Addicted to You

By Laura Kitchell

V Odsbody goes home to Manchester, England for the holidays only to have his family subject him to an intervention for his addiction. To make matters worse, the members of his band, FlameSmith, are in collusion with his family to get him into rehab. With reluctance and a great deal of denial, he is admitted to the rehab center. Everyone is against him, but there’s nothing new in that. He’s a loner and always has been.

Izzy Potts has nursed temperamental, spoiled, and addicted celebrities before, so she hardly blinks when she’s assigned to the care of FlameSmith’s front man. Never mind that she’s a fan. Never mind that even emaciated and racked with the pain of withdrawals, V Odsbody is gorgeous.

Despite her professional demeanor, Izzy has a nurturing and kind way that reaches V through his agony and soothes him to his soul. He’s warned her he’ll have her when he feels human again, and she doubts she’ll have the willpower to deny him. But he’s always lost interest in a woman once he’s had her in his bed, and thanks to the diligence of gossip media, she knows it. They don’t stand a chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Kitchell
• Release date: Feb 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310828782

Laura Kitchell

Laura Kitchell lives in Virginia and was published for the first time in 2007. She became a member of the Quality Novelists Coalition in 2013. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Chesapeake Romance Writers. Connect with her on Facebook at [e-mail] and visit her website at laurakitchell.com.

Book preview

ADDICTED TO YOU

Book Two of FlameSmith in Love

by

Laura Kitchell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

A Quality Novelists Coalition book

A FlameSmith Romance

Book Two: Addicted to You

Copyright© 2015 Laura Kitchell

E-book: Smashwords Edition

ISBN-13: 9781310818782

Cover Artist: Lara Nance

Editor: Karrie Carlsen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Quality Novelists Coalition  QNC. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

I’m not high, V protested, throwing his hands above his head and casting a challenging stare first at his father then at his brother. Look, I appreciate this little intervention you’ve assembled, but it’s unnecessary. I’m thin because we’ve been overseas. You all know I don’t eat well when we travel like that.

His mother’s mouth turned downward in a disapproving frown as she shook her head. Then she unfolded her arms and dropped a clear, unmarked plastic bottle onto the table in front of him. Ten oxycotin capsules rattled noisily.

Those aren’t illegal drugs, Mum. I got those from the chemist. It’s prescription medication from when I sprained my knee on stage last year. Never mind that he couldn’t compose a reason why he would still have the pills much less pack them for a brief holiday visiting his family.

His father stepped forward and set two glass vials of cocaine next to the bottle.

Nope. Not a single excuse came to mind. Bugger.

When his sister, Audrey, tossed a baggie of hashish onto the table, complete with rolling papers and a lighter, he entertained the notion of claiming it as a prescription, but for what? Aw, fuck. With the cocaine staring at him, he surrendered.

I’m creative, he declared. I need—

No, interrupted Reginald, his older brother. You’re an addict with more money that you can handle.

You’ve lost control, accused his father.

Da, I’m in total control, he argued.

I’ve heard enough, said his mum, combing fingers through her short blond hair. If you’d been caught coming through customs with those, you’d have gone to gaol. You’d have ruined our Christmas, not that this problem of yours hasn’t put a real damper on this day. Damn! My biscuits are burning.

His sister ran from the room. I’ll get it.

We call them cookies in America, said V, eying his sister’s retreat.

Don’t change the subject, snapped his mother.

Fine, said V, crossing his arms and sitting back on the sofa. I’ll quit. No problem. I’m not an addict.

That’s total crap, said his brother. You’re stoned right now. Your eyes are so bloodshot they might start bleeding any minute.

Jet lag.

Enough, boys. His father gathered the drugs in both hands and headed for the loo.

Shit! V shot to his feet. He needed those. Flying was torture enough, especially without a woman in his lap to take his mind off strange sensations and his fear of crashing, but no way could he face the ungodly trans-Atlantic flight to Dallas then another unforgiving leg to Los Angeles while suffering withdrawals.

I won’t have these in my house.

Da, wait! Shit, shittety shit-shit! He came to a halt in the wash closet doorway. Look, fine. Flush the marijuana. I only use it to relax and to write new songs. Just please leave me a couple painkillers and one ounce of the cocaine.

His father’s eyes widened a fraction while his mouth set into a thin line. Have you gone raving mad? I said I won’t have this in my house, and I mean it.

Okay. Okay. Um…okay. Think! How about I keep it out in the shed and promise not to use for the rest of my visit?

You won’t be using, that’s for sure, said his mother, coming to the doorway and sending his father an encouraging glance. You’re checking into the Manchester Rehabilitation Center.

Not happening. When his father tipped the entire contents of the plastic bottle into the toilet, V’s heart skipped a beat. Da, wait. I need those.

His father shook his head and sent the weed in next then flushed.

V cried out then bit into his knuckles to keep from screaming. His father emptied both tiny containers of cocaine into the sink. V reached a shaking hand to try and save some, but Reginald appeared and shoved his arm. Water washed the powder down the drain then filled the vials.

Gone. All gone.

He blinked. Who did he know in Manchester, or even London, who could get him some replacements?

His mother slapped him. Hard. I see what you’re thinking, Vernon. Forget it. I’ve already made the arrangements with Dr. Beeville. He’s sending a car for you in the morning, and he’ll conduct your preliminary examination when you arrive.

He followed her to the kitchen. I’m not going to rehab, Mum. I’m returning to L.A. and the band in a week. What would be the point?

She scraped burnt sweet biscuits into the rubbish bin then handed the pan to Audrey to wash. I took care of that, too. Turns out your FlameSmith friends are concerned as well. They’ve agreed you need this and promised that if you check out of the rehabilitation center before the end of January, they’re going to cancel the spring tour.

Codswollop! We need that tour to promote the new album. They’d never agree to that. It could ruin us.

That’s right. Do you want that on your conscience?

His stomach dropped to the floor. He whispered, They wouldn’t.

They would and they will. They love you enough to throw it all away to potentially save your life. You don’t have a choice. She planted fists on her trim hips. You don’t think I’m this evil?

He slowly shook his head.

Well, believe it, Vernon. She pointed at him. I can be as evil as the devil himself if it means saving my boy.

Her words slapped him as surely as if she’d done it with her hand, and he staggered. Not a drug in the world existed that could kill the pain of what he’d done to his brother, Ollie.

* * *

Singing to Halestorm at the bottom of her range and liking how her voice went sort of gravely, Izzy stood in the dining area of her flat and sent a hot iron for another pass over her uniform.

Her flat mate, Beatrice, came and turned down the volume on the iPod’s wall jack. You ought to be singing for a living. Why won’t you consider trying out for Britain’s Got Talent?

That would require I sing in front of people who care what I sound like. Her heart thudded at the idea.

You sound good, Izzy. You sound amazing. And you’re gorgeous. You could be a star.

There aren’t any black Italian-Iranian singers.

Then you’ll be the first. It’ll make you unique. That’s important, you know.

She shook her head. I don’t want to be a star. Maybe someday I’ll get enough courage to sing in front of someone who matters, but not until I’m ready. Not until I’ve had some voice lessons.

Beatrice issued a disgusted huff, went to the sitting room, and picked up the television controller. You don’t need lessons. God gave you the voice of an angel. Well, a sexy angel, if there’s such a creature.

I’m determined. Lessons first. Auditions next.

Her flat mate beamed, setting down the remote without turning on the television. She flipped straight blond hair with fuchsia tips over one shoulder and innocently blinked her green almond-shaped eyes. Do you promise?

Why? Izzy set aside the steaming iron.

Promise.

Fine. It wasn’t like she could ever afford voice lessons. The cheapest she’d found cost twice what she could pay. I promise.

Eep! Her friend did a happy jump then bent and took a thin gift wrapped in green and red foil from under the sofa.

We’ve already exchanged gifts, Izzy said, reluctantly accepting the present.

I know, but I wanted to wait until the right moment. Open it. Beatrice shook tight fists in front of her shoulders and grinned.

Inside, she found an unsealed envelope from which she withdrew a gift certificate worth four weekly voice lessons with the best teacher in Manchester. Master Squidgy. He’d taught a number of singers who’d become world-famous.

She gasped. How did you pay for this? A month? It’s worth a thousand quid.

I didn’t do it alone. Your dad started us with half. Dreamy Dr. Fann donated two hundred! He’s definitely enamored of you. And the rest of us took a collection.

Izzy’s heart stuttered at the thought of singing for Master Squidgy. Plus she’s promised to audition after lessons. What had she done? Holding out the tiniest glimmer of hope, she sheepishly asked, Lessons are in six months, right? I mean, when I checked in October, he didn’t have any class openings until June.

Next week! Her flat mate squealed then spun around in an impressive twist of her lithe body. He had a cancellation. Your first lesson is the Friday after New Year’s.

The earth trembled under her wobbly legs. Next week?

The smile melted from her friend’s pretty face. It’ll be fine. Don’t have a heart attack. Do you want to sit?

Izzy shook her head and inhaled a steadying breath. I can do this, right?

Of course you can! Beatrice patted her shoulder. You’re going to be his best student yet.

* * *

Vernon, greeted Dr. Beeville who offered his well-manicured hand. I’d say it’s good to see you, but quite frankly, I’ve seen you looking better.

V took the balding, heavyset man’s hand and squeezed it harder than necessary while giving it three pumps. I don’t need to be here. I’m perfectly sound.

Maybe so. Maybe so. The man, a friend of his mum’s from their school days, moved his portly body blanketed in a white lab coat to a counter and indicated an exam table. Have a seat. Let’s take some blood, shall we?

V hated needles. In horror, he eyed a drawer full of plastic-wrapped syringes. Doesn’t a tech take the blood?

Dr. Beeville offered an indulgent smile. You’re a celebrity, Vernon. We always give our celebrity guests special treatment. Besides, the tech on duty this morning, though perfectly capable, is young and a bit of a silly girl when it comes to stars. We wouldn’t want nervous hands on you, now would we?

V gulped. No. No nervous hands. Really, Doc. This isn’t necessary. I don’t have a drug problem.

Of course you don’t. Let’s get confirmation. The man approached with the syringe.

He backed toward the door, but a hand between his shoulder blades stopped his retreat. He glanced over his shoulder into the steady, firm gaze of a burly orderly.

Have a seat, please, said the doctor. This will only take a minute.

V’s pounding heart began to race into an erratic beat, and sweat broke out across his forehead. Um, sorry. This isn’t going to happen.

The orderly came and took him by the arm.

V yanked free and punched the guy in the face. A second man ran in and tackled him to the floor.

In a panic to escape, V shouted, Unhand me!

A sharp pinch in his ass made him startle, and then his body went limp. His limbs stopped obeying, and his head sank to rest on the floor. No!

Dr. Beeville stood shaking his head. Then V’s vision blurred, colors swam, and darkness closed around him.

Chapter Two

The moment Izzy entered the center’s staff door, Beatrice came running on her silent nurse’s shoes. Where’ve you been?

Trying to find a place to park. The car park is full. I had to walk bloody half a mile. What’s going on?

One of the band members of FlameSmith checked in yesterday. There’s a mob of news people filling the foyer.

That explains a lot. She reached up and tucked a fuchsia spike of hair back into her friend’s not great bun and headed for the locker room.

"Aren’t you excited? They’re one of your favorite bands and they’re from right here in Manchester. Aren’t you at least curious to know who it is?"

She removed her scarf and coat and hung them with her handbag in her locker. Looping a stethoscope around her neck, she said, Fine. Who is he then?

No idea.

Izzy rolled her eyes and laughed lightly. You’re all aflutter and you don’t even know which band member’s here?

Does it matter? They’re all hot. I hope it’s not the drummer. He’s married. But any of the others would entice me to sneak into his room for a bit of a chat up…or more. Beatrice giggled.

And risk your job? I hardly believe it. She headed for the lift.

Her friend kept pace. Dr. Beeville’s in charge, and he’s asking for you particularly. Special assignment is my guess. Maybe to our FlameSmith friend? Mmm?

Izzy pressed the lift’s call button and faced her flat mate. "First, nobody in FlameSmith is our friend. Second, Beeville’s likely needing me to confirm the medication order got made for the patient in room thirty-one. And finally, I’ll see you in four hours for our meal break."

The lift doors opened on a squeak of rubber against metal and a delayed, halfhearted ding that sounded more like prang. She offered her friend a small wave and stepped inside.

As the doors closed, she hit button three and sighed heavily. Why couldn’t she have an easy day? In fact, she desperately needed an easy week to help her prepare for making an absolute fool of herself in front of Master Squidgy next Friday. At least the holiday had afforded her a short week. Only three days on shift and then the weekend.

At the north side third floor nurse’s station, she supplied her pockets with the usual pens, tongue depressors, and mints. She passed a smile of greeting to a new nurse who updated a patient record. She stepped to the hallway as her handoff partner approached.

Good morning, Jane, she greeted. How was last night?

Quiet. The night nurse handed her a checklist clipboard. Jonesy signed her waivers, and Dr. Beeville has her discharge orders. She goes home this afternoon.

Brilliant. My hopes are high for that one. Izzy’s heart warmed for the mother of two who had come in two months ago with alcohol poisoning. She hoped the gentle woman had the strength to stay clean and in contact with her support sponsor. How’s Sean?

Not well. He made another attempt shortly after midnight. I caught him before he could rip a fork into his arm.

We’ll need to be more diligent with him, Izzy said with a nod, making a note on the checklist. Dr. Fann had mentioned transferring him to the psychiatric wing. Maybe they’ll do that this week.

And bad news—

Miss Potts, called Dr. Beeville from his office door.

Jane’s lips disappeared completely into a tense line. Well, you’ll hear about it from him. See you tonight.

Right then. Thanks. She headed for the doctor’s office, her stomach heavy with dread. Jane had tried to warn her. Now that they’d passed Christmas, would the center begin sacking like they had last year? Was she the first to lose her job?

Close the door, he said, already seated behind his desk.

The weight in her stomach grew heavier. She closed the door, took a seat in front of his desk, and settled the clipboard to her lap.

Miss Potts, we have a most delicate case come to us. Due to its severity and nature, I’m limiting staff contact. Only the very best will do, under the circumstances, so I’ve assigned you and Miss Clendon. You’ll each be on twelve hour shifts with Sundays off.

She flinched. In the same breath where he’d called her their best, he robbed her of her weekends. Twelve hours a day, six days a week. Dr. Beeville—

Overtime is approved, and if you see this patient to wellness and recovery, there’ll be a pay increase for you. I’m not asking.

You’re not asking. Right. Bad news, indeed. Though the overtime and pay raise came as a welcome bonus, she’d be in desperate need of a holiday. How long?

Five weeks starting today.

Part of her rejoiced at this exceedingly excellent excuse as to why she wouldn’t be able to take those voice lessons after all, and part of her dreaded breaking the news since her father and friends had paid so much.

You look pale, Miss Potts, which considering your lovely brown skin, is alarming. He stood. Are you going to pass out? Do you need to have a lay down?

She gritted her teeth. Damn it. "Would there be any way I could have Fridays instead of Sundays? I would, of