Zoey does love Jax. That’s something I’ve known from the very beginning. Evenwhen we were dumb kids, I knew she loved him all those years ago. Her connection to him was unshakable.
But I also know how she felt about me. How she still feels about me. And that’s the most brutal blow of them all. Knowing your soulmate’s bond with someone else is even stronger.
“You were never going to win that fight, Maddox. Why don’t you let it go? Move the fuck on.”
“Why don’t you?” I mutter. “Just forget I exist. You’re under no obligation to me. You have never been. Let me live—and die—on my fucking terms. We both know you don’t give a shit about me.”
“Not happening. No matter what you may believe, I do care. I am not going to watch you kill yourself.”
“Then. Don’t. Fucking. Watch.”
“You act as if you care about everyone, but you just really don’t give a shit, do you? The only person you think about is yourself. You don’t care what it would do to Zoey if anything ever happened to you.”
“According to you, I don’t matter to her anyway.” I grit out, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue, but the need to push his buttons is strong. I’m not going to roll over and play nice. Not with him.
Bastian’s betrayal has been the final blow for me. I can’t take any more.
“Whatever, Maddox.” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “That’s not what I said, but for argument’s sake, we’ll say you’re right. But what about your friends? What about Ryder? He doesn’t seem like he’d handle it very well.”
“Great friend, he is, huh? I know he’s the one that called you, isn’t he?”
“He’s scared of losing you, Maddox.”
“Right. So, he calls the one person he knew would piss me off the most. Great job he did.” The sarcasm in my tone oozes like an infection. I don’t even mean the shit that’s coming out of my mouth, but I can’t seem to make it stop. Anger and frustration pour out of me like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. I want to push Bastian’s buttons, but even I know I sound like a bratty little shit. It’s like I’m possessed by something.
“Stop acting like a little bitch. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Bottom line is you’re going home. You’re going to get clean. You’re going to get your shit together once and for all, or so help me God, I will make your life hell.”
Apparently, he missed the memo.
My life is already hell.
Unfurl your black wings
Present Day
I want to hate Bastian for dragging me here. It should be easy. Especially considering the physical hell of withdrawals I’ve gone through. I told him it wouldn’t stick. I promised him I would go back the first chance I got.
It wasn’t a threat. I wasn’t being petulant. Okay, maybe a little, but I need it. But they don’t understand. Even after all these weeks, I still feel it. The headaches and the nausea are constant. The dizziness never really goes away.
Not to mention they quiet the turmoil in my head. I can never explain it, not in any way that makes sense to anyone. Although, I suppose what they see and what I try to explain are often a contradiction.
On the outside, it probably seems I am comfortable around people. I can carry on conversation and smile in any room. I’ve worked off and on at Lucky’s, a bar back in Brooklyn, since I was eighteen. I’ve played the role of playboy heir to the Masters’ fortune, with the media hounding my every step. I’ve mixed and mingled among society’s elite. Since I was seven, I’ve been in front of crowds performing my music.
It’s the act that should win awards. The Academy would be thrilled to offer that Oscar to me if they knew the truth.
Because on the inside, I’m a mess. The smile is so fake, it may as well be plastic. My ease and relaxed appearance is nothing more than years of perfecting my art—to never let anyone see just how fragile I am. After fifteen minutes in a crowded room, my heart begins to beat an erratic rhythm. Twenty minutes, I begin to sweat. Half an hour, my head starts to spin and pound, rendering me unable to concentrate on anything but the noise around me because by then, the voices become garbled, and I can’t understand what anyone is trying to say. I come off as rude and uncaring when I’m actually struggling just to breathe.
On the inside, my thoughts and feelings are precipitously changing. Rarely do I have a complete thought. An idea comes, only to abruptly shift into another before the last comes to full fruition. Along with the changing thoughts come the changing moods.
God, I don’t know how the hell I have fooled people for so long.
But these weeks withoutanyrelief from the madness has made the insanity worse. And yes, I acknowledge I must be insane. Kind of crazy in itself,considering they say the insane don’t know that they are. It’s probably an issue of my own making. Of refusing to deal with my shit. Of self-medicating to ease the crazy. But it’s how things are now. Maybe how they’ve always been.
After driving an hour on the interstate, I decide to exit for a minute. The need to stretch my legs is fierce. The need to take a fucking piss, fiercer.
I walk into the truck stop with my hoodie pulled up over my head and my sunglasses on. I try to conceal my identity as much as possible. Not so much from fans, because it’s unlikely I run into more than one or two here,if any at all. But I don’t want the surveillance cameras to catch me. Maybe it’s just paranoia, but I’m positive Christian could pull footage to identify me. It’s also why I stayed out of the main parking lot with the bike.
After I finish in the bathroom, I walk to the counter, keeping my head low. I know I’m probably making the cashier nervous as fuck, but it can’t be helped. I buy a pack of smokes and another lighter, paying in cash because it can’t be traced by the psychopath I’ve somehow inherited.
