“I don’t think it would make a difference one way or another. I’ve always been an inconvenience to them. This was just a new way to ensure their perfect image was protected and I stayed out of their way.”
“Damn,” I mutter, tossing the butt of the joint out the open window, blowing out the remaining smoke.That’s shitty.
Rowan’s quiet for a moment. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I don’t look at him, but I should’ve known asking himanythingwould lead to him thinking he can ask shit about me. He’s always trying to do that, I’ve noticed… figure me out. Maybe deep down, way below even my own level of consciousness, I wanted him to ask about me.
“Well, I already know what landed you here,” he points out. “It was all over the tabloids and social media. So, what’s your drug of choice?”
I knew it was coming, but it still makes me pause. This isn’t a topic I talk aboutever. I’ve barely even talked about it in the stupid fucking therapy sessions. But what the hell? “Cocaine, mostly,” I say quietly.
“Mostly?” he asks inquisitively. Rowan is nothing if not fucking curious and fucking nosy.
“I’ll do other shit from time to time,” I admit. “But it’s the coke I prefer, especially on the road.”
“That chick that died,” he prompts in a gentle tone, like I’m a grenade he’s trying to not set off. “She took coke and heroin when she OD’d, right?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Were you taking both of those too?” I can feel the weight of his stare on the side of my head, burning into me like a flame, but I don’t meet his gaze.
“Sure was.” The slight edge to my words comes out by accident, but I can feel my blood pressure rising.
He should fucking drop it. I should steer the conversation in another direction, or better yet, take us the fuck back to our building. Nothing good ever comes from us hanging out. Ever.
But for some reason, I don’t do either of those things.
“How are you handling that?” he asks. “Her death.”
Huffing out of my nose, I say, “Fine. I didn’t know her, and I didn’t force her to take the drugs.”
Rowan watches me for a moment, his face soft but unreadable. I don’t think it’s quite pity in his expression, but it’s something similar. Finally, he says quietly, “You don’t mean that.”
My eyes narrow, brows knit tightly as I look at him. “Yes, I fucking do.”
“You may not know her, and you may not have forced her, but you have to still feelsomethingabout her dying. You’re not heartless, Caspian, no matter how much you prefer to pretend like you are.”
Pulse racing, I look away for fear of what he’ll see on my face. Where the fuck did this serious Rowan come from and how the fuck can I get him to go away? It’s like he dove deep into my mind and picked out the one fucking thing I don’t want to talk about, pinpointing exactly how I feel, and bringing it to light. Of course, I feel some type of way about her dying. I’m not a total monster.
Sure, when it happened, I was so pissed off about Seb and being forced to come here, I made myself believe I didn’t care. But that’s not the case at all, and my mostly sleepless nights are proof of it. She was collateral damage in my downward spiral, and I have to live with that forever. She lost her life trying to keep up with someone who has no limits. She had no idea what she’d walked into. But that doesn’t mean I want to fucking chat and cry about it.
“Drop it,” I warn. “I’m not having this fucking conversation with you.”
I don’t miss the way he rolls his eyes before quickly changing the subject to something just as intrusive and annoying. “Do you do heroin a lot?”
My entire body goes rigid.Who the fuck asks someone that straight up like that?
“If I did, don’t you think I would’ve been in worse shape when I checked in here?”
The first few days here sucked, mostly because Iwascoming off a speedball, but it wasn’t as unbearable as it could’ve been, had I had more in my system.
He’s quiet a beat, eyes still focused on me. “So, why are you here?”
“Like you fucking said, it was all over the tabloids. What kind of question is that?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he groans. “Is it court-ordered or what?”
The answer to that makes my pulse race and my blood boil. “My bitch of a manager threatened to not let me go on our international tour if I didn’t come here.”
