Wasted

Prologue

Cole

W hite hot pain shot through my head and body as a warm liquid streamed down my face. My eyes eased open, and I shook the confusion out of my head, trying to remember what happened. I was in what was left of my truck, surrounded by broken glass and a cloud of smoke. "Fuck," I muttered, feeling around, searching for the door handle. Sirens echoed in the far distance, and a coppery taste filled my mouth as I shoved at the truck door.

It was stuck.

My lungs filled with smoke as panic rose in my throat. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, masking the pain and giving me superhuman strength as I pushed at the door, but it was no use. There was only one way out. I climbed through the broken window, falling to the ground and wincing as pain surged through my right side.

It was dark. No streetlights or headlights of passing cars. Only the half-moon casting enough light for me to see the extent of the damage I'd caused.

"What the fuck?" My blurry vision swept over my truck wrapped around a tree. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my rib cage, I searched my pockets for my phone. I didn't know if those sirens in the distance were for me, but I seriously hoped not. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and hit my manager Wyatt's contact.

It was three in the morning, but his job was to answer any time I called.

"Cole," Wyatt snapped, answering the phone on the third ring. His voice was rough with exhaustion, but there was an undercurrent of frustration that I knew all too well.

"Wyatt, I'm sorry to wake y?—"

"Wake me?" he cut me off, his tone sharp. "You think I'm sleeping after all the bullshit you pulled tonight?" He let out a heavy sigh, and I could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you even have any idea the trouble your little stunt caused tonight? I've got the label breathing down my neck, your new publicist is about to have an aneurysm and is now threatening to quit, and don't even get me started on what your fans are saying online."

It was a straight whiskey kind of night, so I didn't remember what bullshit or stunt he was referring to. In fact, up until this moment, I didn't even recall how I got here or what happened to cause the accident. The last thing I remembered was standing at the bar, staring into the dark liquor of my first glass and hoping tonight I drank enough to drown all the memories, all the pain of the past that I was still trying to escape.

"Well, I hate to add to that bullshit, but how quickly can you get a tow truck to…" I paused, shoving a hand through my wet hair as my gaze shifted from left to right, looking for a sign of where I was. "I'll have to send you my location." I tried to hit the speakerphone button, but my fingers were covered in blood. Wiping my hands on my torn t-shirt, I tried again, finally switching it to speaker phone and opening my messages to quickly send him my location.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Wyatt spoke again, his voice had lost its edge, replaced by a weariness that made my chest tighten with guilt. "Christ, Cole. What have you done now?"

"I fucked up," I admitted, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. I swiped my thumb across my bottom lip, wiping away the blood. "And if you don't make it here before the police, you're going to have the biggest PR nightmare of your career."

"There's no way it could be worse than what I'm already dealing with."

My gaze flicked back to the truck. "Trust me, it's worse."

The line went quiet for a moment, and I could practically hear the gears turning in Wyatt's head, weighing options, considering consequences. "Are you okay?" The professional mask had slipped.

The genuine worry in Wyatt's voice hit me harder than the crash had. I swallowed hard, fighting back a sudden wave of emotion. "Just get here quick." I disconnected the phone. If Wyatt and the tow truck made it before the police, no one would ever know anything had happened. But if he didn't, I was going to spend the rest of the morning in jail. Which was the least of my worries. My reputation was already teetering on the edge of ruin, and this might just be what threw me over. Of course, I hadn't been concerned about that when I was double-fisting shots of whiskey or when I'd gotten behind the wheel, wrecked.

I flexed my hand, wincing at the sight of my cut and bruised knuckles. Bits and pieces of memory – a shove, a punch thrown – flashed through my mind.

My head pounded as a rush of exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I suddenly felt lightheaded. I stumbled to the ground as the world tilted and blurred. The distant sirens faded in and out, and as everything went black, her face was the only thing I saw.

"Taylor."