22. Jonah
22
JONAH
“What the fuck is up with you?”
Torren tosses a french fry at my head. I was zoning again. Spiraling.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been throwing silent tantrums all week. Why don’t you just call her and apologize?”
I arch a brow. “Who?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“What makes you think I did something to apologize for? Fuck, what makes you think it’s about her at all?”
Torren looks at me like I actually am an idiot. Then he smirks.
“You check her social media profile multiple times a day. You log into your own, too, and I know it
’s just to see if she’s posted anything new. And...”
There’s a pause, and I sigh.
“And what, dick?”
“And this is the first time in weeks that you’ve been a moody bastard. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. She’s gone MIA, and you’ve regressed back into an asshole.”
My lip curls and my eyes narrow. I don’t like that I’ve been so easy to read. I don’t like it at all. Then his eyes widen.
“Did you sleep with her?”
Warning bells sound in my head. Danger! Danger! Danger !
I hide a lot of shit from Torren, but I’m usually open about who I fuck. This time, though...
This time it’s different.
Telling the truth would do nothing to me. Everyone knows I’m a slut, anyway. But it could seriously fuck shit up for Claire. If it got back to Hammond, he’d fire her. He’d probably tell my dad. If my dad found out, I don’t want to think about what he’d do to her career. My dad is a vengeful, heartless bastard. It’s one of the few things we have in common.
“No.”
The lie rolls off my tongue smoothly. I keep my tone flat, but a hint of disappointment creeps in, and I realize it’s not fake. Torren probably takes it to mean I want to fuck her and can’t. But it actually means I did, and I’m disappointed I’ll never get to do it again.
I drop my head to my basket of fish and chips. I sprinkle more vinegar on what’s left of my fries, just so I have something else to do, then stick my hand under my thigh so I stop picking at my fucking thumb.
I wonder if she’s having fun. Is she exploring Edinburgh or is she just chilling in her hotel room? Is she eating? Has she met someone? The chain of thought makes my chest ache, but then my phone rings. The number on the screen just makes me angrier.
“I gotta take this.” I wave my phone as I slide out of the booth. “I’m finished, so I’ll just meet you outside.”
I don’t let Torren respond. I head straight for the door of the pub with my head down. Once outside, I glance at José.
“You can give me some space, José. It’s just a phone call.”
He nods, and I walk down the street away from him. When I’m at a safe distance, I answer.
“Yeah?”
“Jonah.”
“Dad.” I take my cigarettes out of my pocket, place one between my lips, and light it. “What do you want?”
“I’m calling in regard to Ms. Davis.”
My spine snaps straight. My defenses on high alert. “What about her? ”
“I’d like to speak with her. I’ve been unable to get through to her phone.”
I take a drag from my cigarette. “Huh. Weird.”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I would like to speak with her.”
If my mind weren’t a chaotic mess of thoughts, I’d be pleased that I’ve annoyed him. Instead, as usual these days, my focus is on Claire. Is she okay? Is something wrong?
“Jonah.”
“Hm?”
“Ms. Davis. I need to speak to her.”
“Hold.”
I take the phone away from my ear and pull up my text thread with Claire.
Me
Hey. You alive?
I watch as my message goes from delivered to read within seconds. Her reply comes immediately after.
Trouble
Are you in a PR crisis?
No.
Then no, I am not alive. I will be dead until Sunday.
I smirk and bite my lip to stifle a laugh. It’s been four days since I’ve talked to her, and Tor is right. I’ve been a miserable asshole.
I’ve already written a eulogy.
Fuck off.
I bark out a laugh. Then, because I’m flooded with dopamine or some bullshit, I send another text. A stupid one. An honest one.
I miss your sass.
The message is read, and I wait for her reply. Chat bubbles pop up, then disappear. Pop up, then disappear again. My father’s voice sounds again from the receiver, and I grit my teeth.
“Jonah, what the hell is?—”
“I said hold . I know you’re not accustomed to waiting, but you’re going to have to?—”
My sass or my ass?
Claire’s message comes through and momentarily shocks me. I read it three times before my brain comprehends, and then I’m grinning. Like all out ear-to-ear, lip-splitting grin.
Do I have to choose?
More chat bubbles. Another seconds long wait that seems like years. The way I’m feeling at this moment is embarrassing. It’s a fucking text conversation, and here I am panting impatiently for my next hit.
Go do something productive, Hendrix. I’ll see you Sunday.
I’m still smiling when I put the phone back to my ear.
“She’s busy.”
“Jonah, for fuck’s sake. Tell her I need?—”
“Tell her yourself.”
“Then give her the fucking phone.”
There goes my good mood. Now I want to light something on fire. Some one .
“No can do, Dad. She’s busy. She’s here to work , remember? You should know that since you’re her boss. Send her an email. I’m sure she’ll get back to you expeditiously.”
He grows quiet, but I can picture his face. Scowling. Jaw hard. Nostrils flaring. Eyes condescending and freezing fucking cold. It’s been years, but it still gives me the worst kind of chills. I take another drag from my cigarette.
“Yes, Son. She is there to work . Any other behaviors will be cause for termination. Do you understand? ”
“I don’t, actually. Please explain.”
“Wearing your jacket on the rooftop of Torre de Belém , Jonah? Posting her on your social media?”
My heartbeat thuds loudly in my head. My blood boils, singeing my skin. I speak slowly, calmly, but inside I’m raging. How fucking dare this man.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“She’s a beautiful girl. A good worker. But she’s not for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s not one of your little fans. Ms. Davis is... ambitious . You need to be careful.”
I laugh so I don’t explode on him.
“I’m sorry, Dad, but are you pissing on her or protecting me from her?”
“Don’t be glib, Jonah. I am saying do not fuck Ms. Davis. Women like her cannot be trusted, and that one’s wily. I wouldn’t put it past her to tr?—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I force through my teeth. I’m seething. “You don’t get to tell me shit about her. Not a single fucking thing.”
“She will use you to get to me. To get to your money. Trust me, I know women like her.”
“Jesus Christ. Spare me a lecture about your past fucking mistresses.”
And his current fucking mistress.
I press my palm into my forehead. Hot ash from my cigarette falls onto my wrist, but it doesn’t stop the visions. Him and Claire. Claire and him.
He’s fucked her. Christ, she thinks he’s her fucking boyfriend, and I can’t get a handle on my jealousy and rage. I hate him for having her. I hate her for making me want her. I hate myself for falling back into this place I always swear I’ll never return to.
Then I see my mother. My brother. I see a younger me standing against a wall, observing. Always fucking observing. Never part of the family. Never wanted. Only needed.
Needed until I was no longer useful.
Something inside tells me that what my father is saying about Claire isn’t true. She’s not a user. She wouldn’t sleep with me for personal gain. I seduced her . There’s something between us. I fucking feel it. I fucking know it.
But goddamn it, my head is such a mess.
I’m so fucking used to being used.
“Women like her know how to play a man. She’ll lure you with charm. Get you to let her into your bed. And then she’ll pounce. One night of fun could?—”
I hang up.
I crouch down and put my forearms on my knees. Thank fuck this pub is in an alley, and I don’t have to worry about pedestrians. Thank fuck Edinburgh is more chill than LA. It’s almost safe to have a mental breakdown in public.
“Shit, Jo. You okay?” Torren’s hand lands on my back, and he crouches beside me. “What’s up? Do I need a medic or something?”
I bark out a dark laugh. “More like a contract killer.”
“For who?”
“Conrad Henderson.”
“What did he say?”
I laugh again, then push myself to standing. Torren follows.
“More bullshit. Gave me such a fucking headache that I had to take a moment.” I avert my eyes from Torren’s as I take out another cigarette. I check my watch as I spark it up, trying like hell to hide the trembling in my hands. “Almost soundcheck. Let’s go before we piss off Sav.”
The sooner I get away from him, the sooner I can turn my mind off.
I just need it to shut the hell up for a while. Then I’ll be fine.
It’s too easy to score prescription drugs when you’re a rock star.
Everyone has them. Everyone wants to share them with you. It’s a wonder how anyone ever gets sober in this industry. I could walk out into the audience now and come back with a fucking pharmacy in my pockets within minutes. If I wanted, I could call no less than twenty people who would hook me up with their doctor, and I’d have a bottle of painkillers by the end of the show.
I know how to be subtle, though. I’ve been doing this for years.
Roadies and groupies are my suppliers. You just have to know what you’re looking for. They’ve got tells, and I can recognize all of them. I hit up my go-to roadie after soundcheck for Xanax. He’s reliable and discreet, and at this point I don’t even have to ask. I just nod to an exit door and meet him outside five minutes later.
“Been a minute,” he says as he hands me a generic Ibuprofen bottle.
I take it and shove it into my pocket, then hand him a wad of cash.
“Yeah. My stash stretched.”
It’s not a lie. It’s not uncommon. I’ve had periods where I use less. I trick my brain into thinking it’s healed. I give my therapist a sliver of truth and pretend it works. I use the music as a crutch. It never lasts, though. I either can’t handle the comedown or something sets me off. So after my mom died, I doubled up. I thought I’d need more to do the least.
I got Trouble instead.
I take the bottle back out of my pocket and take a pill.
“Thanks,” I say, and then I walk out.
I clock the groupie during the third song, but I don’t make the decision right away. I scan the wings for Claire first. If she’s here, I can’t see her. No Thank You, Edinburgh photo post, I guess. I ignore the way my stomach twists.
Right before the encore, I flag José over.
“Floor. Third row. Blonde hair. Fake tits. Got my name written on her chest in black paint or marker or some shit. Go now.”
“Dressing room or hotel?”
“Hotel.” José nods and starts to turn away, but I stop him. “Vodka.”
He doesn’t even question me. He just nods again and disappears. I go back onto the stage for the encores, and I expect to feel better. There’s always guilt. There’s always a feeling of failure. But usually, I can ignore them. Usually, the Xanax dulls the noise enough that I can look forward to a fuck and a fix.
Tonight, that doesn’t happen.
Tonight, I just hate myself, and I let myself wallow in it.
The groupie is waiting on the couch holding a bottle of expensive vodka when I get back to the suite. Her red glitter bra and jeans are already discarded on the floor. I’m surprised she left her thong on, honestly.
“You want to party?” she asks the moment the door shuts behind me. It’s a confirmation that I chose correctly. I’m never fucking wrong about this shit.
“What you got?”
She giggles and reaches into a red glitter purse at her feet, then wiggles an orange prescription bottle at me. “Benzos.”
I shake my head. “Got that covered. Painkillers?”
She purses her lips and dives back into her bag, then pops back up with six small, white, oval pills in the palm of her hand. I take one, check the imprint, then grab another.
“Now we can party, sweets.”
I chase two painkillers with a swig of vodka, then kick off my shoes before falling onto the couch next to the woman. She tries to climb onto my lap, but I hold up a hand. I’m not high enough for this yet.
“Wait.” I take my phone and turn on some music, then close my eyes. “I need a minute.”
I feel the couch cushion shift beside me. “Can I take off your shirt?”
I sit up and raise my hands above my head. She takes my shirt off, then goes for the button on my jeans. I let her undo that, too. She rubs on my thigh, then my dick, and I want to laugh at how not hard I am. I could blame it on the pills, but I know it’s not that. It’s because the hand is wrong. The scent is wrong. The woman is wrong. And anyway, if I was really wanting to fuck, I’d have gone with a different drug cocktail.
I sink further into the couch cushion. My head swims. She straddles me. I don’t bother pushing her away, but when she tries to kiss me, I turn my head. Her hands are in my hair. Her tongue is in my ear. I feel nothing but disgust.
Then, because I’m fucking addicted to trouble, I grab my phone and snap a pic.
Naked fucking blonde straddling me, tits in my face, lips on my neck. I even manage a smirk. I don’t second-guess it. I pull up her text thread and shoot her the photo.
Then I turn my phone off and wait.