I go rigid. He doesn’t know that. Does he? He can’t possibly know, but I don’t want to take a chance either. “Bastian, shut up,” I warn with a hiss.
He turns around to face me. I silently plead for him to keep quiet. He knows. I can see it in his eyes, but I don’t want him saying it. Not now. Not ever. “Always playing the asshole,” he shakes his head in disapproval. “All your secrets are what’s eating you alive, Maddox.”
“But they‘re my secrets. Mine to carry. Mine to share.” My jaw sets, and my lips press into a thin line, but my heart begins to pound as my mind begins to race with the beginnings of a panic attack.
“Get out, Jax,” Bastian tells him.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jax shouts with surprise.
“I brought him here to help him. Not to fight with you or be made to feel guilty because Zoey is upset. Until he’s ready to see her, don’t come back.”
“This is ridiculous,” Jax yells again.
I watch as Rory pushes him toward the elevator gate. “Go, Jax. He’s right, and you’re out of line.”
If this were any other time, I’d want the image of Jax’s absolutely dumbfounded face framed, but all I want to do is get out of this room before they see me in a full-blown panic attack because I can feel it coming.
I leave them all standing there, still arguing. I walk into my room, slamming the door behind me. For a minute, I consider leaving. Packing all my shit and walking out the front door.
Bastian can’t keep me here. Not really. Well, unless he takes me back to the basement.
Sebastian Delrie may be the boogeyman to some of the more unsavory people in River City, but the truth is, he’s only scary if you are a degenerate piece of shit or if you double-cross him. And even then, only if you fear pain or death.
Most days, I welcome both. He knows it too, and that’s why I frustrate him. He can’t intimidate me into falling in line.
But I won’t leave. Not yet. I may not want to be in this city, but I’m not ready to go back to New York. To the smiling, worried faces of my family. I’m sure as hell not going to my dad’s. And I don’t want to be alone.
Bastian is my best option.
I sit on the bed, head hanging low between my shoulders, hands pulling hard on the back of my neck. What does Bastian know? Did Ryder and Dane tell him about when I started using again? Did they tell him what happened after? What else does he know?
Panic makes my throat begin to close as I begin to imagine. Does he know about… Oh, God!
I slide to the floor as my heart hammers. I fall to my side, clawing at my throat and chest, trying to rip the constriction out until I am unable to do anything but succumb to the paralyzing anxiety I know won’t kill me, but I wish would.
The voices scream loudly, tormenting me with every dark thought I’ve ever had or heard. The reminder that I’m a monster—evil taunts me as my body shakes. My vision blurs as the memories and dreams dance in my mind. Even my fucking skin crawls with memories of unwanted touch.
Then a soft humming fills my ears. It’s low—so low I miss some of the notes. Still, the melody of “Fix You” is clear, surrounding me like a warm, heavy blanket, and the haunting memories of my past morph into the first time I heard that song.
I was thirteen,and it had been a bad day, as most were at that age. I had a small radio in my dorm room, playing music, hoping it would help me forget the day, week, and the last year. My mind was bogged down with the desperate desire to just fade away into nothingness when the song came on. It wasn’t the type of music I gravitated to then or now, but the words resonated as I imagined my momma singing it to me. And it helped me that day.
Just like now. Her voice cracks with nervousness and fear, but with every note, it becomes more clear and vibrant. Her sweet, soulful voice soothes my tattered spirit, and I finally feel like I can breathe.
I turn my head to see Quinn kneeling next to me on the bed. I only imagined crawling to the floor, unable to move. I’ve been in this spot the entire time.
She rubs my back in slow, sure circles as she continues to hum. Even as her cheeks flush, she continues to hum the song. Her eyes stay firmly latched to mine with a quiet confidence and warmth that I feel in my bones.
“You’re singing,” I croak out, my throat still tight from the attack.
“I’m humming.” Her cheeks brighten more as she ducks her head.
I tip her chin back up so I can see in those mesmerizing eyes and brush the hair from her face. “You’re splitting hairs.”
“You said it helps.I get it. It’s why I became a music therapist. I know music helps.Ialsoknow panic attacks suck. You looked like you were having a bad one.”
I release her with a frown, dragging my hand down my face with a groan. “Everyoneis a bad one.” And every fucking one drains me for days. It’s part of why I fell in love with cocaine.“I didn’t know you were a music therapist.”I’m not sure where I thought she went every day, butI assumed she had another job. I just didn’t guess it wasmusic-related.
Although, if anyone understands the power of a song—of a melody, it’s me.
