Page 19 of California Wild

Nothing but himself.

Jesse stripped down to his boxers, tossing his jeans onto the floor, not bothering with the lights.

The bed creaked under his weight as he collapsed onto the mattress, exhausted but nowhere near sleep.

His body ached, but not from work.

Not from running or lifting or training.

From being awake.

From fighting it.

From the weight of himself.

He stared at the ceiling, his hands resting on his chest, fingertips pressing against his ribs like he was trying to keep something inside from slipping out.

The itch was there.

It was always there.

Like a shadow in his blood, a whisper curling at the edges of his brain.

The need. The hunger.

A drink would take the edge off. A few shots, just to turn down the volume in his head.

A hit would smooth it out. Silence the restless energy, that pulse of static that never fucking stops.

One drink.

One hit.

One moment of relief.

That’s all it would take.

Jesse clenched his jaw, pressing his hands harder against his chest.

No.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

He had been fighting for three hundred and sixty-five days.

Three hundred and sixty-five nights just like this one.

And the only reason he hadn’t given in?

Because he knew if he fell, he’d never get back up. Do it again—and die. He knew it.

No one talked about that part. Not in NA, not in therapy, not in the bullshit inspirational recovery stories people loved to throw around. No one warned you that when the highs and the crasheswere gone, you were left with only yourself, convincing yourself that being alive is better than easing the pain one last time.

And for Jesse?

That was the hardest fucking part.

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