Unrevealed by Laurel Dewey Read Free Book Online

fakers. I looked around the crowd in Sedona as our “shaman” floated another cloud of sweetgrass across the air. God, what a motley bunch. Those who weren’t standing in bare feet were wearing flip-flops. Who in the hell wears flip-flops to a damn “spiritual blessing”? I even spotted one guy wearing a tenement T-shirt. You know? Those sleeveless numbers that are ribbed and so thin you can see the outline of the guy’s nipples if a cold wind blows? I thought this guy was waiting around to load up the folding chairs before we left for the “honoring of the elements” down by the water feature, but apparently he was a cousin of Lisa’s. America, say hello to your future: It’s wearing a damn tenement tee and flip-flops.
    We’re standing around this stagnant fountain that supposedly symbolizes “emotional freedom” as Mike and his future bride are repeating their “intentions” to each other and I can’t take my eyes off this guy in the tenement tee. Lisa’s cousin. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I busted him for doobie years ago. I’ve got a good memory for faces, and I can remember most of the boneheads I’ve taken down over the last two decades. But I can’t figure this one out. Then he looks over at me and nods his head like he’s acknowledging me. Now I’m really confused and I can’t focus that much,
especially after Mike and Lisa jump on their road bikes to cruise down the hill to the eco-friendly reception where all the food is green…even the cake. (I’m serious. I can’t make up this shit.) I start to move toward the crowd and this wingnut in the tenement tee makes a beeline for me.
    â€œHey, Jane,” he says in a hushed voice, his orange flip-flops collecting another layer of dirt and gravel with each step.
    He’s looking more familiar at this point, but I still can’t place him. I nod to him but keep up the wall around me.
    â€œI guess we’re gonna be related by marriage now,” he says with a smile, “me the cousin of the bride, you the sister of the groom.”
    God help me , I’m thinking.
    â€œThis’ll be a different kind of wedding for you and me, huh?” he says.
    I bite. “Different in what way?”
    â€œWell, for one, we’ll remember it, and for another, we won’t make asses of ourselves.”
    And that is when I knew where I’ve seen this guy. He sits across from me on the plaid couch with the bad springs in the basement of the Methodist church where they hold the weekly AA meeting.
    For those of you who didn’t get the memo, I’m sober. (I’m also back working in Denver Homicide after some “negotiations” with Sergeant Weyler. Now I’m Sergeant Detective Jane Perry, for what it’s worth.)
    I’m still getting used to regarding myself as a recovering alcoholic instead of a drunk. There’s so much more to explain when you’re recovering than when you’re just another tedious, piss-ass alcoholic. People are more likely to accept you when you say you’re a drinker, but when you’re recovering ,
there are the inevitable questions of how long you’ve been sober, what prompted you to get sober, how does it feel to be sober, blah, blah, blah. If I made a habit out of indulging in all that shit, I’d have to get a load on just to suffer through it. I’m a very private person. I don’t feel a need to wear my addiction on my sleeve and regurgitate my dramas to everyone in earshot. I prefer to stand outside the group and recover alone. But they say you need to have those fellow recovering drunk shoulders to lean on when you start, so I play the game…to a point. I don’t have a sponsor. I just can’t bring myself to get cozy with some well-meaning ex-alky who keeps insisting that I meet her for coffee so we can “chat.” For me, it would feel like an Amway sales