Tyke Douglas, the bass player for the rock band, Black Falcon, will be arriving via private transportation tomorrow morning. Tyke has been enrolled by his twin brother, Trip, with Tyke’s permission. The client has had two DUIs in the past year, and reportedly has issues with prescription and recreational drugs as well.
I tap my bottom lip, curious about the guy, wanting to know more than the small report on the client tells me. I quickly minimize the screen and pull up Google, typing Mr. Douglas’ name into the search engine along with his band’s name. Within seconds, mug shots pop up on my screen, along with the tabloid reports on the downward spiral of Black Falcon. I flip through more photos and come across one where his eyes are closed as he strums a guitar while wearing a sleeveless shirt, displaying his vast array of tattoos perfectly. While his body appears to be absolutely banging, I’m stuck on the sadness on his face—like he’s completely lost in the song he’s playing.
I click on the biography link listed for Mr. Douglas, but it shows a combined history for both him and his twin brother.
Trip Douglas (born October 14th), is the drummer for the American heavy metal band Black Falcon. Best known for being the crazier of the two Douglas Twins, Trip’s triple-thumping foot pedal sound has become one of the band’s trademarks.
Alongside his twin brother, Tyke, Trip began playing instruments under the guidance of his musician father, but his interest in playing in a band grew once he discovered his love for hard rock music. He joined a band called Dingy while in high school with his brother Tyke and his best friend, Zachary ‘Riff’ Oliver. Later, the band was renamed to Black Falcon after the addition of the band’s new front man, Noel Falcon.
Trip also enjoys extreme spots, such as dirt bike riding, rock climbing, and sky diving—making him the most adventurous member of the band. His dream is to one day climb Mount Everest.
Tyke Douglas (born October 14th), is the bassist for the American heavy metal band Black Falcon. Best known for being a key songwriter for the band, Tyke’s obsession with detail always seems to push the songs to a level of perfection rarely achieved by other bands.
Tyke also enjoys the arts, attending gallery openings and poetry events whenever his schedule allows—making him the most cultured member of the band. His dream to one day branch out and share his other artistic abilities with the world is something he hopes to accomplish in the very near future.
Combined Bios:
Trip and Tyke began playing instruments under the guidance of their musician father, but their interest in playing in a band grew once they discovered a mutual love for hard rock music. They joined a band called Dingy while in high school, accompanied by their best friend, Zachary ‘Riff’ Oliver. Later the band was renamed Black Falcon after the addition of the band’s new front man, Noel Falcon.
The band’s first record, Hell in a Hand Basket, went double platinum, making Black Falcon a force to be reckoned with. They’ve released two additional albums since then, and their latest single, “Ball Busting Bitch” is currently on Billboard’s Top 40.
They currently reside in Kentucky, near their other band mates.
As I read through his bio, I can’t help but notice how Tyke Douglas is consistently lumped in with his brother, as opposed to giving him his own identity. Being a twin myself, I can totally relate to this issue. It’s all too easy for people to see you as the same person as your twin. It’s what happened with Annie and me.
I flip through the rest of the links, studying more pictures of Tyke. He’s very easy on the eyes with his tall frame, tan complexion, and light hair. Even though he and Trip are twins, their hair sets them apart, making it very easy to tell the difference between them. The more I stare at the man on my screen, the more addicted I become to his profile. He’s devastatingly handsome, and the thought of how attracted I am to just his mere picture scares the shit out of me.
How am I ever supposed to concentrate on helping this man when he’s my own personal brand of tattooed man-flavored candy? This will prove to be a very difficult task, for sure. The best I can hope for is to find that he’s simply photogenic and absolutely hideous in person.
I close my laptop and set it on my nightstand before I tug my glasses from my face and set them on top of it. I double-check my alarm clock and then snuggle down in my bed after offering up a little prayer that I’ll be able to contain myself tomorrow. If Tyke is the stereotypical bad-boy rocker that he appears to be, I’ll need all the help I can get to keep from jumping his bones and jeopardizing the job I’ve worked so hard to get.
“Pain Killer” – Three Days Grace
I rub my face as Trip pulls into the drive of Serenity Hills. “Are you completely sure this is necessary? Really, I’m fine.”
He turns his head in my direction and raises an eyebrow. “Take a good look in the mirror again and then tell me you don’t need help.”
I sigh as I stare at my own reflection in the visor mirror; the angry bruises surrounding my left eye are instant reminders of what happened a few days ago.
I reach up and gingerly trace the wound with my fingertip. “It was an accident. I told you I’m done drinking, and that shit won’t happen again.”
My brother adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “You need to stop making promises you have no intentions of keeping.”
“I swear it this time. I’m done. I’ve had enough,” I fire back, angry that he doubts my sincerity.
Trip pulls up to a circular driveway in front of a huge white house. “I want to believe that, Tyke, but I can’t take the chance of you trying to hurt yourself again.”
“For the last time, I wasn’t trying to—” Trip holds his hand up, instantly cutting me off.
“I was there, Tyke. In the hospital when they brought you in. You were so out of it you don’t remember telling me you were disappointed that you weren’t dead.” Trip’s eyes soften. “If you won’t talk to me, then you have to talk to someone—someone who can help you work through this. I feel like I’m not that person for you. Whenever we try to talk, all I seem to do is make shit worse. It would kill me if something happened to you, so please, for me, just spend some time here and get things off your chest.”
I chew on the corner of my thumb. He’s right. I don’t remember admitting to him how I really felt that night, right before I crashed the Escalade into a concrete wall. I had been thinking I’d be better off dead, but that wasn’t meant for others to hear. I don’t feel that way now—at least, I don’t think so. But alcohol and mood enhancers have a way of bringing out my innermost demons.
“Okay, but I promise you, I won’t be here long,” I tell my brother, doing my best to sound confident.
Trip smiles. “Good. I need my brother back.”
The moment we get out of the car, we’re met by a tall man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a gray suit, and a huge black guy with a bald head standing on the wraparound porch near the front door of the building.
After I take in the large arms the black guy has crossed over his chest, my eyes flit to Trip as he pops the trunk. “Are you sure this isn’t a fucking prison?”
My brother’s eyes snap in the direction of the two men and then he shrugs. “You’re being paranoid. Looks like a nice place to me. Come on.”
I grab my duffel bag from the trunk and take my guitar case, my baby inside it, from Trip before stalking toward the porch. Dread fills me already. Agreeing to come to the place was probably a big fucking mistake.
The graying man gives me a small smile and extends his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Douglas. I’m Dr. Shepherd, staff physician here at Serenity Hills, and this is Timothy, our staff nurse. I will be overseeing your medical treatment while you’re here.”
He moves on to shake Trip’s hand. “As discussed on the phone, we have private accommodations for him at the main house and will provide the utmost professional care.”
Trip sighs, like he’s relieved. “Thank you. That’s reassuring.”
“We’ll give you a
moment to say your good-byes,” Dr. Shepherd tells us as he and Timothy step back toward the large, white double wooden doors at the entrance, but they don’t leave us alone completely.
It would be easy for me to hate my brother for forcing me to come to this place. This isn’t going to be a gentle ride—more like being the captain of a ship headed straight for hell. While I don’t believe I’m “addicted” to anything, I do know that my body has become dependent on my recreational drugs of choice. Every time I go for a prolonged period of time without something in my system, my body begins to go haywire, its circuits overloading and making it behave erratically. Luckily, I haven’t developed the junkie shakes.
My brother wraps me in a tight hug. “I’ll see you soon, man.”
I clear my throat, choking back the heavy lump building there as it finally strikes me that I won’t be seeing him for a while. “Okay.”
Trip turns to me, his eyes sad as they flick from the floor of the porch up to me. “Guess this is it, brother. Be sure to call me every chance you get.”
“I will,” I say.
Without another word, Trip turns away from me and heads for his car. I stand there, watching as he gets into the driver’s seat of his Mustang, firing up the engine before heading back down the drive and out of sight.
“All right, first things first, Timothy will go ahead and search your belongings and get inventory.” I whip around and eyeball Dr. Shepherd as he gives his henchman orders.
I tighten my grip on my duffel bag as the nurse takes a step toward me. “Hold on just a goddamn minute. You aren’t going through my things.”
Dr. Shepherd holds his hands out palm up. “Tyke, I know you may not understand or agree with some of our methods—lack of personal privacy being one of them—but I assure you that we are merely looking for contraband items that could hinder the recovery efforts of both yourself and those around you. We have a zero tolerance policy here, and we search all personal items brought into our treatment center.”
I cling to my bag, tucking it tightly against my chest. “Can’t you just take my word that there’s nothing in there?”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.” He extends this hand. “If you want to stay here and begin treatment, this isn’t up for discussion.”
Fuck.
My lungs fill with air and I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, before blowing it out through my nose. If I tell them to fuck off, and take off walking, there’s not a damn thing they can do to me. This wasn’t court ordered, just a Black Falcon demand—a demand that if I ignore, I can kiss my spot in the band good-bye, handing Sergio the gig of a lifetime.
What other real choice do I have?
I loosen my hold and reluctantly hand my bag over to Dr. Shepherd. The moment I let go, I shove my hands deep into my pockets, dreading the moment they find everything I’ve hidden in there.
“You’re going to do all right here, Mr. Douglas. Following rules and protocol are key, and the sooner you understand we are only doing these things for your own good, the better our treatment program will work for you.”
I simply shrug my shoulders in defeat. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Very well.” He nods curtly before handing my stuff to the nurse. “Timothy, let’s get started. This way, Mr. Douglas.”
I follow behind the doctor and nurse as requested. We don’t immediately go into the house, though; we veer off the porch toward a small building that I didn’t notice. Tucked into the thick tree line, it’s white like the house, and appears to be a small cottage.
Dr. Shepherd steps up onto the stoop and pulls a ring of keys from his pants pocket, sorting through them before finding the one to unlock the building. The moment we step inside, it’s clear this is some sort of intake place to greet visitors, and most likely new enrollees. A small waiting room with four chairs faces the reception desk sitting in the middle of the room. Behind the desk is a small room that reminds me of a doctor’s office with an exam table sitting catty-corner in the space.
Dr. Shepherd pushes the exam room door open a little wider and gestures me through. “We need to conduct a full physical exam before we get you settled into your room. Timothy will remain out here to go through your things. I must make you aware that if we find any drug paraphernalia of any type we will dispose of it in your presence. These are not items we will return to you, even if you elect to withdraw yourself from the program, because they are illegal substances.”
I nod. “Understood.”
Oh shit, will that nurse get an eyeful when he goes through my stuff. There’s not a lot of product in there, but enough for emergencies if I needed it. Enough that the mere thought of flushing it makes me cringe.
“Coming?” The doctor’s words pull me out of my haze as I realize I’m just standing there staring at Timothy as he shoves his hands into a pair of gloves and then unzips my bag.
It’s too late now to stop what he’s going to find, so I might as well get this exam over with.
“Yeah.”
Dr. Shepherd wastes no time pulling a gown out of the cupboard and sets it on the exam table. “Strip down to your underwear and put on the gown.”
The doctor exits the room without any additional instructions. I scratch the back of my neck as I stare at the fabric lying in front of me. Is this really what I’ve been reduced to? A man whom others deem incapable of making sound judgments on his own? A man forced to get full-body exams because people feel that he has an addiction issue? I don’t fucking think so, but I’ll go along with it just to secure my spot in the band.
I love that band. It’s my life, and I’d do anything for it.
A couple of quick raps hit the door and then Dr. Shepherd pushes in. He doesn’t meet my stare, only keeps his head down and continues to jot notes on what I assume is my chart.
“You had quite the supply in your duffel bag and guitar case.” It’s clearly not a question but a statement of the obvious.
What’s really left to say after that?
I shrug. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I like to be prepared.”
He glances up at me with a raised eyebrow and a semi-amused expression. “A sense of humor is a good thing to have. It’s important to keep that because what you’re about to go through will not be easy. It’s going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life, but once it’s over, you’ll feel like a new man. I promise you that.”
I sigh. “I’m sure this is absolutely the most difficult thing in the world for someone who has an actual problem, but Doc, I’m not one of those people. I can quit anytime I want to. I use it to have fun. It’s not an addiction.”
Dr. Shepherd leans against the counter across from me and crosses his arms over my file. “Tyke, almost every single person who comes into this exam room for the very first time says the exact same thing. Admitting you have an addiction and deciding to make a change is the first step to recovery.”
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll breeze through this program. You’ll see,” I tell him with complete confidence. “While I’ll admit that my body has become dependent on a few things I use regularly, I don’t admit to having a problem.”
He tilts his head. “Then why did you agree to come to treatment?”
“My band,” I answer honestly. “They really didn’t leave me much choice. If I didn’t come here, they voted to throw me out, and I can’t let that happen. Black Falcon means everything to me.”
“I see.” He jots a couple more things down in the chart. “Well, while you are here, Mr. Douglas, I hope that you use the time wisely, and open yourself up to the possibility that you may actually have a problem severe enough for your brother to reach out to us. He’s worried about you, about losing you, and he feared he didn’t have what it takes to help you because nothing he’s done over the last year has succeeded. While I can’t make you see the issues at hand and want to get better—that part is totally up to you—I can give you the tools and the support to begin your recove
ry.”
He sets the chart down on the counter and washes his hands. “I’m just going to do a standard exam and go over your medical history. We’ll discuss where you’re getting your benzodiazepine supply. After that, you’ll get dressed, collect your belongings, and Timothy will help you get settled into your room.”
After about fifteen minutes of being thoroughly violated, consenting to STD testing, and witnessing a pat down of all my clothing, I’m left alone in the room to get dressed again. I quickly throw my clothes back on and head out the door. The male nurse’s gaze meets mine as he sits at the desk, my things spread out in front of him. I don’t care who you are, when someone else goes through your personal belongings, it ruffles your feathers.
I cross my arms across my chest and do my best not to rip into the guy for what I’m sure is just his job.
Dr. Shepherd clears his throat. “As you can see, Mr. Douglas, we’ve searched your things thoroughly, and we’ve recovered several items of contraband.” He gestures to the four baggies sitting in front of my clothes. “Two bags of an unknown white powdered substance, one baggie of some sort of dried herb that appears to be THC, accompanied by several rolling papers, and one baggie of pills that looks to be benzodiazepines. As discussed, we will be disposing of these items in your presence before we clear you into the facility.”
Timothy rises, his at least six-foot-five frame towering over me, and he gathers the baggies. I could tell them no—hell fucking no—but know that I can’t. No sense in me getting all testy in a situation I know I can’t change.
I sigh. “Lead the way.”
I follow Timothy and Dr. Shepherd into a restroom behind the desk, watching helplessly as everything I need to make my time here sustainable swirls around in the toilet before being sucked down the drain.
After the empty baggies are discarded, I follow the two men out of the bathroom. Timothy sits back down and begins doing paperwork. The guy hasn’t said one word to me since I got here, which is completely fucking odd and doesn’t make me feel comfortable around him, but I’m grateful that I’ve only got one of them firing questions at me.