The Only Way: The Only Series, #4

Text copyright© 2015 by Magan Vernon

All rights reserved

www.maganvernon.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form by or any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

For information visit www.maganvernon.com

Summary:  William Tripp Chapman has always been the black sheep of his family's political dynasty.

His oldest brother has a six-figure income, his youngest-groomed for the senate. And Tripp is the brother known for wrecking his Porsche after a drinking bender and winding up in rehab.

On the night of his father's presidential election he takes a detour and meets a waitress at a local hole-in-the wall. Samantha Sam Green is just as broken as he is, but covers it up with enough snark so no one tries to get too close.

When Sam gets kicked out of her apartment, Tripp agrees that she can crash on his couch until she gets on her feet. But as they grow closer physically, the ghosts of their past threaten to burden their new relationship

The Only Way they can overcome their demons is to face them instead of running. Can Sam help Tripp find his way or will their own battles bury them?

First Edition, April 2015

Cover Design by Cover me Darling

www.CoverMeDarling.com

Cover photography by Michael Meadows Studios

http://www.michaelmeadowsstudios.com/

Cover model Damien Ray Decent

https://www.facebook.com/damiendecent

Edited by Kellie Montgomery at Eye Candy Bookstore

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For all of those who feel like they’re alone in their suffering.

Depression can be dark.

Addiction can be darker.

But there will always be light no matter how hard you struggle to find the switch.

Praise for The Only Way

The Only Way is a brilliantly written book about a man recovering from addiction, finding love and learning about what's important in life. I loved every second of reading it! - Kendall McCubbin, Book Crazy Book Blog

This book has everything I love on the surface— a tattooed hero, a skittish heroine, and a hell of a lot of sparks flying between the two. - Heather C. Leigh, Bestselling author of The Famous series.

As usual, you hit it out of the ballpark, ESPECIALLY with the subject matter, Magan Vernon... ANOTHER topic in this series that resonated with me... OH AND I LOVED TRIPP!!!!! -Cheryl, Confessions from Romaholics

Chapter 1

One pill. Two pill. Red pill. Blue pill.

All my life I’ve lived a beautiful lie. The governor’s son with the bright future set for him. The middle child. The one who no one knew how bad he was suffering until it made the nightly news.

Are you ready, Mr. Chapman?

The all-too-chipper nurse stared at me from the doorway. It was the day I was leaving rehab. It hadn’t been the regulated thirty days that I was supposed to spend there, but with Dad’s presidential election that night, they were all too eager to get me out of there so we could have some sort of united front for the public.

Slowly I stood up and adjusted my cufflinks. They probably cost more than the poor nurse’s salary. I wondered if she was secretly smiling at my faults. She was at the other end of the coin. The gatekeeper. The one who got to inject me with a needle if I got out of hand.

Now I was leaving the place I’d called home for the past month to be shoved out to the real world and learn to fend for myself.

Again.

Ready as ever. I forced a smile just like I had to do so many times before.

I followed the nurse down the stark white hallway as a few drugged eyes stared at me. I couldn’t look back. I couldn’t acknowledge their presence. There was something about doing it that made me feel like I’d never escape. That I’d always be one of the hopeless.

A shiny black sedan sat idling at the front of the building, a stark contrast to the broken cobblestone path and too green lawn.

Awesome. A driver.  I couldn’t tell if I was happy that someone who wasn’t a family member got to see me fresh out of rehab or disappointed that everyone was too busy for me. The latest dose of anti-depressants had me in too much of a fog to think too much.

I cocked an eyebrow, staring at the older mustached gentleman who opened the back door for me.

Mr. Chapman. Your father sent me.

I nodded. Then you did your job. You picked up the kid from rehab.

I understood that he couldn’t take the time out of his day to get me with it being one of the biggest nights of his career and the presidential election. But I had two other brothers. Trey visited me almost every other day when I was in rehab.

But he has his own family.

A pregnant girlfriend to be exact. Okay, technically fiancée. They were the scandal that overshadowed my own during the election.

Though crashing my Porsche Spyder wasn’t too bad either.

The only problem was that I didn’t remember much of it. I remembered taking some Oxy to try and block out another shitty day. Then of course there was some bourbon.

I woke up in the hospital and was sent to rehab instead of jail. The usual amount of time in a rehab program is ninety days, but my family couldn’t have that with Dad’s election looming. I guess Dad’s lawyer worked out a good enough deal with thirty days of rehab and outpatient counseling the next sixty days. But for the past thirty days I had been in a place where people kept trying to figure me out. I wished them all good luck because I didn’t even know who the hell I was.

I’m sure half the nurses just thought I was some spoiled little prick with a large trust fund. But they didn’t know the half of it. The struggle with trying to be the model son and failing so completely at it that I had nowhere else to go but down.

Even though I wanted to say fuck it all and walk back in the rehab center, throw some chairs, maybe have a cigarette and wait for another shrink to give me some meds to make me pass out, I decided to get in the car. Something about family pride, maybe.

Or maybe I just wanted to see what the hell the outside world looked like. Maybe the zombie apocalypse started while I was inside. Not likely, but a guy could dream.

The driver didn’t say another word to me as he got in and pulled away from the palatial rehab center. I think they tried to make it look like some grand plantation home so that all of us fucked up kids could feel like we weren’t in an institution and our family members could pretend their spawn were on vacation instead of highly medicated and staring at a television screen.

I stared out the window, watching the world go by. A world I’d been so far from the last month. The only bit of any news I had was when Trey came by to see me. Otherwise we didn’t have television or the newspaper. Hell, my cell service barely came in and I think they meant it to be that way. They wanted to keep us from the evil of the outside world.

Which only left us alone with our own demons.

As the country setting went from oak trees with their orange and gold leaves to the urban cityscape, I knew that I was really leaving my little bubble in rehab and going back to the real world. To the world where my dad was running for president. Tonight would decide how the rest of our lives played out.

Sure, there had been other elections. Before he was governor of Illinois, he was a senator, councilman and a slew of other things. But this was bigger. And this was the first time I’d be sober for one of these political gatherings.

If I couldn’t drink or get high, I needed something to calm my nerves.

Hey, driver man, do you think you can take the next exit to Fullerton? I yelled, even though I was only a few feet from the driver and pretty sure he could hear me.

Pardon me, Mr. Chapman? He stared at me in the rearview mirror.

I want to stop for a quick bite before we head to Navy Pier. The food they served in that place was shit.

The driver nodded solemnly. I’m sure we could do that. We do have some time to spare. I’ll let your brothers know.

Yeah, okay, just take this exit and head toward Belmont. It’s The Pancake House.

I didn’t want to discuss him talking to my brothers like I was some sort of child that needed to be guarded on his every move.

The driver raised his eyebrow. The Pancake House?

Yeah. Heard of it?

I have, sir. It just doesn’t seem like the type of place many people would want to eat at. Or go to before an election.

I laughed. Yeah. I know it’s a stoner hangout, but they also have some great ass pancakes, believe it or not, so can you please take me there?

He nodded again. As you wish, sir.

The Pancake House may have been a decent place at one point, but now it looked like it was a rundown homage to its former self. The neon sign was only half lit, so it said TH AKE HO with the man flipping the pancake next to it shorting out every few seconds, so it looked more like an electric man having a seizure than cooking. The red awning was more orange and faded than anything and in-between an adult toy store and a head shop.

Perfect for the horny stoner to get some eats. Or the guy who just needed to get out of his head for awhile.

The driver pulled up to the building and a few guys out front smoking stared at the luxury vehicle.

I opened the door and looked up at the driver. You coming in, Jeeves? I didn’t know if that was his actual name, but it sounded good.

No, sir. I’m not awfully hungry. I’ll just wait for you out here.

I shrugged and climbed out of the car. Suit yourself, man.

The only reason people actually came into the place was because they were stoned out of their fucking mind and needed some carbs. I was not messed up and wondered if the pancakes would actually still be decent when I was sober.

I took a booth near the front of the restaurant. The walls were blue tiled with black and white photos of a different era in Chicago. A time where prohibition was a thing and the Mafia ran the town. Now, sometimes I wondered how clean the politicians were. Even my dad. The guy said he wanted what was best for the people, but I always thought he was just another puppet for the Republican Party.

You look like you could use a drink or a tall stack, a smoky voice said.

My eyes trailed up the high top black Chuck Taylors and even farther to a black rockabilly-style waitress dress complete with red buttons up the front and a wide red collar that showed off the extensive ink that scrawled along her chest and arms.

Look, I see you staring at my tits, or lack of them, but I’m not interested in fucking you so you can either order or get the hell out, she said, chomping at her gum.

I shook my head and smiled, finally meeting her eyes, which were definitely caked with too much makeup. But she had a fucking amazing pair of green eyes hidden behind the smudged black stuff. No, I wasn’t staring at your tits, I was actually admiring the artwork. I nodded toward the design that snaked up from her wrist.

Oh. Her red lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as she stared down at the tattoo as if she’d never seen it before. Yeah. Sorry, I just get a little on the defensive with all the fucked up tweakers in here that are trying to score.

I laughed. Don’t we all? Quickly, I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves, showing all the ink that covered my arms. I rarely ever get to show them in public. Dad always wanted me to be covered.

She nodded, straightening her dark red ponytail. You’ve got some nice ink yourself.

Yeah, started with my first one my freshman year of college, then I just kept going. They became an extension of me.

She smiled. You aren’t like the other guys that come into here, speaking something so poetic. You definitely aren’t high, but I’d have to say, you’ve got something behind those hazel eyes of yours that I haven’t seen in a long time.

Getting pretty deep yourself there for a waitress at a dive. I smirked. I wasn’t about to tell the girl my whole life story like some people did to whoever was willing to listen.

Yeah, well I’m not used to having decent guys come in here who aren’t fucked up beyond all recognition. She put a hand on her tiny hip. Hows about I go and get you some coffee ?

Yeah. Sure. Coffee. Black. And a tall stack with pecans.

You got it. Her eyes trailed once more over me before she turned and headed toward the kitchen.

I would have been lying if I didn’t say I checked out her ass as she swayed away.

After spending a month behind the walls of rehab. I needed some sort of stimulation. Something to take my mind off the election. I knew the girl was warming up to me, but with the driver right outside, I knew I couldn’t get in a quickie. I’d be back for her later.

She was back at the table before I could even begin to think about how quickly I could get her out of the dress like I’d done more than once with one of the girls that showed up at the place looking for a quick lay.

Some days I needed the same thing and it was a mutual understanding that we fucked and never spoke again.

She put down a white cup that had been stained beige from years of use before pouring the dark liquid in from an old percolator.

Whoa, what is this? I grabbed her arm mid-pour and she gasped, pulling back the coffee pot.

What? Do I have something on me? She asked, widening her eyes.

I turned over her arm and slowly traced the lines of the feather inked on her arm. It stretched from her wrist, up to her elbow. It was just the outline, no color, but I could still see the precision that went into it. The three little birds that flew from the feather as it disintegrated.

What’s this about? I asked.

She jerked her arm back. Oh. That. It’s something I started. Something for my mom that I just haven’t had the money to finish.

What does it mean? I asked, trying to meet her eyes but she bit her lip, keeping her gaze on the floor.

It’s for my mom. She passed away my sophomore year of college. I started it in remembrance of her but just haven’t had the money to finish it, she said, looking down at the ink.

I nodded. Thanks for telling me that. I like to hear something real instead of the bullshit most people feed.

You asked so I told you. I don’t need the sympathy, she said, the snark back in her voice.

I smirked. So are you going to keep giving me shit or are you going to get me some pancakes?

She shook her head but a small smile crept on her lips. They should be up soon, smart ass.

Is that how you talk to all of your customers or am I special? I raised an eyebrow.

Don’t think you’re some kind of snowflake, suit guy. I’m a bitch to everyone.

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I