*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: Yes, I need an editor. No, I do not want an editor. Yes, it jumps around too much. Yes, there's too many people to keep track of. Yes it's too long. Yes it's too short. Yes it's in the wrong category. Yes this is stupid shit and yes I am a horrible writer, barely legible, barely literate.
For those that have not hit the backspace key, I hope you enjoy this little tale.
*****
Chapter 1
The Vo-Tech school rented out one of their classrooms to the Together We Stand Narcotics Anonymous group. They met every Tuesday and Thursday night, seven o'clock until eight o'clock.
"What a bunch of addicts," Bear joked. "Everyone else in the world knows meetings are supposed to be from eight 'til nine, but not y'all."
"So sorry Bear, we'll do better next time," Bronson smiled as he hugged his sponsor.
"No, no, this is fine," Bear sighed.
He helped put the readings out.
"Hell, this way I can get a meeting in, and still have time give Kirsten a resentment," he said.
"Good to have goals," Kirsten, Bear's wife said as she entered the classroom. "Bronson, your coffee sucks."
Bear easily picked up his wife; he was six foot six, she was five feet, four inches tall.
"I ever tell you I love you?" he asked her as they kissed.
"No," she smiled.
"Really? I'd take a look at that if I was you," he said and laughed when she squealed and slapped at him.
"Oh God, sorry I'm late, sorry I'm late," Lauren said as she scurried into the room.
"No problem, gave me a chance do some service work," Bronson smiled and hugged the young woman.
Lauren took over setting up the meeting then complained about the coffee.
"Uh, at least it got made," Dauphine, Lauren's NA sponsor pointed out.
As it was Thursday night, and Thursday nights were their Steps meeting, they talked about the Fourth Step.
"Bronson!" Lauren snapped loudly.
"Huh?" Bronson snapped out of his mental fog and looked around the room at the fifteen faces that were now looking at him.
"I said, you feel like sharing tonight?" Lauren snapped, a little peeved.
"Uh, no, no thanks, I think I'll just listen tonight," Bronson said.
"Because you're doing such a good job of it," Dauphine quipped and many laughed.
"Okay, all of y'all that are perfect, please raise your hands," Bronson spat.
It wasn't the first time he'd had a verbal run-in with Dauphine. The African-American woman was given to over-dramatizations of her problems, long winded monologues, with far too much detail and more complaints than solutions. She often offered unwanted, unneeded critiques of others' sharing; was often quite cutting in her remarks. As she had seventeen years clean time, she believed herself to be the governing voice of the group, even if the Second Tradition stated that they had no one governing their group, other than a loving God.
As was her wont, Jade, an attractive, slightly chubby Asian-American woman piped up with a litany of complaints about her husband Brian. Because Jade often showed up for their meetings with alcohol on her breath, none of the women would sponsor her. Therefore, Jade had no first-hand knowledge of any of the steps, just used the meeting as a dumping ground.
Bronson slipped out immediately after the Lord's Prayer was recited. Dauphine had a habit of being a snide bitch during the meetings, then wanting to make amends and get a hug right after the meeting.
Bronson was not in a hugging mood. He wasn't in the mood to listen to Dauphine's smarky, self-serving remarks.
He had pointed out, more than once to Dauphine, her amends weren't amends so much as they were excuses for her bad behavior. And he just was not in the mood for it.
"Bitch, call your sponsor, huh?" he thought as he drove away.
No one had asked him about Becky. Since it had been nearly three months since his wife had gone to a meeting, many of them just assumed that Becky had gone back out, started using again.
Bronson sighed; it was actually worse than that.
Chapter 2
They had met at the DeGarde Chemical Dependency Unit. Bronson Meddier had developed a problem with prescription pills, after an automobile accident put him in a wheelchair. Becky Trahan had developed a problem with Crystal Meth; a boyfriend had gotten her hooked on snorting the stuff. Then he used her as a source of income to fuel his own meth habit.
"Worse fucking thing?" Becky had sobbed piteously in the group session. "Fucking loved it. God damn, fuck twenty, thirty guys in a row? Pussy so stretched out couldn't even fucking walk and I'm ready for more dick."
"Becky, bring it down, huh?" the counselor asked, shifting uncomfortably.
"And I'd suck so many cocks couldn't even talk, jaw was so sore," Becky went on, unmindful of the counselor's entreaties.
"Ever do anal?" one of the men asked, clearly enjoying this session.
"Thank you, Becky," the counselor said loudly. "Diego? Want to share why you asked that question?"
Diego mumbled something, embarrassed. Then the counselor asked Bronson what had brought him to the CDU.
Bronson shared of the excruciating pain, especially when he was learning to walk again.
"God damn, pain in my back, and my hips? See, they got pretty fucked up when that drunk hit me, God, pain was so bad I swore I was going to die," he said.
Bronson smiled tightly.
"Hard to tell how much of the pain was real and how much of it was just my disease wanting me think the pain was real," he admitted.
After a while, Becky admitted to the group that she had gone into the CDU at the behest of her attorney.
"See, Demarcus and me? We got popped, mother fucking pig acting like he's wanting him some and next thing you know them mother fuckers got me and him on the ground and..." she whined.
To Bronson, Becky was just another patient at the CDU. It had been simply a case of finding a friend. But he'd made friends with nearly everyone there, except Diego.
So he was genuinely surprised, and pleased when Becky came up and hugged him at a meeting after they'd graduated from the program. And he'd been genuinely pleased when she'd asked for his phone number, asked him if he'd like to get together for pizza.
She was cute, with long red hair, adorable freckled skin, and large brown eyes in a round face. She had large breasts on her small frame, and almost no ass at all, had long, coltish legs.
He was handsome, a square face, thick brown hair, and big brown eyes.
They dated for a couple of months, then got married right before either one celebrated six months of clean time.
Right after they'd both picked up their one year medallions, Bronson came home and saw a man leaving their rental house. He found his wife cleaning herself up.
"What the fuck?" she screamed as he was packing to leave. "You fucking knew what I was when you married me."
"No, Becky," he screamed back. "I knew what you used to be; you used to be a meth whore. You're not a meth whore now, are you?"
Through her sponsor and his sponsor and a couple of sessions with a non-licensed counselor, they did reconcile.
Becky said she saw that she was wrong, said that she now understood that she was supposed to remain faithful.
"Honesty, right?" she smiled tightly. "I promised God and you I was going be faithful, right?"
"I guess I was wrong for assuming you'd get that," Bronson grudgingly chimed in.
"Know what happens when you assume," Becky smiled.
"Uh huh, well, ain't no assuming here, all right? I keep my pants on, you keep your pants on, all right?" Bronson said.
They picked up their two year medallions and made their group groan good-naturedly when they thanked each other for helping them keep clean and sober.
Then Becky began to get a little lax in her meeting attendance. She had to work late. She was tired. She didn't like Dauphine, or Kirsten.
"Fuck, no one does," Bronson snapped.
Then Bronson found out that Demarcus had somehow pled out of doing any real jail time.
Bronson went to Miller's Electronics and bought a few voice activated recorders.
"It'll pick it up, at least her side of it if she's talking on her cell phone," Brandon, the chubby faced boy behind the counter had said. "Ain't going do much if they texting, though."
Brandon had showed Bronson how to clone her cell phone.
"Illegal as shit," Brandon had whispered. "But, hey, you know? At least you'll know, right?"
Bronson should have been relieved. Becky's cell phone showed that she was calling him, texting him, calling her mom, calling, very infrequently, Stacy, her sponsor.
Her behavior was much more confrontational, almost belligerent with him. As he told Bear, Bronson couldn't remember the last time they'd made love.
If she wasn't in his face screaming, complaining, Becky was nervous, jittery, defensive.
But the key logger he'd installed on the home computer showed nothing. And the cloned phone showed nothing.
Then one day, Bronson heard Becky's purse give a slight 'buzz.'
He saw her phone was on the charger.
At that moment, she was in the kitchen, 'cooking.' Which was basically opening cans, dumping them into pots and heating.
He quickly took the second phone out of her purse and went into the second bedroom.
"Bronson, dinner," she called out a moment later.
"Be right there," Bronson yelled as he hurriedly dashed through the steps to map her phone.
"Now, damn it," she shrilled.
"Fine, fine, God damned bitch," he said.
After an unappetizing meal, Becky grabbed her purse and went into the bathroom.
A minute later, she charged out, screaming for her phone.
"What? It's right there, on the charger, God damn," Bronson yelled, pointing.
"Not that, oh yeah, there it is," Becky said and continued looking all around.
Bronson would have laughed, had his heart not been breaking.
