Cog Read Online Free PDF Page B

memories—like the time Reya had bought Riklo a blow-up doll and was waving it around in the hallway while his father looked on, furious, from the conference room. Nicholle hadn’t known Mr. Castor could curse like that. But they’d all had a good laugh after he left. Then there was the time they landed the rights to the drawings in Chauvet Cave. They’d celebrated for days after.
    “I shall return,” she said to herself. Grabbed her Quatrocellini bag and headed out. Her heels on marble echoed in the long, empty hallway. The Artists Hallway. Holos of painters, sculptors, and architects lined up on either side, watching as employees came and went.
    Albrecht Dürer, Self-Portrait at 28 , hung at the end of the corridor, one of Nicholle’s favorites. She paused for a last look.
    It’s not the last time. Keep telling yourself that.
    His eyes seemed sadder than usual—or was it her imagination?
    “See you, Al. I still think you’re hot.”
    She walked out into the night. Tall trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky hunched over the edge of the parking lot, as if hunting prey. Her car’s proximity sensors unlocked the door and turned on the engine. The door swung up as she approached.
    “Good evening, Nicholle,” the car’s smooth baritone voice said.
    “Evening, Max,” she replied.
    “Will you be driving tonight?”
    “Nope, it’s all yours. Been a rough day.”
    “Destination?”
    She hesitated. Guilt had nagged at the back of her mind since the drink in Malabo’s. She’d officially fallen off the wagon, but given the circumstances, she thought it understandable. Not that she was making excuses…
    No, that’s exactly what you’re doing.
    “Where’s the next, closest twelve-step meeting?” she said.
    “1725 Rhode Island.”
    “A.A.?”
    “Yes.”
    “Take me there.”
    b
    A host of cars huddled under the dome of St. Matthew’s Cathedral, testament to the number of those come to call. Nicholle had remembered her first twelve-step meeting—had expected to see nothing but barely recovering, recently high addicts who’d been forced into treatment by well-meaning relatives. Instead, she’d found people from all walks of life, in various stages of recovery. Some a few days sober, others decades. And they’d all welcomed her. It had felt like a familial embrace, one that she’d never had.
    Max rolled to a stop and opened the door. Nicholle climbed out and pulled up her coat against the night chill. A few stragglers were wending their way around to a side entrance, and she hurried to fall in behind.
    Technically, she was an addict, not an alcoholic, since her drug of choice was pakz. She drank, but not to the point of drunkenness. She’d relied on the pakz to take her over the edge. Way over.
    “Hey,” she said to the two stragglers. “Is this open or closed?”
    Closed meetings were for A.A. members only, or for those who had a drinking problem and wanted to stop. Open meetings were available to anyone. She’d faked it before, just to get into a meeting she felt she needed. Replaced “pakz” with “alcohol.”
    The man on the left, dressed in a thin leather jacket and tight jeans with a chain that ran from the back pocket to his belt, spoke first, albeit briefly.
    “Closed.”
    The woman on the right came across as more sociable. She wore a brown patchwork velvet skirt that fell to the floor and a green sweater. She had a tangle of brown curls with blonde highlights that framed a narrow face.
    “First time?”
    “First time here, not first at a meeting,” Nicholle said.
    “Well, welcome. My name’s Daria. This here’s Jim.”
    Jim said nothing, but opened the door to the church and waved them in. Nicholle let Daria take the lead, and they wound up in a small room of women. Jim had veered off, presumably to join a men’s group. Nicholle eased into a chair as she nodded greetings to the others. She tapped her thumb against her index finger three times, cogging out. The small group sat