Page 53 of Flawless

Pulling up to the cottage, I’m thankful that Zenon hasn’t made it back yet. If he had, I would have just gone down to the beach and enjoyed a drink. Although our stretch of the beach is private, sometimes people wander down our way.

The last thing I need is to be spotted on social media taking a swig from a bottle. Yet, I have no doubt that’s exactly what will happen if someone spots me.

Honestly, I’m beyond caring at the moment. I hop out of the car with my brown paper bag and head inside. Licking my lips, I can hear the bottle calling my name, and I can almost feel the burn going down my throat.

I can’t wait to take my first sip to numb the feelings that are overwhelming me. I’m ready to block out the memories.

Walking inside the house, I head back to my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I remove the bottle from the bag.

Tears stream down my face. Memories of various men kissing me, pawing on me, strangers in the night using my body for sexual release, illicit pleasures, and psychological debasement.

Thoughts of Johan using me for his public adoration and my private humiliation fill me with shame. All that I did and all thatI suffered through just to end up with nothing. How did I end up here?

I am sick to my stomach, full of rage and disgrace. I have no one to blame but myself. No one placed a gun to my head to force me to do the things that I’ve done. I chose that path for myself.

Catalog and commercial modeling weren’t enough for me. I was too good for that. I wanted to be not only a runaway model but a supermodel recognized the world over. And why? Because I was a Maxwell. A Maxwell fromthe Maxwellsof Charleston, South Carolina. And I also had something to prove to my daddy.

The same name that I wouldn’t use to open doors or share with others was the same name that held me to a higher esteem of greatness in my mind. I allowed men like Johan Jurgen, Sebastian Glen, Mike O’Shaughnessy, O’Dell Perry, and others to use me for their play and pleasure.

All for what? To open doors that wouldn’t have been opened otherwise.

I run my fingers over the label, tracing the bold lettering and the coat of arms for the founder’s family. I think about how that fist clutching the hatchet is a symbol of my life, smashing all my dreams and hopes to hell and back because I’m not strong enough to face what I’ve done or what I’ve become.

My hands glide up the rounded bottle and grip the slender neck. Slowly, with precision, I peel away the wrapper from the bottle, and then I open it.

Inhaling the robust aroma, I think about how smooth it feels going down compared to regular Hennessy. Then, I recall the days atHorizonsand how I struggled in the beginning. I think about my anger that was explosive some days, and how other days, the tears wouldn’t stop coming.

I recall Brandon pushing me to face my fears and demons and lay it all on the table. I think about how Rhonda, the fitness trainer, pushed me and how loving, patient, and kind Nita,the creative coordinator, was on days when I worked my way through knitting, painting, or pottery.

I think about the times when I was lonely and would wander around the large facility, missing my family and friends.

“Oh, God!” I cry out, fingering the smooth surface of the bottle’s top.

Just one drink, I tell myself, just one, and I will put it away. Just one to ease the burning pain of the memories and the haunting shame from the ghosts of my past.

Damn it! Why didn’t I just stop by my place before coming out here to the cottage after rehab? I could have picked up some old prescriptions that I have at the house. I wouldn’t have to suffer through this alone. Those pills would have instantly eased the pain, leaving no room for doubts or wondering.

Because, Dani, you would have fallen long before now. Bringing those pills would have been nothing but a temptation.

“Shut up!” I tell my inner self.

“Excuse me?” I look up to see Zenon standing in the doorway.

I never heard him come into the house, let alone open my bedroom door.

He glances at the bottle in my hands and then back up at me. I see no judgment in his eyes, nor do I see recrimination or disgust as I expect to. Instead, I see love and strength there.

“I was just going to take one sip. Nothing more, and then I was going to pour it all down the sink. Just to prove to myself that I don’t need it, you know?”

Slowly, he nods, but then he says, “I’m not here to judge you, Danica. I’m not here to tell you what to do. That’s your choice. To drink or not to drink. Whatever route you go, it’s all on you, and you’ll shoulder that decision. In the end, if you drink, you’re back at the start. If you don’t, then you’ve survived another moment. It’s on you.”

My shoulders begin to shake, and I curl them around the bottle, hunching my shoulders forward. The tears come, then the breaking sobs, and then the snot. I’m a mess, and I know that I am.

I feel the warmth of his presence, and then I smell the briny scent of the ocean and the sun, accompanied by his familiar cologne. Still gripping the bottle, I fold myself into his embrace and cry for what seems like hours. Long, hiccupping sobs full of gasps and unrecognizable uttered words fill the silence between us.

And when I’m done, I pull out of his arms and walk into my bathroom. I pour the liquor down the toilet and then flush.

“What happened?” he asks after I’ve taken the bottle out to the trash bin in the back of the house and returned to my bedroom.