Addicted (A Billionaire Romance Novel)

  Addicted

  A Billionaire Romance

  Addicted

  By Aubrey Michelle

  Copyright 2015 Aubrey Michelle

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real people, places, or events is strictly coincidental. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations used in reviewing the book.

  To check out the rest of Aubrey Michelle’s catalog on Amazon, CLICK HERE!

  Mailing List

  STAY IN TOUCH FOR UPDATES, DISCOUNTS, AND OPPORTUNITIES TO GET ADVANCED READER COPIES OF MY NEXT BOOK!

  If you sign up for my mailing, you have my word that I will not fill your inbox with spam. I will send you advance notification before I launch my next book, so that you can get it at a discounted price!

  CLICK HERE to subscribe!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Other Books

  Excerpts

  Contact Me

  Prologue

  I would have to say that I hit rock bottom about a year ago. Nobody’s ever dealt the perfect hand, but mine was extraordinarily shitty. If you had told me 10 years ago that I would’ve gotten into the college of my dreams only to lose it all, I would’ve told you that you were crazy. I was always in charge of my life, but the shit poker hands I was dealt kept coming. It was like I was waiting to hit that royal flush on the river, but that river washed my hand right out from underneath me.

  My mom and dad, Tommy and Cindy Morris, raised my two sisters and me. We were four years apart. Theresa was born in ’76, I was born in 1980 and Caroline in ’84. We were never the type of girls who played with dolls while helping our mom bake. No, we were the rowdy, rambunctious kids who built a secret fort in the wooded area near our house and pretended that bad guys were trying to break in. My older sister, Theresa, would always guide us in our play; she had such a vivid imagination. Typically she and my little sister, Caroline, would hide in the secret fort while I played the villain. She always came up with the most creative ways to block off all the entrances to keep her and my little sister safe, while I ‘broke in’.

  Since my parents were poor, most of our clothes were hand-me-downs or thrift store specials. I can still hear my mother’s voice, bragging about her deals of the day. “Oh, Tommy! Look what I got the girls today! The Thrifty Nifty had most of their fall clothes marked with orange stickers; I only paid thirty cents for each pair of blue jeans!” My sisters and I would scan each other’s faces with dread, hoping the jeans were for each other instead of ourselves. But mom never left any of us out—we all got ‘new’ blue jeans that day. When we’d play in the woods near our house, in our secret fort, we’d rip up some of our old clothes and use them as bandanas to cover our face. It served two purposes really. Not only would we have something to play with, but maybe mom would buy us new clothes.

  As we grew up, we would sneak boys into that very same fort. Since I was the middle child, my older—and more experienced—sister taught me how to sneak boys in and out of it without getting caught. I would later hand down those same secrets to my little sister. While I was in high school, my father landed a supervisory position within his company and worked his way up to general manager. Things were looking up for a change. Suddenly, there was more money to go around. Theresa no longer lived at home, which meant mom would splurge and buy my little sister and me brand new clothes from the store. Everyone started to view me differently, which was great. The kids quit making fun of our clothes, I made new friends and my grades improved.

  Theresa moved away right after she finished high school because she was pregnant. She and her boyfriend, now husband, were going to have a baby. Joe popped the question shortly after they found out she was expecting, and they were married before Dillon was born. Her life always seemed like that of a fairy tale. Girl meets boy, falls in love, has a baby, gets married and lives happily ever after. Okay, maybe that’s a little out of order but, for her, it worked. That was far from my story, though. I could only wish that my story was that simple or easy.

  During my senior year of high school, I applied for college and was accepted! I’ll never forget the day that I opened the acceptance letter. Mom had checked the mail that afternoon and placed the letter on my bed. When I came home, I found it addressed to me, Audrey Morris, and began to tear the envelope open. My hands became clammy, my heart began to race and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. I’d only applied to two colleges and this letter, the one that was in my hands, was the one from my top choice—University of Missouri-Kansas City.

  My mouth was dry and I had trouble swallowing as I held the folded letter in my hand. The only thing that separated me from knowing whether I was accepted or not was unfolding the paper. It took several moments for me to muster the courage to do such an easy task: unfold the crisp sheet of paper. Slowly, I unfolded the letter but couldn’t bring my eyes to focus on the words. Panic and fear were getting the best of me. What if it wasn’t the response I’d been hoping for? What would I do then? Glancing down at the paper, I skimmed over the first few lines and my jaw dropped as I read “Congratulations”. I made it! I collapsed on my bed, hugging that folded piece of paper until I composed myself.

  “Mom! Dad!” I shouted as I lunged out of the bed.

  They looked at me with surprise as they watched me race through the kitchen since I wasn’t the type to quickly become excited.

  “I got in! They accepted me!” I rejoiced as I hopped up and down.

  “Who?” my mother asked.

  “UMKC!” I shouted as I bounced up and down, hugging her arm.

  “That’s great! Have you decided what you’ll study?”

  “Yes, I was hoping to get into UMKC to Major in the Art History program.”

  “That’ll be a good fit for you. Your dad and I are so proud of you!” she said as she hugged me.

  I was on cloud nine for the rest of summer and during the beginning of the school year. All of my professors were wonderful, especially Professor Kausler; she was amazing. Her classes were always fun, and she showed an interest in each and every student. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She was friendly, funny and made her classes exciting. And because of her, I almost stayed in school—almost.

  During my freshman year in college, someone dropped flyers all over the hall for a frat party. One of my friends talked me into going, and I’m glad I did. During that party, I met this guy named Chad Wetzel. He was a frat brother with an extremely cocky, yet charming, personality. The music was thumping so hard that you could feel your loins vibrating with each song that played. There was plenty of booze going around, but back then I wasn’t the drinking type. Chad filled a red plastic cup from the keg and brought me a beer. I told him I didn’t drink, but he insisted that I have beer with him. “It’ll be fun,” he said. Though, I didn’t know much about him at that moment, he was right. The music was too loud to talk inside, so we headed to the backyard. Out on the back patio, he cleaned out a couple of folded lawn chairs, where we sat talking, just getting to know each other. He was hilarious and definitely a ladies man. Chad knew all the right things to say. I was completely captivated by this handsome frat boy that I’d only known for a few hours. By the end of the n
ight, we’d exchanged phone numbers and later, began casually dating for a brief time.

  Chad and I were never an exclusive item; we were polar opposites, but we enjoyed each other’s company. Shortly after meeting him, I took a job working in the library that was on campus to help pay for some of my school. Mom and dad’s money only went so far, and they were supporting my little sister who still lived at home. Working at the library allowed me to meet Rob Lawrence. After a few casual dates with him, we became an exclusive item. We had quite a bit more in common than Chad and I. Dating Rob would change my life and alter its path forever, but of course, you can never predict the future or foreshadow what might happen next. Our lives are nothing more than a chain of events that are connected by tiny dots. Those dots become milestones and turning points, and this was a turning point that I wish I could relive again; it was the best one in my life.

  After dating for most of the year, I became pregnant with my son, Alex. Rob and I were thrilled to have a baby, but it also meant that I would have to drop out of college. There was no way that I could single handedly take care of an infant, work and attend college. Sure, Rob said he would help, but it only lasted so long. Not long after Alex was born, Rob said that he wanted to pursue his career in music in Washington. I was crushed. “How can you just walk away from our baby?” I asked him. His response was, “I have to put myself first.” After that, I never saw him again, though, he would write an occasional letter asking how the baby and I were doing. I would always write back, including a picture of the baby, and give updates on new milestones he’d reached such as rolling over, talking and walking.

  With Rob out of the picture, I focused all of my time and attention on my bundle of joy. Alex was beautiful and dazzling; any mother would be proud to have a son like him. My sisters, of course, went crazy over him and spoiled him any chance they got. I was happy living our own little life. The only regret that I had—and any mother will tell you this—is that I didn’t have enough time to spend with him. Working a full-time job is hard, especially when you’re a single mother. If I could go back in time, I would’ve quit that job to stay at home with my baby.

  My entire world was turned upside down when Alex was just six years old. Life would never be the same. It was his kindergarten year, and he’d made lots of friends in his class. He was outgoing, funny, smart and very cute. His short brown hair had a cowlick, on the right side, so I always had to comb it over to the left, following its natural part. Alex’s eyes matched his dad’s; they were a bright, sparkling emerald which complemented the tiny brown freckles that were sprinkled across the top of his nose. His teacher, Mrs. Hannakee, always bragged how polite he was and how much he participated in classroom discussion and activities.

  I cannot tell you how much it hurt, the pain that I felt, the day he died. Tragic doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. The short time that he spent with me on this Earth has defined my outlook on things. I know you’ve heard the saying that life’s too short, and it truly is. You always take things for granted, such as your child laughing, playing and cuddling you before bed. What I wouldn’t give to hug him one last time.

  His death made headlines in the local newspaper. I gave his kindergarten photograph to the journalist who was covering his story and the dangers of leaving children to play outside, unsupervised. Alex was the glue that held me together, my pride and joy. We spent so many nights hanging out in front of the television watching his favorite cartoons while stuffing our faces with, his favorite, pizza. Every Friday when I got paid, we’d go to the grocery store to buy junk food for the night and we’d usually watch a funny movie or show together. He was my best friend, and when I lost him, a small part of me died with him. When I lost him, I seriously doubted that I could ever get close to another person. He was my everything, and soon, I began to close myself off to friends and family as my depression started to set in. It was nothing personal; I just couldn’t allow myself to be in a close relationship—with anyone.

  To deal with the pain and disparity of his loss, my doctor prescribed me anti-depressants and sleeping medication. When I first began taking them, the doctor warned me about the risks, as did the pharmacist, of becoming addicted. I blew them off. How could these tiny pills cause an addiction? It didn’t take long for me to get dependent on them, and soon I was addicted to them. Running out of my prescriptions before they were due, I’d call my doctor and beg for a refill. I’d lie and say that my anxiety was worsening. My doctor could tell that my habit was becoming an addiction and tried to ween me off of them. Initially, I attempted to roll with the punches, but reality crippled me. I couldn’t cope with the loss of my son and turned to street drugs.

  At first, it was Oxy’s, Xanax, and Valium. I was paying forty bucks a pop for one pill though my dealer would sometimes hook me up with a little extra on my bad days. They quickly became unaffordable, which caused me to seek out other drugs. And let me tell you right now, I’d never done a drug in my life before Alex passed away. I never experimented in high school or college. My dealer told me that he had some heroin that I could try—on the house. At first, I rejected the idea. It’s no secret that heroin’s some pretty serious shit. Danny, my dealer, said that he could slip me five envelopes of heroin for the price of one pill. Again, I resisted.

  “I’m not shooting anything into my veins,” I protested.

  “You don’t have to. You can grind it up a little and snort it,” he reassured me. “Come on, it’s on the house. The first one always is,” he said with a sly smile on his face.

  Reluctant to try it, but still seeking my high, I agreed. It was nice at first. You know, it was a lot cheaper than my pill habit, and the rush was euphoric. Over time, I could tell that I was becoming addicted, but I couldn’t stop myself. As I developed a tolerance to it, snorting it was no longer working. The highs weren’t the same, and they didn’t last nearly as long. Before I knew it, I was spending the same amount that I was when I was popping pills. I went back to Danny, he suggested that I smoke it. The rush that I experienced with smoking it gave me a high that I’d never had before—and I loved it! Being the junky that I was becoming, that didn’t last long either. The next step, he told me, was shooting it. Refusing to mainline it, I continued smoking it and popping pills to go along with it. There were days that went by where I didn’t know whether I was coming or going, but that only lasted for so long. Eventually, I caved and gave into my addiction and began shooting it.

  My sister Theresa came over one day to check on me. She’d been trying to reach me by phone but when I didn’t answer, she became alarmed. My dealer had sold me bad heroin, and if you think there’s no such thing, think again. He’d just gotten a new batch and said it was supposed to blow me away; that, it almost did. When my sister came to my house and knocked on the door, there was no response. My car was there and she could hear the television in the living room, so she decided to break in. She found my near lifeless body unconscious on the bed with a needle barely sticking out of my vein and a belt tied around my skinny arm. If it weren’t for her calling an ambulance, I would’ve died. You’ve likely heard of Mother Theresa, well, meet my Sister Theresa—my lifesaver.

  After spending time in rehab, I’ve finally gotten my life together and have just celebrated six months of sobriety. It’s been a tough journey, a struggle to make the right decisions, but I’m glad to be alive. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing is ever guaranteed. I’ve also learned to accept the things I cannot change—that’s the Serenity Prayer—which I have to remind myself every day. My hope is that one day, I will be able to fill the void that’s been in my heart since I lost Alex, though I don’t know if that’s possible. Even though he had tiny feet, it would take some mighty big shoes to make me feel complete again.

  Chapter One

  During my time in rehab, I learned many things. One of the things that my counselor and peers, taught me was to accept the things I cannot change. Let me tell you, that’s easier s
aid than done. It’s hard to accept the facts of life. You always wish you had a do-over or a fresh slate. I know that I can’t change that my son is gone, which is hard to accept, but I learned that the grass is never greener on the other side. During my stay at Life Tree Rehab Center, I realized that it was better that I had the opportunity to experience motherhood than to have never had it at all. Some of the women there cried because they’d gotten pregnant during their addiction and either lost the baby or were forced to give it up. The state deemed them as unfit mothers; at least I was able to experience the joys of having Alex. Some of the women there confessed to abortions. I must admit, abortion was never anything that crossed my mind during my pregnancy with my son.

  When I first began the treatment program, I had some serious soul searching ahead of me. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in complete denial about everything in my life. My sister, Theresa, had made life seem so simple. I guess I expected my life to be a love story like hers, but mine was a total disaster. When Rob left Alex and me, to say I was hurt would be an understatement. I always asked him about getting engaged and getting married; he blew me off. My mom told me that it was normal for younger men to be afraid of commitment and that I should just give him time. My time ran out when he left. The women at the rehab center, ironically, had similar stories.