Page 72 of Vandal Unbound

“Delay everything to do with drinking. If the party starts at seven, don’t have a drink till eight. When you decide you’re ready to go to the bar to order, see if you can sit with thatimpulse for another ten or fifteen minutes before you get up. And once you have a drink in front of you wait five minutes before you take the first sip, then five before you take another.”

“What’s five or ten minutes gonna do?” I ask.

Doc smiles. “It’ll prove to you that you can wait.”

I think about all the times lately I’ve reached for the whiskey before I even consciously made the decision to drink it. I’ve been on autopilot. Numbing before the pain can crack through. Running from what happened that night.

“What if I still want a drink after the ten minutes?”

“In an ideal world, you’d say no and walk away, but I also understand that the world you live in means that may not always be feasible. So then have one, but consciously, and remember that your recovery cannot become another performance for everybody else.”

Earlier in our conversation, Doc called me out because I’d said things like I owed it to Knox or my best friend to have a good life, or that I want to get better for Elsie and Daisy. She reminded me that I didn’t owe anybody anything. Not my club. Not my mother. Not my president. And not Daisy and Elsie.

“Understood.”

“We’ll talk some more when you get home,” she says. “I’m very glad that Knox thought it was a good idea for us to meet in person. It’s a good start. Should we do the same time next week?”

That’s the other thing that’s weird about this whole meeting. It’s midnight when we’re done. Dark outside. Apparently, once a week, Doc holds a late-night clinic for people Switch knows.

I nod, because I don’t know how to express my gratitude. She opens the office door for me to leave. “You didn’t lose because somebody hurt you. You won because you came through it.”

I’m still thinking about her words when we pull up to the Jersey clubhouse an hour later. Havoc drove the truck we rentedat the airport and seemed to understand without me telling him that I needed to process what Doc had said. Coming from a small town, I think it’s always good to see how these city clubs function, but once I step inside, I realize it’s just the same as any other: Music blasts while prospects shout over each other. Smoke lingers near the ceiling.

“There he is,” yells Clutch as he gets up from the sofa. “The man. The myth. The legend.” When he reaches me, he pulls me in for a hug. “I think I could probably take you now.”

I laugh at that. The vice president of the New Jersey chapter is a fighter, like me. We’ve come up against each other many of the years at Sturgis during inter-club fight nights. He hasn’t beaten me yet.

“You wanna test that theory?” I ask with more confidence than I actually feel.

“As hilarious as that would be,” Bates, the club’s enforcer says, “there’s enough blood spilling outside those doors right now—we don’t need to be bringing it in here.”

He shakes my hand enthusiastically. “I’ve long said you guys should come visit. Sorry these are the circumstances, but we’re glad you’re here.”

I glance over to the bar and…

It’s empty.

Every single bottle is removed from the shelves. Then I notice no one has a beer in their hand. Instead, there are two large coffee thermoses and a shit ton of baked goods.

Switch slaps me on the back. “Niro got a bee in his bonnet about makingpastelito de guayabafor you. Said something about them being popular in Florida.”

He doesn’t mention the lack of alcohol. I have to admit to myself I was looking forward to my first drink in ten days, but as I remember what Doc said and sit with it for a couple of seconds, I realize I don’t really need one.

“It’spastelito de guayaba y queso, fuck-nut,” Niro says.

“My favorite,” Havoc says, heading over to the bar to grab one. “There’s a little bakery in town that sells them, but these look better.”

Niro turns around and starts hammering his arms up and down with his middle finger elevated like he’s firing a semi-automatic in a crowded room. “Told you they’d fucking love them.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t like guava, and I’m gonna force at least three down my throat to show my appreciation.

King, the national president, appears from the corridor I assume leads to their rooms. He looks…happier. Content. Like a man finally comfortable in his own skin.

And I envy him that.

“Vandal,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Hope spending time with Switch and Sophia was useful.”

“Yeah. More than you know.”