Chapter 1 #3
He remained facing the drink cart and the wall, unable to return to his seat.
“I can’t remember it. I get flashes, like the idea of it, but I can’t remember.
I feel stupid even calling it rape, even though I know that’s what it was.
Nothing was put inside me, but I know that’s a stereotype.
Only reason I even really know about it was because of the lipstick.
I’m sure you have the notes from the hospital.
When I was admitted, they found lipstick and teeth marks on my dick, but it was my sister who confirmed what happened.
I was fucking raped in front of my sister.
I can block it out, I can not think about it for a minute or two, but it’s always there.
Just like the cravings and the need for the drug they forced into me.
I wish they’d have never told me. I wish I didn’t know.
The lack of memory is the worst of it, because my brain fills in the rest. Am I making it worse than what it was?
It was a fucking blowjob. I’ve had plenty of them in my life.
So what if I can’t remember this one. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t let it get to me.”
“Would you tell your sister that it ‘shouldn’t matter’ if Ritchie had performed oral, non-penetrative sex on her without her consent?”
Ranger spun around so fast that he knocked the pitcher off the drink cart. It spilled, but didn’t shatter. Which was good. He owed this place enough as it was. Both of them ignored the dripping water as Ranger shouted, “Of course not! That’s disgusting!”
“Then why is it okay for you to say it doesn’t matter to you? You were in no condition to consent, even if you were awake and lucid. So what’s the difference? Because you’re a man?”
Ranger looked down, staring at the wet spot down on the carpet to the right of his foot.
“Ghost and your brothers, what if this had happened to one of them? Would you think less of them?”
Ranger’s silence was answer enough, because of course he wouldn’t.
“Then why does a different standard apply to you?”
Ranger lifted his eyes, glaring at the older man. “It would be really helpful if you weren’t so fucking smart and would let me live with my delusions.”
Dr. Sutton smiled widely. “Nah. This is how I get my kicks in for the day, torturing my patients by constantly bursting their delusion bubbles.”
Ranger snorted. Leaving the mess he’d created because they both knew staying to clean up would only be a delaying tactic, Ranger walked slowly back over to his chair.
Dr. Sutton waited for him to sit, reposition himself, cross his legs, uncross his legs, and then cross his legs in the other direction before he spoke again.
“You’ve said several times that you don’t feel like yourself, that you feel like a stranger in your own skin.
I want to offer you a different way to look at that.
“The man who walked into this facility ninety days ago was carrying something he’d never been equipped to carry alone.
The man sitting across from me today asked for help, accepted it, and did the work.
Those aren’t the same man. That’s not loss, Liam, that’s growth.
Even when it doesn’t feel like it. You’re allowed to grieve who you were, and you’re allowed to get to know who you are now.
Those two things can exist at the same time. ”
Ranger took a deep breath before asking the burning question on the tip of his tongue. “Will I ever feel like me again?”
“That’s not a question I can answer for you,” Dr. Sutton said gently.
“I can give you tools and pathways so you can find that out, but there’s no set or right timeframe.
Your instinct when you struggle will be to isolate yourself, to handle it alone.
We’ve talked about why. I want you to practice something this week: when the instinct to isolate hits, I want you to make one contact instead.
One call, one text. It doesn’t have to be a crisis.
Just contact. Let them know you’re struggling, and I think you’ll be surprised by the reception you get back.
Leaning on the people who love you is not weakness, Liam.
It’s the hardest thing a man like you can do, but it’s also the bravest.
“Before you go, I want you to tell me three things. One thing you’re proud of from these ninety days, one thing you’re still afraid of, and one thing you’re choosing to believe about yourself going forward.”
Silently cursing his therapist, Ranger answered, “I’m proud that I didn’t escape. I could have. Tomorrow I’ll text Colby and tell him how I would have done it so he can tighten up security.”
“Why tomorrow?” Dr. Sutton asked with a hint of amusement.
Because tonight was still unknown. “So I’m not tempted to see if I was right.”
Dr. Sutton nodded evenly. “Now tell me something you’re afraid of.”
Ranger ran a hand down his ninety-day beard. “That I won’t recognize myself. That I’ve changed too much to fit into the cookie-cutter mold of my old life.” Without prompting, Ranger added, “And I am choosing to believe that tomorrow will be better than today.”
“You’d have made a terrible SEAL with that attitude.”
Ranger snorted.
“Hold onto that last one,” Dr. Sutton pressed. “Write it down, if you need to. When the hard days come—and they will come. Some you’ll know in advance, but the worst are the days you don’t see coming—that’s the thing you come back to.”
Ranger nodded slowly, feeling like he was about to be released onto one of those reality shows where he has to survive in the wilderness with only the supplies in his pockets.
“You have my number. You have your outpatient schedule with Dr. Rutenberg. You have your sponsor, who will meet you at home tomorrow afternoon to take you to your first NA meeting. And most importantly,” Dr. Sutton added forcefully, “you have your club, your family. Lean on them, and be proud of what you’ve accomplished. ”
* * *
91 Days Sober
Ranger stared at himself in the mirror, a place he’d been avoiding for ninety-one days.
His room at the rehab center had come fully stocked, and Becks had brought him more personal things from home.
Hygiene and creating a routine were important parts of recovery, but it still felt like he was playing a role, doing a part.
He could get away with brushing his teeth, showering, and doing his hair without looking in the mirror, but shaving would have been extremely difficult, and he probably would have been accused of suicide by face cuts if he tried.
So he’d let his beard grow for the first time in his entire life.
He had other things that were far more important to deal with.
But his timer was running out, and despite the fact that he knew no one would actually care if he walked out of here with a beard, Ranger needed it gone. He needed to feel like him, if only in appearance.
Picking up the shaving cream, he got to work, all the while avoiding looking at his own eyes in the mirror.
He was halfway through when he heard the roar of two dozen motorcycles pull into the parking lot below.
Ranger’s hand shook so much that he nearly gave himself half of a Joker smile before he calmed down enough to continue.
Wiping his face with a towel, Ranger finally looked up at his own eyes staring back at him. A stranger stared back.
Sleep hadn’t even been a consideration last night.
Colby knew this and brought non-alcoholic beer and a poker set in a briefcase like they were having a fucking business meeting.
Fucker stayed up all night with Ranger, even napped for a beat on Ranger’s bed while Ranger stared out the window at the night sky.
He was still in the bedroom when Ranger exited.
“Ready?” Colby asked, holding out Ranger’s cut for him.
He took it, feeling the cold leather for the first time in ninety days. “Nope,” Ranger admitted.
Colby the Fucker smiled at him. “Good. Let’s go.”
Ranger wondered if this was how prisoners felt as they were led to the execution chamber.
The slow, long trek that seemed never ending, but took you closer to your doom with every step.
Ranger’s heart hammered, and he was pretty sure if he’d eaten breakfast, it would be making another appearance right about now.
Besides his toiletries, all his belongings had already been packed up and brought down to the lobby. And as expected, the entire place was packed. Poor Tina looked like she didn’t know if she should faint over the bikers filling her lobby or call the cops.
Ranger paused before the double doors, hating how the others watched him as Colby took for-fucking-ever to unlock the doors.
Not that Ranger wanted to hurry this along, but just standing there with the glass between him and his club brothers was fucking torture.
Other than Becks, it was just the club inside the lobby.
Had the other ol’ ladies and club kids not come?
That would be…odd, but maybe the women didn’t want their kids around him just yet.
Becks looked incredible. Five months pregnant and still wearing those fucking heels.
When they were younger, Becks and her best friend, Libby, had dared Ranger that he couldn’t walk across the living room in them.
Not willing to be bested by his baby sister, of course Ranger took the bet—and nearly broke his neck on the third step.
How the fuck she walked in them every single day, especially now while pregnant, Ranger had no idea.
He silently suspected that her feet were permanently shaped like a Barbie doll’s.
The moment those fucking doors unlocked, Becks was through them and in Ranger’s arms. She had that pregnancy glow on her face, and likely the happiness of knowing she was at her halfway point through her pregnancy and getting to meet her baby—Ghost and Becks chose to keep the gender a secret—was what kept her smiling today.
“Hey, big brother.”