PROLOGUE
Caspian
Glass shattering startles me from my state of almost asleep, followed by my aunt shouting. This is nothing new. Tonight, like most nights, I find myself wishing my life was different. That maybe I could live like the other kids in my grade who seem to have it all put together. They don’t come to school in clothes with holes, or that look and smell like they haven’t been washed in over a week. They never seem to have a chip on their shoulder, like smiles and laughter are a regular occurrence.
They’re also able to focus and do their schoolwork without trouble. They don’t come in with their assignments left unfinished because their house was in such a disarray the night before, they couldn’t find a single quiet, clean place to complete it. They can read and write; they don’t stumble over sentences or misspell easy words.
Their families love them. They’re normal, and kind, and do things like sit together at the table to eat dinner, talk about their days, maybe even watch movies on the weekends.
I’m starting my first day of high school tomorrow. I don’t have new clothes, my backpack is one I’ve had since last year—the zipper doesn’t work anymore, so I have to hold it together with a clothespin—and I haven’t been able to take a shower since Friday because the hot water was turned off, and Lord knows my aunt doesn’t have the means to turn it back on. Not when she spent what little money she gets from the state each month on the shit she probably just injected into her arm. Bought from the man who she probably chucked that glass at that shattered all over the kitchen or dining room, or maybe even the hallway.
Wherever it is, I’ll bet anything it’ll still be there in the morning when I leave for school. Heck, it’ll be there when I get home too. The glass will sit there, broken into a million pieces just like my life, until I finally have enough and clean it up myself.
The pressure pushing down on my bladder is painful, and I know with certainty I will not be able to ignore it in favor of going back to sleep. Shoving my ratty blanket off me, I swing my legs off the bed until they hit the cold, hard floor. The bathroom is down the hall.
Another reason to be envious of the kids in my grade… the rich ones—actually, even some middle-class ones—have the luxury of having a bathroom in their room or attached to their room. How fucking nice that must be.
If I’m lucky, I can make it there and back without being spotted. Depending on which asshole my aunt has over, it could go one of two ways. If it’s Mitch, the drug dealer, with the stringy, greasy blond hair down to his shoulders, the rotten teeth, and the gash under his right eye, he’ll more than likely come push me around, get in my face, talking shit while his rancid breath threatens to kill me. If it’s Danny, the dealer with the bald head and the gold chain that looks like it would turn his neck green, who she fucks when she doesn’t want to or doesn’t have the money to pay, he’ll more than likely leave me alone. He may offer me a creepy smile—the kind where he uses every last tooth in his mouth. But at least, unlike Mitch, his teeth are mostly intact.
Pulling open my bedroom door as quietly as I can manage, not that it really matters since they’re both screaming at each other, music blared so loud, I’m surprised the cops don’t show up, I look both ways before I veer left down the hallway that leads to the bathroom. It’s directly across from my aunt’s room, but she isn’t in there. Thankfully, I don’t run into anyone, and can take a quick leak, making it back to my room before letting out a deep breath.
I amble over to my tiny closet, opening the accordion door, and reaching up to grab the shoe box on the highest shelf. Removing the top, I take out my CD player and headphones before returning the box to its designated place. Once I’ve slipped back under my covers, I connect the headphones to the CD player, putting them over my head, and press play.Roosterby Alice In Chains fills my ears as I turn it up as loud as it’ll go. I set it beside me on the pillow, tucking both hands under my head as I lie on my side, closing my eyes. The grungy, dark tenor of Layne Staley’s voice drowns out the screaming, eventually lulling me to sleep.
This isn’t the first—and it certainly won’t be the last—night I drift off to sleep with the comforting, familiar sound of music in my ear, with dreams of a better life—or maybe nightmares of the life Idohave.
One of these days, when I’m old enough, I’m getting out of here. I’m going to make a name for myself, get the fuck out of Dodge, and never look back.
CHAPTERONE
Caspian
Present
With our set finished, we exit to the left, heading backstage to catch our breaths and down some water—or liquor—for a brief few minutes before the real chaos starts. The stadium is booming, thousands of fans screaming as we retreat. Beaters in hand and sweat slick all over my body, I beeline for my designated room. Well,roomis much too generous. It’s more like an oversized closet with a tiny couch, a table, and a mirror.
“You’ve got five minutes, Gray!” my manager, Sebastian, hollers after me as I round the corner, flipping him the bird while doing so.
I’m not in the mood for shit tonight. Normally, these Meet & Greets we’re about to do aren’t that bad. I even enjoy them sometimes, but not tonight. Not after the day I’ve had. Hell, not after the week I’ve had. All I want is to be alone, but we’re doing back-to-back-to-back shows in Los Angeles this weekend—this being night one—to finish off our North American tour.
The last three months have been jam-packed, with not a single moment to rest. But alas, that is the life of a rock star, isn’t it? It’s what teenage Cas wanted, dreamed and prayed for, isn’t it? I remember being a teenager and fantasizing about what this life would be like. Knowing with absolute certainty that it would solve all my problems. How if I could just leave town, make some money, and play music, all my troubles would go away, and I’d finally understand happiness.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head at that thought.What a fucking joke.Digging into the pockets on my too tight jeans, I pull out the little clear baggy I’ve thought about all set, dumping out a pile of fine white powder my mouth waters for. Reaching into my back pocket, I grab my wallet, thumbing out a credit card to cut up lines.
My mouth waters like a damn dog about to get a bone, heart pounding behind my ribcage as I slice up three long, thin, white lines. I set the card down, grabbing a bill and rolling it up tight. My hands tremble, the craving almost unbearable. I need this, need the bitter drip down the back of my throat, need these drugs more than I need my next breath. It’s about the only thing keeping me sane lately.
Positioning the tightly rolled bill above the first one, I snort one, two, three lines, wiping my nose and letting my head fall back onto my shoulders. The taste is disgusting and delicious all at the same time. I wet the pad of my index finger with my tongue, dragging it through the white powder residue before rubbing it along my bottom gums, relishing in the numbness that follows. It won’t take long before my head feels light and floaty, body relaxed.
I grab the pack of smokes from the table, plucking one out and putting it between my teeth. The orange lighter sitting beside it ignites with a flick of my thumb, flame burning the end of the cigarette until it glows red. The smoke fills my lungs while the cocaine saturates my mind, a potent combination I can’t get enough of.
The sound of knuckles rapping on the door jerks my attention. “What?”
Instead of answering me, the door pushes open, Sebastian waltzing in, angry, narrow eyes zeroing in on the table in front of me before locking with mine. “You must be joking,” he deadpans.
I take another drag, letting the smoke spill out from between my lips. “I’m really not in the fucking mood,” I drawl, flicking the end of the cigarette into the ashtray. “So, whatever it is you need to say, say it, and get out.”
“You need to fucking pull yourself together, Caspian.” His tone is chastising, grating my last nerve. He never calls me by my first name either, alwaysGray. Same with the rest of the band. “You’re a mess, and it’s only a matter of time before it affects your playing.”
“But has it?” I ask, cutting him off, a bite to my tone that I don’t bother hiding. “Has it affected my playing? Even a little bit?”
