He’d been to his fair share of rehab facilities; he’d seen everything from court ordered units that were barely better than a prison to happy-go-lucky facilities that made you fucking meditate. Nothing had ever taken for Cal, not really, but he’d never worried about it too much. After all, the odds were never in the addicts’ favor. “Lucky dogs, the lot of you with that fucking supernatural ability not to let it kill you,” he shook his head a bit, unable to imagine how that must feel. To know that you could use and use and it would never take you out, that there would never be a morning where you’d wake-up in some hospital you didn’t fucking recognize, handcuffed to a gurney. If he had that kind of power, Cal knew he’d take full advantage of it. Fucking hell, it would be incredible. “Something tells me you weren’t really the therapy type.” She wasn’t exactly keeping her secrets, not wearing that kind of smirk.
How could you not chuckle at a fucking drug dealer with a calling card? Alright, so that wasn’t exactly the case, but he was still pretty bloody amused. There was the faintest bit of hesitancy on his part when he noticed the little ‘treat’ attached to the cardstock, fingers shaking lightly as he reached out to take it, to drop it into the pocket of his jacket. Shit. Now it was on him, now he knew it and it already felt like it was burning a hole in his clothes, trying to sear its way right into him. “Right,” he nodded, “thanks.” He didn’t want to be rude, not when she hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. Joslyn had only given him the drugs, she wasn’t going to force him to take them – for all she knew, he’d go and dump them all down the loo at the first opportunity. If he was going to use it, going to enjoy the taste she’d given him, it wouldn’t be here in front of people where just anyone could see. No, he’d go old school, do it in private, find a dark little corner for himself and tear into that plastic.
“If you tell me to shut it anytime soon, I won’t be offended,” he assured her with a laugh, waving over the bartender. He wasn’t sure why he kept giving the fuckers the chance to do things right, they just kept mucking it up. “Oh fucking hell, don’t drink that shit. Let me fix it. Oi, man, hand it over, yeah? You’re embarrassing the art with that shite.” Cigarette pressed between his lips, Cal stood enough to lean over the bar, remixing the drink they’d attempted to pass off to Jos a minute early. “Here,” he settled back to put it before her, “fucking drink that instead.” It was less likely to completely blow than what the bar’s staff had made up for her. “This fucking place,” he shook his head in exasperation, lighting up a new cigarette, “it’s not that bloody hard to make a drink.” But they just kept screwing over their patrons, so yes that was why he was drinking straight whiskey and nothing more. She brought up Juniper so suddenly, so seemingly out of nowhere, that it took him be surprise for a moment. “Uh, no,” Cal shook his head, “no…we’re not. I’m not really very fucking good at the whole boyfriend thing.” He shrugged, as if that didn’t matter as much as it did, taking a sip from his drink. “No fucking ball and chain stuck on your ankle, then?” He couldn’t remember seeing anyone with her at the gala back at the mansion and she hadn’t mentioned anyone so far.