Karma Ch. 01

"I didn't come here to hurt you," he said softly

My head snapped up. "Forgive me," I said sarcastically, "but I don't see you coming all this way just to comfort me."

He smiled. "People change. We haven't seen each other in a lot of years. I understand that I hurt you, that I disappointed you, and I want to apologize for it. You didn't deserve that."

I blinked in surprise. Rod apologizing was... unbelievable. I'd have an easier time believing that he was gay than he was sorry. "I... Thank you." The subtle scent of his cologne wormed its way into my senses in unsettling reminders of him.

Against my will, I let him slowly get me talking. The years we'd been a couple worked against me, because he knew just how to get me to relax my guard. In an hour, the impossible had happened. I was sitting with Rod and having a civil conversation about the things that had happened to both of us in the last two decades. I even listened to his tales of woe about his ex-wives, and commiserated with stories about my failed marriages. It was surreal. He refilled my drink when it emptied and was more smooth and polished than I remembered him being. I guessed we'd both matured.

I considered telling him how badly my mother's death had hurt me, but I couldn't imagine being that honest with him. Part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. This had to be a lead-in to something else. Rod didn't do anything without a reason. Compassion was not one of his failings, and he could never change enough to make it a virtue. I told myself that repeatedly, but still felt my will weakening.

Then my alarms went off. How much had I had to drink? I blinked at the smiling Rod, suddenly wary again. He was now sitting on the same couch as I was and had moved uncomfortably close. Looking down I saw what tripped my alarm. His hand was on my leg. Oh God! He was making a move on me! A wave of revulsion mixed with desire flooded through me. Some part of me wanted him, but I wasn't going to go there again.

"No," I said, moving his hand from my leg.

Surprisingly, he took that with a nod. "You're probably right," he said, standing up and going back to the bar. "We might not be ready for that. Still, if I can't help you feel better that way, there are other options." He dug under the bar, for a small serving platter and turned his back to me.

"Like what?" I asked, the alarms now screaming inside me. "Rod, I think I'd better call it a night before we do something that will undo what goodwill we've built up."

"You're right. I have one last peace offering."

He turned around and set the platter on the low table between us, and I suddenly knew where he was going. He'd laid several lines of cocaine on the mirror-bright surface next to an even larger pile of the stuff. Part of me wanted to slap it off the table or smash Rod in the head with it. More frightening, though, another part of me felt the "tingle." Any addict knew about that desire. No matter how long you'd been clean, it never fully went away. In previous times of stress I'd felt the draw of that insidious white powder, but I'd managed to avoid slipping. So far.

I watched him pull out the tightly rolled hundred he favored as a "tooter" and snort the lines. Then I gulped when he offered it to me. "No," I said weakly. "I gave that up five years ago. It almost destroyed my life. I won't go back to it."

"I'm not telling you to start snorting regularly again," he said seductively, "but this is the worst time in your life and you need something. You just said you didn't have anyone that could be there for you and you know how a line or two picks you up. You feel good. The pain just goes away. Then in a few days, when this is all over, you can just put it back away."

The frightening thing was his logic sounded almost reasonable.

Shaking off the impulse, I dragged myself to my feet. "I should've known this was all an act!" Then I did smash the tray off the table in a cloud of expensive drugs. "You want me to take that shit so I'll be back under your control. I remember how it was and what it did to me." I half-turned to stalk off and fired one more shot at Rod. "I may not be able to toss your sorry ass out of here, but if you value that pretty face of yours, stay the hell away from me."

He grabbed my hand. "Fine, reject me, but I'm doing this for you. This is the only way you'll make it." He slid a small vial into my hand and closed my fingers. "Just in case you change your mind."

I wanted to throw it back in his face, but my instincts and desires warred inside me. Enough of me wanted to do it that I couldn't force myself to just throw it away. I found my hand gripping the vial tightly. "I won't use this," I said defiantly.

In his eyes, I saw a muted flash of something. Was it satisfaction? Then he nodded. "Goodnight, Regan."

Breathing raggedly, I stumbled into the bathroom and showered mechanically, scrubbing the feel of the white powder off my arms and then my entire body. When I felt clean at last, I went to my room and locked the door behind me. I set the vial on my dresser and sat on the bed, staring at it. Could I do coke once and then stop again? Would I be ruining my life all over again? Did it matter anymore?

Silkily, the inner voice told me that I couldn't possibly hurt any worse than I did right now, and that Rod was right. That cocaine would make the pain go away. I could always go back into rehab if I couldn't stop on my own.

I stripped off my robe and turned off the lights, but I could still feel the siren call of the white powder in the darkness. Inside, I knew if I dithered long enough in making my decision, I'd probably give in, and the voice seized on that to urge me not to fight anymore. I was still wrestling with my demons when I fell asleep.