You Must Be the One

Gold & Silver- Success 1/3

C/W: Drug use, dark themes. AU.

Rock on, Gold Dust Woman
Take your silver spoon, dig your grave
Heartless challenge
Pick your path and I'll pray

"What's your definition of "making it?" And take your time; there's no right or wrong answer."

She shifted uncomfortably in the hard backed plastic chair. It made sense why they were meeting at a neutral place, it was in the rules (she sort of skimmed them), but that didn't mean it couldn't be somewhere with more comfortable seats. Hell, she would've been perfectly content in Starbucks.

This guy looked like he didn't waste money on $5 coffee, though. She didn't dare suggest it. He made sponsor number five. She'd promised Regina who ran the chapter of NA she decided (more like court ordered) to go to that she'd be on her best behavior this time. No snarky comments, no acting like a standoffish dick, no getting up and walking out. She was skeptical of anyone well intentioned, because it usually wasn't for unselfish reasons, (not to mention his poor taste in dining establishments) but Sam really was her last hope.

At the very least, he seemed okay. A little older than her dad, but kind of gruff in a similar way that was strangely comforting. He presented himself like the type who wouldn't let her get away with shit, hold her accountable, and with a clearer head now, she knew that was exactly what she needed.

Still, coming right in with the hard hitting questions was kind of off putting and she found herself shrugging, chewing on a corner of her lip.

"Oh, okay, wow," she fished through her bag until her fingers wrapped around the cigarette poking invitingly out of the pack. "Thought maybe we could get to know each other first. Discuss politics or religion. Easy shit like that."

Her attempt at humor didn't get Sam to so much as crack a smile.

"Guess not."

She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, balancing it between her teeth and tongue. "You want one?" She asked when she noticed him looking at her.

"You're not allowed to smoke in here," he replied so sternly that she instantly felt guilty and shoved the offending object back into the confines of her large Versace bag. Damn, he was good.

"Wasn't gonna actually light it," she muttered, throughly chagrined.

Sam went on as if he didn't hear her protest. "So," he folded his hands on the Formica table top, "making it. What does it mean to you, Stefani? I'm interested to hear your thoughts."

It was one of those analytical questions a shrink would ask and she was far more interested in how long it took him to grow that moustache of his... it was pretty impressive, actually.

She figured he wasn't going to let up until she answered and coupled with the fact she was inches away from getting kicked out of a program she was legally required to be in, she sighed, picked at a nail and tried to come up with something he'd accept.

"Um," she took a sip of coffee, making a face. "I guess to me... making it means being famous? Rich? Making movies with people everyone knows...Streep, DeNiro. Nice house, expensive car. Not having to worry about picking between having the lights on and eating?"

Sam regarded her with a slight nod. "Do you think you've made it, then? If that's how you define success?"

She still couldn't see exactly what he was getting at and moreso, she felt like she was on trial.

If there's one thing having a thick skin has taught her, it was that it didn't serve to completely shield how fucking angry she got when someone was judging her.