Page 27 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

RJ

T here's a loud banging on my front door. It wakes me up, and for a moment, I'm not sure where I am. Sometime last night, I must have fallen asleep on my couch. It's been a long week since Montgomery left. Stumbling to the door, I yell, "Be right there!"

When I swing the door open, I'm unprepared for the fist that connects with my chin. I don't even get a look at the person behind it.

"What the fuck?"

The voice I recognize as soon as he starts speaking. "Who the fuck do you think you are using drugs with my daughter around? What's gotten into you, and how can I help you?" Jared asks roughly, equal parts pissed, and sympathetic.

Immediately my stomach turns, and tears pool in my eyes. "I don't know," I admit hoarsely. "I don't know how you can help me."

Jared pushes past me into my apartment, and I don't try to stop him. My jaw throbs where he hit me, but I probably deserved it. Hell, I definitely deserved it.

"Jesus Christ, RJ." He's looking around my living room, taking in the empty bottles on the coffee table, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the general disaster that my life has become in such a short amount of time. "When's the last time you cleaned this place? Or showered?"

I run a hand through my greasy hair, suddenly aware of how I must look and smell. "I don't remember."

He turns to face me fully, and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. It's worse than the punch was. "Sit down. We need to talk."

I sink onto the couch, and he takes the chair across from me. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I can feel him studying me, cataloging all the ways I've let myself fall apart.

"Montgomery told Shell what happened the last time she was here," he says finally. "I would've been here that night, but I was pissed at the way you treated my daughter and I had to come to terms with it before I came here."

The mention of her name makes my chest tighten. "Is she okay?"

"No, RJ. She's not okay. She's scared out of her mind because she watched her father go through this same shit when she was a kid."

The words hit me like another punch, but this one's to the gut. "I didn't know how bad it was back then, not really, until she told me. And I'd never compare myself to you. I didn't know?—"

"Of course you didn't know. Because you're too fucked up to think about anyone but yourself right now." His voice is harsh, but I can hear the concern underneath it. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to yourself? To the people who care about you?"

I want to argue, to defend myself, but the truth is I don't have a defense. "I know I fucked up."

"Fucked up?" Jared leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "RJ, you're not just fucking up. You're destroying your life. And I'm going to tell you exactly what that looks like, because I've been there."

I look up at him, still surprised by the experience he has. He's had his life together and in control for a long time.

"You think you're different," he continues. "You think you can handle it, that you're not like other addicts. You tell yourself you're using to enhance your creativity, or to deal with the pressure, or just to have fun. But here's what's really going to happen."

He stands up and starts pacing, and I can see the tension in his shoulders.

"First, you're going to need more. What you're using now won't be enough anymore, so you'll increase the dose. Then you'll start using more frequently. Maybe you'll switch to something stronger because pills and cocaine aren't doing it for you anymore."

My hands are shaking, and I clasp them together to try to stop it. He doesn't know how on point he is right now.

"Then you're going to start lying more than you already are. To Montgomery, to your bandmates, to your family. You'll lie about where you're going, who you're with, how you're spending your money. You'll become someone you don't recognize."

"Jared—"

"I'm not finished." His voice cuts through my attempt to interrupt.

"Your music is going to suffer. It's working now, or at least it will for a while, but it'll wear off.

You think drugs make you more creative? That's bullshit.

They make you think you're more creative, but the work you produce will be garbage.

You'll miss recording sessions, show up late to gigs, forget lyrics you've known for years. "

He stops pacing and looks directly at me. "Your career will start to fall apart. Venues won't book you because you're unreliable. Record labels won't touch you because you're a liability. Your bandmates will get fed up with covering for you and eventually they'll kick you out."

"That won't happen," I say weakly, but even as the words come out, I know they're not true.

"Won't it? Because from where I'm sitting, it already is happening. You're using while on stage, aren't you?"

I can't answer because he's right.

"And then there's the legal shit," Jared continues relentlessly.

"You think you're being careful, but you're not.

Eventually you're going to get caught. Maybe it'll be a traffic stop and they'll find your stash.

Maybe it'll be at a venue where security decides to search you.

Maybe your dealer will get busted and give up your name. "

My stomach is churning now, and I taste bile in the back of my throat.

"You'll get arrested. Your mugshot will be all over the internet.

Every mistake you've ever made will be dragged out and examined by strangers.

Your family will be humiliated. Montgomery—" He pauses, his voice getting quieter.

"Montgomery will have to watch the person she cares about become another cautionary tale. "

"Stop," I whisper, but he doesn't.

"Prison is a real possibility, RJ. And even if you avoid jail time, a drug conviction will follow you for the rest of your life. You'll lose opportunities, lose respect, lose credibility. Everything you've worked for will be gone."

Tears are streaming down my face now, but Jared isn't done. He's not going to stop until he's made his point.

"But the worst part—the absolute worst part—is what it does to the people who love you. They'll blame themselves. They'll wonder what they could have done differently, how they could have saved you. They'll live with guilt and fear and heartbreak that you caused."

"I know," I choke out.

"Do you?" He sits back down, leaning forward so he's close enough to grab my shoulders.

"Do you really know? Because Shell almost left me when Montgomery was twelve.

We'd been together for a long time, we'd been through it before, and she was ready to walk away because she couldn't watch me kill myself anymore. "

The pain in his voice is raw, and I can see the memories playing across his face.

"I came home one night so fucked up I could barely stand, and Montgomery was there.

My twelve-year-old daughter saw her father stumbling around the house, incoherent and pathetic.

She found me passed out in my car the next morning with a needle in my arm, and that was it.

Shell packed a bag and took Montgomery to her mother's. "

"What happened?"

"I got lucky. I had people who loved me enough to stage an intervention, and I was just scared enough to listen. But it took three tries at rehab before it stuck. Three times, RJ, including the time before we had Montgomery. And each time I relapsed, it broke a little more of my family's trust."

He releases my shoulders and sits back. "Shell and I almost didn't make it.

The damage I did to our marriage took years to repair.

And Montgomery—she still has anxiety about people she loves disappointing her.

She still watches for signs that someone is lying to her or hiding something from her.

That's my legacy. That's what my addiction gave my daughter—a lifetime of trust issues and fear. "

The weight of his words settles over me like a blanket of shame. "I don't want that for her."

"Then you need to get clean. Not for her, not for me, not for your career. For yourself. Because until you want sobriety for you, nothing else matters."

"How do I do that? How do I want something I'm not sure I can live without?"

Jared's expression softens slightly. "You start by admitting you have a problem. Really admitting it, not just saying the words."

"I have a problem," I say, and for the first time, I feel the truth of it in my bones.

"Good. That's step one. Step two is asking for help. Real help, not just promises that you'll quit on your own."

"I don't know how to ask for help."

"You start with the people who love you. You tell them the truth about how bad it's gotten. You go to meetings, you find a sponsor, you check into rehab if you need to. You do whatever it takes."

I nod, feeling overwhelmed but also strangely relieved. "What if I can't do it? What if I'm not strong enough?"

"Then you try again. And again. Until it sticks.

" He stands up, preparing to leave. "But RJ, you need to understand something.

The people in your life—Montgomery, your band, your family—they can't wait forever.

At some point, they'll have to protect themselves, even if it means walking away from you. "

"I understand."

"Do you? Because losing Montgomery might not be enough to motivate you to get clean. And if it's not, then you need to find what is. Because this path you're on? It only leads to one place, and it's not somewhere you want to go."

He heads toward the door, then turns back. "I'm going to check on you in a few days. I hope when I do, you'll have made some calls. I hope you'll have taken some steps. Because kid, you've got talent and potential, but more importantly, you've got people who care about you. Don't waste that."

After he leaves, I sit in the silence of my house, his words echoing in my head. The reality of my situation is starting to sink in, and it's terrifying. I'm not just risking my career or my relationship with Montgomery—I'm risking my life.

But even knowing that, even feeling the fear and shame and regret, there's still a part of me that wants to numb it all out. That wants to escape from the overwhelming magnitude of what I need to do to fix this.

My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pick it up. I scroll through my contacts until I find Evan's number. He's been reliable the couple of times I've needed him.

My thumb hovers over his name for a long moment. This is the crossroads Jared was talking about. I can choose to call him, get high, and continue down this path of destruction. Or I can choose something else.

But what if I'm not ready for something else? What if I'm not strong enough to face all of this sober?

The phone buzzes in my hand with a text from a number I haven't seen in a long time: "Hey, this is Skylar, just in case you're out of your mind. Montgomery loves you, but she can't watch you destroy yourself. Figure your shit out."

The message hits me like a physical blow. She loves me. Even after everything, even after last night, she loves me.

But she can't watch me destroy myself. And I don't want her to have to.

I look at Evan's name on my phone again, then delete the half-written message asking him to bring me cocaine. Instead, I scroll through my browser and search for "drug treatment centers with privacy for celebrities."

It's not much, but it's something. It's a choice toward life instead of toward death.

I'm not sure I'm ready to get clean, but maybe I'm ready to try to be ready. And maybe that's enough to start with.

My hands are shaking as I dial the first number on the list, but I do it anyway. Because Montgomery loves me, and I want to be worthy of that love. Because Jared is right—this path only leads to one place, and I don't want to go there.

The phone rings once, twice, three times before someone picks up.

"Serenity Treatment Center, this is Maria. How can I help you?"

But I don't say anything. Instead I hang up, and look around at the emptiness of what my life has become.