“I’m.Fine.”
“You’re not fucking fine!” he explodes, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re not. You have another assault case. The last one cost you a lot of fucking money! That’s why we’re on this tour while you’re also trying to record an album! Now we’re looking at another suit! You’re letting everyone down.”
I scoff and stumble across the room. “You’re only saying that because you won’t get a fucking paycheck. You don’t care about me. You care about getting paid.” The leathers I had on last night are ruined, cum and pussy juice on the crotch from my first round with the groupie. “I need more pants.”
Zed scoffs. “Yeah, I like getting paid, but it’s not about the fucking money! It’s about you.” He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “We’re friends, Ryder. That means something to me. I should have seen it sooner, the signs that you’re slipping down the route of being…”
“Being what?”
He sighs, fear entering his eyes but resolve following up close behind. “An addict. You need help to overcome this problem. I’ll call the label in the morning to let them know you’ll be going to rehab.”
“The only call you’ll fucking make is to wardrobe to get me some more pants. I ain’t entering no fucking program, so don’t mention it again.” I walk over to Zed and get in his face. He’s shorter than me by several inchesand pudgier around the middle but a solid guy. I could easily take him, though he’d probably give as good as he got.
He kicks his chin up and doesn’t back down. “Take a shower and try to sober up. I’ll have some leathers for you. We’ll be waiting in the lobby.” As he walks out the door, Zed pulls his phone from his pocket and barks into it, telling whoever is on the other end that we’ll be late and to have the mid-show entertainment to go on right after the opening act.
I take my time getting in the shower, carrying the fifth in my hand with me. I’m nowhere close to being drunk or high, but my head is blank, and I can function normally.
By the time I finish my shower—and over half of the vodka—I feel like I can do this show without incident.
Leather pants are waiting for me on the bed, along with a new vest that has Lana’s Mischief on the back.
It’s like a dam opened up from singing that song last night, and my mind shoots back to my stay in Washington State. To my best friend and climbing through his window. To sitting in his basement and strumming his guitar. To his mother telling me that I’ll make it one day, realizing my talent before any other adult ever did.
A fucking boulder lodges in my throat, and hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“No,” I murmur to myself. “No…”
I look around, dropping the towel as I hurry around the room. My hands shake as I search for more pills or some coke orsomething. I trip over my feet as I reach for the vodka I placed on the bed, but in my haste, it overturns and spills out on the floor.
“Shit!” I shout, trying to grab it in my fumbling hands, but all I manage to do is topple the rest of the bottle over.When I finally have it in my trembling grasp, only a swallow or two is left.
I throw the bottle across the room into the wall, glass shattering everywhere.
I run my fingers through my wet hair, searching for something to blank my mind.
Before I can think better of it, I drop to my hands and knees, close to sucking the vodka from the carpet until I can get another fifth from a store or have Zed run out and re-up my stash.
My lips are inches from the floor when my eyes catch on a cellophane baggie just under the bed. I scoop it up quickly, relief flooding me when I see the white substance at the bottom. I empty it into my nose, sniffing in deeply to get right.
I drop back on my knees, blowing out a long breath as the high flows through me. My limbs aren’t as tight, and my heart doesn’t clench behind my ribcage. The familiar floaty feeling is back, the torment of my past chased away, the wave of unease that coursed through me only moments ago receding.
I slide my fingers into the bag and collect the remaining powder and coat my gums, making them tingle before they go numb.
Banging sounds at my door, and Mitch shouts, “Let’s go, Ryder. We’re soooo fucking late. Don’t want to lose money by giving refunds.”
My mouth is slow to form words, and I have to push through the dense cloud of my high to say, “Almost ready.”
I stand on shaky legs, tottering to the side with every step. It’s like the entire room is quaking, threatening to take me back to the floor. I barely manage to pull my pantsand vest on. My boots with all the buckles are a bitch to fasten, my fingers clumsy on the ties and clasps.
My eyeliner is smudged more than usual, and I’m not sure if it gives me a more grunge aesthetic or if I look as high as I feel.
I stare at myself in the mirror when I drop the lining pencil in the sink. I can barely bring myself into focus. Everything blurs together. I gently raise my fingers to the mirror, rubbing down my reflected visage.
Anger courses through me as what Zed says runs over and over through my head. I’m not a fucking addict. I just need something to make the thoughts and memories go away. I only use enough to forget.
The hollowness of my cheeks and my dead eyes stare back at me, taunting me, making Zed’s words ring true.
With a shout, I punch the mirror, not wanting to see myself anymore. Blood drips down my hand, but I don’t pay it any attention as I saunter out of the room, pushing past Mitch.
