Page 1 of Missing Piece
Chapter One - Adam
“Fake tits are the worst,” Adam mumbled into his glass before throwing back another shot of rot-gut whiskey. He winced as the room-temperature alcohol burned its way down his esophagus, joining the other bottom-shelf shots he had already knocked back in a futile attempt to numb his unrelenting irritability. It wasn’t working.
“Titties are titties, man,” Robert said beside him, his eyes glued to the stage as a stripper swung around the pole by her elbow. He peered back at Adam and eyed the empty shot glass, stroking his unkempt, graying beard. “Should I be stopping you?”
Adam stared into his glass, his gut a bit warmer but still annoyingly hollow. “No, I’ve never had a problem with booze,” he said with a sigh. God, a handful of pills sounded good about now. Preferably oxycodone, but he’d settle for codeine. Anything to relieve the overwhelming depression and emptiness. “You know you’re a terrible sponsor, right?”
Robert took a sip of his cranberry juice. “I’m aware,” he said and flashed a grin as he stood up, fishing out his wallet for a wad of singles. “I’ll spot you.”
I just said I hate fake tits. What on earth makes this redneckthink I want them in my face?Adam shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Your loss.” Robert shrugged and grunted as he got up from the table, adjusting his sagging pants and useless belt as he waddled towards the stage.
No way that fucker has three years of sobriety.Adam sighed and looked around, scanning the room to make sure he didn’t recognize someone he owed money to. He’d been fronted so many times before his last arrest that he was certain his kneecaps were going to get busted in at some point. No one looked familiar or overly hostile, except the two managers standing behind the bar, who kept staring at him.
He didn’t recognize them as anyone he would have bought from in the past, but every time he peered over at them, they were watching.What the hell do they want?He was spending money on drinks. That was what he was supposed to do in this godforsaken club, right? He long ago gave up imitating what straight men were supposed to do, so he had no interest in having some poor strung out woman with stretch marks grinding on him.
Not that he had the money for it, anyway.
He was already dipping into his emergency pill fund just ordering overpriced well drinks. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t experience that sweet poison for another, what, 48 weeks? However long his drug court was supposed to last. Between the constant random piss tests, the three-hour long group counseling every other day, and his mandatory Narcotics Anonymous meetings, he was exhausted. The week he spent curled up on the concrete in front of the jail toilet praying for death during his withdrawals seemed like a cakewalk compared to the never-ending meetings.
And now his sponsor, the only sorry son of a bitch at the Pine Oaks Fellowship who was willing to take his miserable ass on as a sponsee, insisted on coming out to Wild Side Cabaret, a horrible little strip club on the edge of the county line, to celebrate his first thirty days of sobriety. His first unwilling thirty days of sobriety.
If Adam had his way, he’d be passed out on some dealer’s couch higher than a kite. But no, he was stuck in this cesspool. He pulled out his thirty-day coin and rubbed his thumb over the engraved pattern, holding it near the oil candle in the center of the table. It was light. Cheap. Thirty days of pure torture. Surely they could come up with something better than this piece of shit.
“Congrats,” a woman said as she plopped down in the seat across from him.
I really don’t feel like arguing over lap dances right now.He readied an insult as he looked up at her. “You’re not a stripper,” he said instead, surprised to see a hard-faced woman sitting across the table from him, her eyes dark and hollow like his. She wore a blue bandana around her neck, matching her navy-blue combat jacket.
“I am not,” she said, eyeing his empty tumbler. “Aren’t you not supposed to drink?”
“I’m an addict, not an alcoholic,” he replied. Adam leaned closer, recognizing the tight braid she wore her brown hair in. “Aren’t you that weirdo that hangs out outside the Fellowship? What the hell are you doing here?”
It was definitely her. Every time he went to a daytime NA meeting, she was there, chain-smoking cigarettes and chatting up people as they waited for the meeting to start. She never approached him, mostly because he made a pointof avoiding talking with the other attendants unless he absolutely had to. He may have had to attend multiple meetings a week, but none of the conditions of his treatment nor probation ever said he had to speak during those meetings. He was just there to get his paper signed.
“Visiting a friend,” she said, a fake smile plastered on her face. She pointed to his thirty-day chip. “It takes a lot of guts to get that far.”
Adam snorted. “Yeah, and a court order.”
“Court order or not, it’s still impressive. Tell me, now that you’ve been sober for this long, do you find yourself with too much time on your hands? Maybe like you don’t have any purpose?” she asked, stirring Robert’s abandoned drink.
He stuffed the coin into his pocket and narrowed his eyes at her. Whatever she was about to pitch to him, he was certain he wouldn’t be interested. Nothing interested him anymore. “What was your name again?”
“Raquel.”
“Look, Raquel, I don’t know what pseudo-religious bullshit you’re selling, but count me out. I don’t believe in any of that nonsense,” he said. He checked the bar to see if the cocktail waitress was there, but it was just those creepy managers still staring in his direction. The blond one was starting to give him the creeps, his cold blue eyes fixated in his direction, unblinking. If it wasn’t for the creepy stare, Adam might have found him attractive. He didn’t look that much older than himself.
“It’s not religious bullshit, Adam Nolan,” Raquel said.
“I don’t recall telling you my name,” he said shortly. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I don’t want any part of it. I’m trying to fulfill my end of a plea bargain, okay? Nothing more.”
She grabbed his hand, her knuckles yellow and purple like she had recently been in a fight. “You can be a part of something bigger than that. Something that can help save people,” she insisted, her brown eyes wide as her lips twitched with the threat of a smile.
Adam jerked his hand away. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to be a part of anything. Leave me the hell alone.”
“Have you done your fifth step? It’s the hardest one, you know, bearing all your wrongs to another person,” Raquel said. “With us, all your wrongs are made right. You won’t even have to tell us what you’ve done. We don’t care. We just offer unconditional acceptance.”
The fifth step. It made him shudder. He never intended to work his way through any of the steps of the “Big Book” they espoused at those meetings, particularly the ones that required him to be “open and honest” about the things he had done. He didn’t want to bare his soul or his sins. They needed to stay stuffed down deep inside where they belonged.
