nerve in him. I wait anxiously, praying he’ll leave. What the fuck is he doing? He’s handling my works like a pro; spoon, lighter, needle. Jesus Christ, he’s filling up the needle.

He sets it on the table and puts the tie-off around my arm, jerking it so tight I wince even through the numbing fog of my heroin-deprived body.

“You think I’m a fucking asshole and an idiot,” Jack exclaims, slapping the veins on my arm. He lifts the needle and does a few taps against it to make sure there’s no air. He holds the tip above my flesh. “You want to kill yourself, but you are doing a fucking piss-poor job of it. Do you think I don’t know how to do this? I’ve been around this shit all my life. I’ll fry your brains permanently. Then I won’t have to listen to you anymore. You won’t have to listen to me. And I won’t get another call in the middle of the night from Brian to come save your sorry ass.”

I feel the sharpness of the needle against my skin. “Make a decision now, Alan. Do you want me to go home and tell my daughter I killed you tonight? I can fry your brains permanently or you can let me help you. Which do you want from me?”

I’m breathing heavy and I’m dry heaving. I stare at him. Would he really do it? The prick in me says to tell him to. But my tongue is heavy. I can hardly breathe. The world is spinning. I’m shaking out of control. I’m vomiting.

Time moves in and out in a fog. I look up, startled. Shit, we’re walking. Jack’s got a blanket over me and his arm is around me, holding me steady.

He helps me into the waiting Town Car parked at the curb. The door slams. I curl in a ball on the leather seat, shaking. I see the picture of the little girl. Fuck, I grabbed that from the table and not the needle. Why did I do that? Maybe I just didn’t want to leave her there in a Chicago squat next to a stash of heroin.

Jack pats my back. “I don’t care what you say to me, Alan Manzone. You don’t want to die and I won’t let you. We’re going to back to detox. I’m taking you to rehab in California. Then you’re coming home with me. I’m not leaving you, Alan, before this is through. There is nothing you can say. Nothing you can do that would make me walk out on you.”

My thoughts start to blur and jumble. I close my eyes against the pretty face staring at me from the picture. Why is she so sad? Why the fuck are you here, Jack, instead of with Chrissie?

I’m escorted from the airport and pushed into a waiting car in Los Angeles five days later. I feel like death, but I’ve successfully detoxed from the heroin and Jack kept his word. He stayed at the hospital. Brought me to California.

I didn’t really expect Jack to stick around. People don’t keep their word, especially in the music industry. But Jack Parker keeps his word. I’m sure that’s the only reason I’m still indulging this save Alan Manzone ritual of his.

As the car starts and stops on the crowded Southern California freeway, I study him. What is intervening in my life to him? An act of regret? A desire for forgiveness? Is he here as an act of contrition for having fucked up so completely with his own son to the point that Sammy killed himself?

I’ve heard the stories about Jack. How he steps in out of nowhere, helping troubled musicians get their shit together. But why does he do it?

Two hours later, we are driving on an empty road in the desert.

I shift my gaze from the window. “Where the fuck are we going? Betty Ford Center?”

Jack looks uncomfortable. “Not Betty Ford. The doctors thought you needed a different kind of care.”

Different kind of care? “What are you talking about?”

Jack gives me one of his benign, comforting smiles. “They think you’re still suicidal. They only released you to me on the promise that I’d bring you to the Hollman Clinic.”

“Hollman? Never heard of it.”

Jack purses his lips, nodding. “You’ve got big issues, Alan. Hollman is a little more than a rehab center. It’s the best help out there for people in your situation.”

Frowning, I wait for him to explain that one, but he doesn’t. Then I realize what it is he hasn’t said. Oh crap, he’s putting me in a mental hospital. Really, Jack, you think I’m fucking crazy?

I start to laugh. How the fuck did I end up here at twenty-six, with a crazy American thinking I’m crazy when all I am is just tired of the shit?