32. Wilder
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
wilder
F ucking Kendra.
Evangeline probably thinks I was hiding out in the dark somewhere for the last hour of the party. I kind of was. But I was also watching her. The second I saw Clay heading toward her, I was moving in her direction. Which was when Kendra intercepted me.
I knew she was at the event, of course, having spotted her lurking toward the back of the crowd during Glow’s set. As the only person scowling instead of enjoying the music, she was hard to miss. Clay stood beside her. While he, at least, was bobbing his head to the music, seeing all his creepy focus centered on Evangeline set off alarm bells. No doubt he was there because Kendra wanted him to use him to drive a wedge between Evangeline and me.
That part of her plan, at least, backfired before it even unfolded. I may have a reputation as the least social party guest in history, but a life on the sidelines has made me observant as hell. Clay has a well-established type: tall brunettes who resemble his stepsister—fucking gag —so I wasn’t worried about him hitting on Evangeline with any real intent. I was worried even less about Evangeline falling for his charming facade, not with the taste of her still in my throat and her I love yous filling the cracks of my heart.
I was ready for Kendra when she slithered into my path. Now she regrets every moment of pseudo-intimacy between us, when chemically induced trust led her to show me her closet full of skeletons… among them the twisted bones of her relationship with her stepbrother and stepfather, as well as a graveyard full of their corrupt dealings. I let her say her piece, listened to all the usual threats wrapped in false affection, then made it clear if she ever goes through with anything, I’ll use it all—every last dirty secret she shared—to ruin the reputation of her family.
Throwing her past vulnerabilities in her face didn’t feel good, but it was necessary to quell her mistaken belief that she’s the only one with leverage in our fucked-up association.
Kendra may have the ability to ruin my life—she could tell the world I’m addicted to pain pills, break my family’s heart, throw a wrench in Night Theory’s success, and destroy my chance of happiness with Evangeline—but I hold an equal power.
At the end of the day, a rock musician addicted to drugs isn’t nearly as sensational as the dirt I have on the Eatons.
And she knows it.
* * *
It isn’t until we’re back at Evangeline’s house, showered and curled up on her couch with a movie on, that she asks the question I’ve been expecting and dreading.
She would have asked the second I dropped the bomb of who Clay’s sister was on her, but before she could, Rye and Lily found us. The women couldn’t leave before saying a round of goodbyes and thank yous. Then we had to collect their instruments and belongings from the suite and wait for a valet to bring our cars. By the time Evangeline was buckled into my passenger seat, she was half asleep, and within five minutes she was out.
Between the half-hour cat nap and a shower when we got home—during which me washing her hair turned into desperate, slippery sex—she’s now sleepy but lucid. I’ve been pretending to watch the movie while counting down the final minutes of my reprieve.
“What did Kendra want?”
“To start a fight,” I say with a sigh. “She thrives on stirring shit up and causing a scene. When I didn’t take the bait, she gave up.”
Even shittier than lying to Evangeline is the knowledge I brought tonight on myself. The only reason Kendra was at the showcase at all was because of me. Four days ago, I reached out to her under the pretense of clearing the air and apologizing for how abruptly I dumped her. The real reason, however, is currently buried in my sock drawer at home.
Because I’m a worthless addict.
I fucking knew it was a mistake to call Kendra, just like I knew she wouldn’t believe me when I told her I didn’t want anything from her but pills. In her messed-up head, we’re perfect for each other. She doesn’t see our relationship as having been toxic because she’s never known anything else. But even knowing that talking to her would bite me in the ass, I hadn’t been able to stop myself.
My dad’s sobriety books say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.
Bullshit.
The second I admitted it to myself, the line I’ve balanced on for years disappeared. I’ve fallen to the bottom of a well I dug myself, and every pill I take drops another bucket of sludge over me. I’m going to drown in the poison of my own making; it’s only a matter of time.
So far, I’ve been able to avoid appearing visibly high around Evangeline, but my willpower wanes every time I lose the daily battle with myself. Every time I tell her I have to go home for a bit, or run an errand that doesn’t exist. Every time I lie to her and to Jax, who still thinks I’m sober.
In the mere seconds of silence as I wait for Evangeline to speak, I see a future wherein every scrap of goodness in my life burns away. Because I’m too weak to stop lighting matches.
“Is that how you met her? At an industry event because her stepbrother and father are entertainment lawyers?”
Despite how little I want to talk about the Eatons, I’m relieved at the distraction from my thoughts.
“Stepfather,” I say, struggling to keep the disgust out of my voice. “And yes. Conrad Eaton gets invitations to everything. He’s the guy everyone hates to need.”
“Huh. I’d never even heard of the Eatons until tonight.”
I twirl a strand of her clean, damp hair around my finger. Focusing on physical sensations—the slight friction of individual hairs, the scent of her shampoo—I can almost, almost , ignore the burn beneath my skin.
“Consider yourself lucky.”
She rubs her nose against my chest and sniffs me, an adorable habit that makes me feel like the luckiest asshole in the world. I doubt she even knows she does it, and I’ll never draw attention to it for fear of her stopping.
“What’s so bad about them?” she asks on a yawn.
I shift in discomfort. I don’t want to lie, but I also don’t want to give her nightmares.
“Wilder?”
Her voice is more alert, and I wince internally. “They do all the usual shit for artists—negotiating contracts, licensing, copyright issues—but they’re also criminal defense attorneys.”
Evangeline sits up and frowns at me. “You’re being vague on purpose.”
“Because I don’t want to upset you.” Her frown deepens, and I sigh in defeat. “Remember when we were looking for a lawyer to negotiate our contract with Indigo four years ago? Eaton and Associates came up as an option, and I asked my dad about them. He warned me off them pretty forcefully. He didn’t tell me anything specific, but I’ve heard enough since then to figure out why. Conrad and Clay aren’t known for their integrity.”
Knowing she won’t stop digging until I give her something concrete, I make myself continue.
“There’s a reason I didn’t want you anywhere near Michael Dresden. Why whenever we’re in the same place, the guys and I keep a close eye on him. Last year, two women came forward with evidence he drugged and assaulted them. Within a month, the charges were dropped and both women just so happened to move out of state. Clay was his lawyer.”
Her lovely face twists with dismay. “My God.” She pauses, and I can almost feel her mind working. “Kendra told you that?”
I nod. Kendra told me more, too. Like how Clay sent private investigators to harass and bully the women until they folded and fled.
Evangeline tucks her head under my chin. “That’s so horrible. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Say you’ll stay away from that family.”
She nods. “I can’t believe Clay seemed so normal. What a creep.”
She yawns again, so hugely her jaw cracks.
“Come on, Fairy. Let’s get you to bed.”
She hums in agreement but doesn’t move.
Grabbing the remote, I turn off the movie we weren’t watching, then help her to her feet. Eyes half-lidded, she sways until I wrap an arm around her waist. She melts against me with a sigh, nose buried in my shirt.
“I love you, Wilder,” she mumbles. “I’m going to love you forever. Just like we promised.”
The words hit like a gut punch, stealing my air. Tears burn my eyes. Another bucket of sludge hits my head, burying me in more darkness.
Addict.
Liar.
Loser.
“I love you, too,” I choke out. “Forever.”