Satellite-Sequel to God Save My King (Steve Jones FanFic)

Steve-Detox/Retox

I can't say that I was necessarily heart broken when I hobbled up to Dr. Fields' office only to read a sign on the door saying that the doctor wouldn't be in for the week. I was surprised to realize that I did in fact feel a little bummed out, but that was mainly because it meant that I still had to eventually face Kimmy. Knowing we had yet to interact after I had barfed immediately after kissing her, I was anxious as hell to get on with it.

I was eager to tell her that I was finally starting to improve, and that I was forcing my body to detoxify itself. But underneath my excitement was a level of fear knowing that I still had to apologize for how I'd reacted. All I could do at this point was wait until our next meeting and hope that I hadn't just messed up my second chance with her.

Until then, I was determined to keep my mind preoccupied. I had to remain distracted from my addictive tendencies, and instead had to focus on my future now that I had decided that I wanted to live long enough to actually have one. My addictions had had me so wrapped up in my own little world by focusing on my next hit that I had begun to neglect everything and everyone around me.

When it came to distractions, Linda suggested more sex, but I was quick to dismiss her. I couldn't give up one addiction only to double up on another. I much rather preferred Cookie's solution instead: music.

"You need to focus on you. You need to focus on making yourself better. Your music, your career...you've got money, you've got connections. Make it happen."

Make it happen, he'd said.

And so I did.

The next few days, I got to work setting up a makeshift studio in the attic space just above my bedroom. An amp in the corner, guitar resting on top, a piano in the center of the room, sheet music scattered about the place. It was starting to feel like the good old days. I was beginning to feel like the old me, only perhaps a tad wiser. A little better.

Jotting down lyrics was helping me to read and write better than ever before, and focusing on the notes of my guitar made it a little easier to ignore the withdrawals. Still, none of it actually mattered until I showed some sort of consistency. Anybody could claim to have dropped a habit in the span of a couple of days, but only true change could be proven in a form of consistent abstinence.

The ultimate test of my change of character came in the form of Billy Idol stumbling through my door on a Wednesday morning, obviously very drunk, and carrying a little bag of dope with him.

It was apparent that he had fallen off of the wagon, something that was to be expected of any recovering addict. What I didn't understand was why he had to go and bring that shite over to my house. I was on probation, I was recovering, and I was determined to keep it that way this time.

And yet, here I was, sitting alone in my makeshift studio, gazing down ravenously at Billy's unintentional little 'gift'. Cookie hadn't even noticed when Billy had had it grasped in his fist, but I had noticed it. Of course I had. And I swiped it the moment that Paul was too busy catering to Billy's wasted arse to even acknowledge my existence.

Once Paul had Billy all nice and situated on my couch, he hardly even blinked an eye when I said I would be upstairs working on my music. Bless his heart, the poor bloke probably assumed I just wanted to get away from Billy before my own temptations began to overtake me. He would have never guessed that it was all a lie, that rather than focusing on my music, I was practically drooling at the sight of chalky, white powder and looming over this baggy, torn over what I should do next.

I wanted to shoot up, that much I knew. But I had no needles, and nothing to mix it with anyway. Sure, I could just snort the stuff, but something kept stopping me. Or rather, someone. Multiple people, in fact.