4-Kit
The fucking clock ticks loud enough to drive a sane man mad.
It’s designed to torment anyone already on the edge. They’re always three minutes behind, no matter where I am. My phone says one thing, but the wall clocks insist on taking the piss.
The bloke, Kevin, with the lanky legs and pristine leather Oxfords, uncrosses his ankles and stands.
His dress shirt strains across his torso, and his beard’s trimmed to perfection.
He’s got that polished, put-together aura that screams ‘I’ve got my life sorted,’ which is ironic considering where we are.
“My name’s Kevin and I want to welcome you today.” He scans the circle, taking each of us in like he’s memorising our faces. “Most people hear the word addict, and they automatically picture the dirty junkie shooting up on the street…”
He animatedly launches into a passionate speech, using his entire body to emphasise every point. And when his eyes meet mine, it’s like he’s speaking directly to me.
“The truth is we are all addicted to something…”
He drones on about dopamine and mental imbalance: a psychological breakdown of why humans are wired to chase anything that makes us feel good for five bloody seconds. The room hangs on his every word.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, voice rough, “it’s just human nature.”
I shift in my seat, the plastic creaking beneath me.
“Now who would like to introduce themselves?” He claps his hands together, rubbing them with enthusiasm.
And just like that, the energy in the room plummets from awkward to suffocating. We stare at the floor like students praying the teacher won’t call on them. Kevin stands there, letting the silence stretch. His gaze drifts from one person to the next, lingering just long enough to turn a stomach.
A familiar stare lands on me, and my guts twist. Suddenly I can’t swallow the ridiculous amount of spit gathering in my mouth.
“Hey, I’m Keisha.”
Keisha’s a dish. Black-brown eyes centre a face of flawless ebony skin. Shoulder-length curls frame her head like a halo. A deep burgundy purple paints her full lips, which are dipped into a frown.
“I’m twenty-four,” she says, clipped voice low and smooth, with a hint of Southern twang. “I moved here to pursue my acting career five years ago.” She sniffles. “I’m also in recovery from heroin.”
Well, didn’t see that coming.
That’s the thing about these meetings, you can’t judge a book by its cover, because nine out of ten times, you’re wrong.
“I have been sober for fifty-two days today, and I never want to start from day one again.”
She wipes her tears, and the room claps. Then, like a herd, one leads, and the rest follow. Speak, clap, speak—a bloody metronome of misery. Kevin lands between me and Zachary, the only two left.
He doesn’t say a word as sweat gathers on my palms. I don’t fear many things; heights, snakes, driving at night. But public speaking?
My jaw grinds, the muscle pulsing at the hinge. I could be an arse and force the sellout to go, but she looks like she’s about to chuck it. Her panic is too familiar, as if I’m staring at some cruel cosmic mirror.
“Hello,” I say, giving a quick wave. “Um, I’m Kit.
As you can tell, I’m clearly not from around here.
But I suppose that’s the thing about addiction, innit—follows you everywhere.
” A few nods and murmurs of agreement. “I’m here on some business, and Hollywood’s not exactly the easiest place for someone trying to stay sober.
But I’m trying. And honestly, I don’t really have much of a choice.
My life and my job are riding on my sobriety. ”
My gaze flicks sideways toward Zach, just for a second.
“I can’t let my mates down.” I lean back in the cheap plastic chair, the bloody thing creaking like it’s about to give out beneath me. Then I tilt my chin toward her. “You’re up.”
She glances at the clock. We’re only forty-seven minutes into the hour. Her body goes rigid, panic radiating off her. Her legs cross and uncross restlessly, like she’s trying to outrun her own nerves.
“Take your time, remember, this is a safe space,” Kevin says, regarding her with a pity that rolls my scowl clean out of my skull.
She isn’t timid; she’s a ruthless Hollywood stiff willing to do anything for a leg up. Zachary swallows, then opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She stares at the floor as if asking it to swallow her. I know precisely why she’s clamming up.
Me.
“That’s okay.” Kevin steps in again, voice soft as wet tissue. “It can be overwhelming to put yourself out to be vulnerable after relapse, but you know that it can also be rewarding.”
“I don’t really have much to say,” she murmurs, nothing like the cunning woman from earlier. “I’m more of the listen-and-observe type.”
“What makes you say that?” Kevin asks.
“It’s literally my job,” she snaps.
There she is; that shirty little fox.
Kevin lifts his hands. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a cinematographer.” Using her thumb, she picks at her jagged index nail. “At least I was. I had some things happen a couple years back. I thought I was doing fine, but then a few months ago I, I don’t know, I just kind of lost hope.”
Keisha leans forward. “In yourself?”
She shakes her head, jaw tight. “More like just hope in life. Everything that sort of makes life worth living, you know?” Her voice cracks.
“Anyway, um, so I’m depressed, there’s obviously no denying that.
The alcohol kept me numb, but I think it hollowed me out.
Now, I’m soulless. A shell of a person.”
The room goes still. My heart slows to a nearly unviable beat. I work around a swallow. Zachary talks about losing hope, and it’s like hearing my own thoughts spoken out loud.
“Why are you here today?” Kevin folds his hairy hands in his lap.
“I got an opportunity to work with people that I think will shape the future.” Her eyes shine.
Not with tears, but conviction. “They’re geniuses of their craft.
They deserve to be seen and heard because they have the power to heal people, to give them the will to want to live.
To change. Someone once told me that if you wake up to a new day, you still have purpose.
I woke up today with an opportunity to share something I love with people, and the only way that’ll happen is if I stay sober. So, I guess that counts for something.”
Her declaration stirs my stomach like I’ve eaten dodgy fish. Maybe she’s not as shonky as I thought.
I’m a right wanker.
Kevin inhales, fixing the phlegm-green cuffs of his button-up. “Thank you for sharing. I’m happy you found your way to us again, Zach.”
A long sigh escapes her, and the room begins to stir as people gather their things. The clock on the wall still ticks, refusing to catch up. Three minutes behind—even time wants to avoid this moment.
With a wave to Kevin, Zach turns, tying the belt around her windbreaker as she comes my way. I stand; hands shoved in my pockets as I wait. There’s a steadiness in her that only comes after you’ve ripped yourself open in front of a load of strangers. I recognise it well.
That unsettles me.
“I’m assuming you didn’t drive here?” Zachary asks, and I shake my head, though Yensil is waiting just outside to take me back to the hotel. “Can I give you a ride?”
I step back on instinct, something about this stunning woman setting me on edge. She draws me in like a whirlpool, and I need to find something to anchor to before I lose myself to her watery depths.
“I’m not going to kidnap you or anything,” she insists, an adorable crease in her little nose as she takes offense.
“That’s what a kidnapper would say, I suppose.”
I pull a small smirk. She laughs, a proper head-tossing titter. It’s absolutely disarming. A flicker of something soft and sincere tries to surface, but I stamp it out before it makes a fool of me.
“No coat?” she asks, gesturing to my black silk button-up, sleeves cut above the elbow.
I glance down at my ashy skin, which still has remnant streaks of red paint from when I attempted to wipe myself clean on the way here. Greg didn’t allow me a chance to go back to the hotel for fear I’d shake him, and the wanker was right.
“Sorry, had to leave the cloak in the car,” I mutter. “A bit conspicuous, yeah?”
We walk through the doors in an awkward silence, but the energy between us is anything but. At the top of the rickety stairs, she finally breaks the tension.
“I’ll make you a deal. Tell me where to drop you off, and you can ask me any questions you want about the project on the way.”
I glance down to meet her gaze, a brow lifted. “Any question I want?”
“About the project,” she reminds me with a lift of her pointer. “Don’t try to be cute.”
I push open one of the heavy doors and gesture for her to go ahead as I send Yensil a quick text. “Of course.”
Sunlight hits harshly after the dim basement. The air outside isn’t clean, but it’s fresher than the church. I follow her up the pavement toward the parking garage, her thick-soled boots echoing against the concrete. She stops in front of an old maroon hatchback.
Calling it “maroon” is generous; the paint’s sun-bleached and faded, chipping along the edges.
Rust creeps around the wheel wells, and the bumper’s held together by duct tape.
Zach takes out her keychain and presses a button.
The car emits a screeching noise so violent that I jump back in fear of explosion.
She chuckles, opening the driver’s-side door.
“It’s just the lock,” she says, sliding inside as if this is normal.
Brilliant. Fantastic.
I regret agreeing immediately, though I’m not a complete wazzock. Yensil texted me back saying he already has eyes on me and will be tailing us, so I don’t try any funny business. And for my safety, of course.
Crouching into the passenger seat, I take in the interior. It’s a complete shambles. I fold myself in, shutting the door with a reluctant thud. There’s rubbish strewn around my white trainers. I draw a line through the dust-coated dash with my finger.