Rock My Body (Black Falcon #4) by Michelle A. Valentine Page B
Authors: Michelle A. Valentine
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curiously, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I interlock my fingers in front of me. “Sorry about that. I don’t mean to rush you or anything. If you need more time, I can—”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. Go. I’ve got a splitting headache anyhow. I should probably go and lay down.”
This is it, I bet. The beginning to the detox he’s been so adamant that he’s not going to experience. “All right. I’ll see you again when you’re feeling well enough to continue our sessions.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I give him a small smile. “Okay, then.”
Tyke doesn’t say another word, just walks past me and out the door.
As soon as I’m alone, I drop my head into my hand and rub my forehead. I hope I can help him. There’s always that little bit of niggling doubt in my head as to whether I’m cut out for this job or not. Can I really help people who have addictions when I still struggle with one myself? An addiction that’s become a whole lot harder to fight since I succumbed to that kiss? I should’ve known better and never allowed him to get so close. His physical presence just does something to me that I can’t explain. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he’d be my biggest professional challenge, but I didn’t anticipate the personal challenge as well. No matter how much I want him, I have to remain focused on the reason he’s here and try to help him overcome the darkness that threatens to envelope him.
I slump down in the chair next to the couch and reach for the notepad, my gaze pausing on what Tyke’s left behind.
A single green guitar pick.
I hold the thin piece of plastic between my fingers and examine the words he’s written on the back.
Thank you.
I fold my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest as pride washes over me.
I’m doing this.
I’m getting through to him.
“Behind Blue Eyes” – Limp Bizkit
Climbing the massive staircase back to my room takes forever. The pounding in my skull began when Frannie and I were talking in her office. Through most of our time together, I could ignore the constant thumping, but now it’s almost unbearable.
My door swings open with ease and I collapse on the twin bed, facedown. Sweat pours out of me and drenches my shirt. I must be coming down with something. It feels like the fucking flu. This is not the most opportune time for me to be sick.
I rub my forehead and then fling the sweat from my fingers when it hits me.
“Fuck. Am I really fucking detoxing?” I mumble to myself.
But as my entire body trembles, I already have my answer.
Detoxing:
Day One: It’s not pretty.
Day Two: Definitely not fucking pretty.
Day Three: Still bad, but nowhere as bad as yesterday.
Day Four: Almost there, but my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof.
Day Five: A New Leaf
I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder at what point in my life I decided to give so much power to some little goddamn pills. It makes me wonder if I had known that I would end up needing help to get off them a couple years ago, back when I started taking benzo medications, would I have ever taken them to begin with? I wish I could honestly say that I wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot fucking pole, but I don’t know if that would be the case.
Without them now, things are clearer. I can definitely see the demise of the band happening. The leading cause at this point is me, but I know now that it wasn’t just the drug haze. I haven’t simply imagined that Black Falcon has started going in different directions, because that shit is fucking true, and the guys need to accept their roles in the band falling apart, too.
The hard table is cold against my skin as I sit on it while Dr. Shepherd examines me. He takes his time, taking my blood pressure and then pulse, before he flashes a small light into my eyes.
“Go ahead and follow the light with your eyes, Mr.
I interlock my fingers in front of me. “Sorry about that. I don’t mean to rush you or anything. If you need more time, I can—”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay. Go. I’ve got a splitting headache anyhow. I should probably go and lay down.”
This is it, I bet. The beginning to the detox he’s been so adamant that he’s not going to experience. “All right. I’ll see you again when you’re feeling well enough to continue our sessions.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a headache. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
I give him a small smile. “Okay, then.”
Tyke doesn’t say another word, just walks past me and out the door.
As soon as I’m alone, I drop my head into my hand and rub my forehead. I hope I can help him. There’s always that little bit of niggling doubt in my head as to whether I’m cut out for this job or not. Can I really help people who have addictions when I still struggle with one myself? An addiction that’s become a whole lot harder to fight since I succumbed to that kiss? I should’ve known better and never allowed him to get so close. His physical presence just does something to me that I can’t explain. The moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he’d be my biggest professional challenge, but I didn’t anticipate the personal challenge as well. No matter how much I want him, I have to remain focused on the reason he’s here and try to help him overcome the darkness that threatens to envelope him.
I slump down in the chair next to the couch and reach for the notepad, my gaze pausing on what Tyke’s left behind.
A single green guitar pick.
I hold the thin piece of plastic between my fingers and examine the words he’s written on the back.
Thank you.
I fold my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest as pride washes over me.
I’m doing this.
I’m getting through to him.
“Behind Blue Eyes” – Limp Bizkit
Climbing the massive staircase back to my room takes forever. The pounding in my skull began when Frannie and I were talking in her office. Through most of our time together, I could ignore the constant thumping, but now it’s almost unbearable.
My door swings open with ease and I collapse on the twin bed, facedown. Sweat pours out of me and drenches my shirt. I must be coming down with something. It feels like the fucking flu. This is not the most opportune time for me to be sick.
I rub my forehead and then fling the sweat from my fingers when it hits me.
“Fuck. Am I really fucking detoxing?” I mumble to myself.
But as my entire body trembles, I already have my answer.
Detoxing:
Day One: It’s not pretty.
Day Two: Definitely not fucking pretty.
Day Three: Still bad, but nowhere as bad as yesterday.
Day Four: Almost there, but my anxiety levels are through the fucking roof.
Day Five: A New Leaf
I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder at what point in my life I decided to give so much power to some little goddamn pills. It makes me wonder if I had known that I would end up needing help to get off them a couple years ago, back when I started taking benzo medications, would I have ever taken them to begin with? I wish I could honestly say that I wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot fucking pole, but I don’t know if that would be the case.
Without them now, things are clearer. I can definitely see the demise of the band happening. The leading cause at this point is me, but I know now that it wasn’t just the drug haze. I haven’t simply imagined that Black Falcon has started going in different directions, because that shit is fucking true, and the guys need to accept their roles in the band falling apart, too.
The hard table is cold against my skin as I sit on it while Dr. Shepherd examines me. He takes his time, taking my blood pressure and then pulse, before he flashes a small light into my eyes.
“Go ahead and follow the light with your eyes, Mr.
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