Page 10 of Dirty Monsters
I took a deep lungful and then another.
Refreshing but almost stifling from the Florida heat.
A car was waiting for us by the time we arrived at the pickup lane. I immediately jumped into the back seat while my father’s do-boy put my luggage in the trunk. He walked around to the front of the car and slipped in, giving the driver directions on where to take us.
After he said the words Beachside Manor on Hunts Island, I could see the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t tell if it was an expression of pity or more of a “better you than me” look. I didn’t care either way.
Let’s get this shit over with.
R&B music filled the car as we sat in silence for the thirty minutes it took us to drive to the rehab facility. It wasn’t what I expected when I first heard the words rehab. I was thinking more along the lines of white padded walls and straitjackets.
Beachside Manor was more of a luxury club resort. To say I was impressed was the understatement of the century.
The multiple houses on the property boasted a luscious landscape and a pleasant Mediterranean-style exterior.
The first building we passed was more of a mansion. The second place seemed more like a community center than a residence. We stopped at the final place, which was a mansion of sorts but much more stoic and duller.
My father’s guy grabbed my luggage while I waited outside and took in my surroundings. I knew he had a name, but I refused to call him by it.
He said something quickly to the driver before pulling away from the car and walking me to the door. The double glass doors slid open as I entered the building.
A larger woman with red hair greeted me at the reception area. “Hello there, how may I help you?”
I waited for the man with me to speak because I certainly wasn’t planning on it. “Miss Wren Carrington is checking in. I believe you spoke with her father earlier this week.”
“Ahh, yes. Nice to meet you, Wren. We’re so glad you chose Beachside Manor for your recovery journey.”
I nodded but never gave her a smile. She was wrong. I didn'tchooseto be here. This was the very last place I wanted to be, so I hoped she didn't hang her hat on me showing any type of enthusiasm.
As I glanced around at the people in the room to my left, I sighed.
“You’re kidding me with this shit, right?” I whispered under my breath.
They were all seated in a large circle and appeared to be singing. I wasn’t here to sit and sing kumbaya.
“Language, Miss Carrington,” he admonished, and I rolled my eyes.
I stuck my tongue out at him. Immature? Probably. Did I give two fucks? Nope. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stood back and watched as they went over some paperwork before my father’s man rolled my suitcase over to me and bid me good luck and good riddance.
I couldn’t believe they were leaving me here. Who the fuck did my parents think they were to drop me off thousands of miles away from home? It made sense why they chose this place, though. I would be way too far away for anyone to know I was here. Far away from scandal, for sure.
“Well then, looks like it's just you and me. Let’s get you all checked in, shall we?” I started to follow her before she turned around, her eyes finding my luggage. “You’re gonna have to roll it yourself here, honey. This isn’t a five-star hotel.” Her smile made me cringe because I knew the level of fake lurking behind it.
Huffing, I walked back and grabbed my rolling suitcase. This would be a long couple of months, and boy, was I not looking forward to it.
“This way,” she said, occasionally checking behind her to make sure I was following. “Put your suitcase up here, please.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I crossed my arms over my chest and gave her what I hoped was a defiant scowl.
“It wasn’t a request, Wren. Put your suitcase on the bench. I need to check through it.”
I’d already given in to walking my suitcase across the way, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to lift it onto the table so she could check through it.
Fuck, no.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.” She huffed as she leaned down and pulled it up, unzipping it. Pulling out a mirror, she put it into a separate bag, then did the same with my eyelash curler. She found a small bottle of liquor I’d stashed in the bottom and tossed it out along with a baggie of party supplies I had acquired from the hospital by blowing an orderly before I was discharged.
“Also, turn over your phone as well. No phone calls unless at phone time, and it’s only allowed for ten minutes at a time. No fraternization or sex between the patients.” Zipping back up my suitcase, she dropped it to the floor.