Megan was one of those chicks who dated the wrong guy and got dragged through the mill with me. She was pretty innocent; she might have thought she’d fallen in love, but I don’t think she had any idea of what she’d gotten into or what was going on with me once we returned to L.A. She’d met me when I was a complete drunk; and, as I’ve mentioned, to the naked eye, a clever heroin addict doesn’t act that much different, unless you count their drinks. Megan was so innocent that she didn’t pick up on the fact that I’d suddenly stopped consuming a half gallon of vodka per day, though, if anything, I
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