Page 215 of Dangerous Encore
6
Kit
You can tella recovering addict by an excessive need fordopamine.
Sugaraddiction.
Coffeehabit.
Motorcycle.
I enjoy the thrill of my bike, but fuck does Miles have me beat. This place is a paradise for someone who craves steep curves, winding roads, and rushingadrenaline.
It's a strange fucking thing. My heart is pounding. My breath iscatching.
My hands aresteady.
If I'd arrived in a fucking car, I'd beshaking.
Asking for help, for advice, from a guy Ibarelyknow…
A guy who only talks to me 'cause neither one of us wants to hitthebars…
Not looking forwardtoit.
I pack my helmet in my trunk and shift out of my leather jacket. It's a hot day, blue sky, big lemon sun, but there's a beach breeze blowing overthehill.
A soft sound calls my attention. Piano music. It gets louder the closer I get to thehouse.
Though house isn't therightword.
This place is a mansion. A several-million-dollar mansion. It must be half a dozen bedrooms and an equal amount ofbaths.
Despite all the powwows I've had with the Sinful Serenade singer, I've never been to hisplace.
It's not like we'refriends.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against Miles. He's no more annoying than Joel or Ethan. He sings like he's coming, but that's no more disturbing than the way Mal sings like he's in the middle ofafuck.
It'smore…
We're bothsober.
That's all we have incommon.
And hanging out with someone as a sort of mutual sobriety companion situation is a reminder I'm afuckingmess.
A reminder Idon'twant.
Fuck. I need to get out of myheadhere.
He was receptive to my incredibly vaguetexts.
It's time to stop beating aroundthebush.
Ineedhelp.
Advice.
