Chapter Twenty Eight
Benjamin
The best thing about performing is that the crowd is so far away that they can’t tell if you’re fucked up or not. Well—that and picking out the outfits.
Tonight, Phoebe is going for a hot-summer vibe, so Cammie has on her daisy dukes and her tank top which is adorable.
Felix is sporting a pair of jean cut-off capris and no shirt.
He’s getting riskier every day. I’m teaching him very well.
Fuck-face loser Drew is wearing a plain white shirt and black shorts because we can always leave it to him to ruin the fun.
But I—Benjamin dresses better than you Dickinson—am wearing a white button-up completely unbuttoned—no undershirt. I paired that with some scandalously low-rise blue jeans with a pair of aviators hooked to the front pocket just to add to the summer effect.
I love performance nights. Cavetown gave us a normal spot on the roster after our last show did so well, so now I get to vent out my feelings to the world and get plastered like all normal celebrities.
It’s better this way. It’s better that I’m constantly distracted, intoxicated or performing.
Or—like most of the time—all three. That way I’m not thinking.
Then, when night falls, I grab the hottest guy I can find and take him to bed.
Sometimes it’s okay, sometimes I’m terrified, and sometimes I feel nothing at all.
But one thing is always the same: their touch startles me—shakes me to the core.
And once I kick them out, I go to my room and give myself another beauty mark—another reminder that I’m here and I’m doing something.
I’m not dying—not yet. Even if I want to.
I apparently really get off on self-destruction.
My PTSD is pretty bad sometimes. Night terrors—screaming and crying during sex. The second one is always a bit awkward to try and explain—but whatever. I never have to see them again. I have a hard time on campus, so I do a lot of online school now, but I still have to go a couple times a week.
Felix knows I’m smoking a lot. He knows I have visitors at night. But he doesn’t push, he’s probably just happy I’m not back on hard drugs. I’m trying in the only way I know how.
The only thing I can’t seem to figure out—to work through—is Aaron.
When the PTSD is really bad, he’s all I think of.
Running to him—calling him. When I’m bent over my bed—crying into my pillows, I try to imagine it’s him behind me and then maybe I won’t feel so scared.
His existence follows me everywhere. I’ll never escape him. It’s killing me.
I need another drink.
Another shot of moonshine later and we’re getting on the stage at Cavetown.
Everyone’s screaming and clapping but the lights are so bright I can’t see most people past the first two rows.
They cheer when Felix waves—freaking out over his bare chest. Cammie spins her drumstick in the air.
Drew gives the crowd his sweet boy-next-door smile.
And me. I make sure the mic is where I need and take a deep breath. Here we go.
“Cavetown, hello again!” Cheering. “We’re Phoebe and we’re gonna cover some songs for you. Alright cool, this is ‘Powerslide’ by Ryan Beatty. Let’s kick it.”
There’s a beat or two of instrumental then I lay a hand on the mic, letting the other tuck into my back pocket so no one sees it shake.
This song is inherently sexual—falling into pleasure with a lover and feeling that intense desire when you see them. It’s sexy and erotic in the tamest way.
Everything I sing even now makes me think of Aaron.
Everything I do—everywhere I go.
Even when my body is terrified of every hand that comes upon it—even when my head knows he’s here to hurt me, here to get to me—my heart craves him. So desperate I am to fall into him.
I take my hands and place them on the front of my hips as they move—letting one drag up my body to lightly hold my neck, and the other slides right to that little place Aaron loved so much.
Where I could feel him—where he could feel himself.
Our deepest point of connection. He always said that’s where our souls intertwined—every time he fills me so deeply, we fuse into each other more and more.
I can feel his hands on me. I can taste him, smell the flowers. I can see him hot and sweaty—laid out by the pool. Leaned over me in his room like a fucking predator. His tongues in my mouth and I can’t breathe.
My hands are in my hair as I sing the chorus again to end the song. When the instruments die the crowd goes wild. Nothing sells like sex—and a hot guy touching himself is a close second.
“Ha—right on.” I’m grinning because I love that they love me, and I feel like I’m floating. Thank you, alcohol. “Next, we’ll get a bit more emotional—this is ‘Hope Is a Heartache’ by LéON.”
As the crowd cheers I take a drink of my water bottle that’s actually just vodka. Felix is grinning at me, so I go give him a little kiss on the cheek. He chuckles—shaking his head as the girls in the crowd lose their shit. See? Sex sells.
This next song really gets to me. Really makes me think of Aaron and how we can’t escape each other—of the last few years. It’s a belty song too—I get to vent the feelings out, give them to the crowd—go home without them. They’ll return in the morning.
The countdown clicks and on one I sing, now holding the mic with the stand out of the way.
I loved him. I loved him so much. I loved him from the beginning—I even loved him when I was with Drew.
Through every fucked-up thing—I loved him.
I grab at my aching chest. I wish everyone would stop talking about him when I’m around—I wish everything I want to say, every memory I actually want to remember didn’t involve him. Those fucking eyes.
Does that guy you’re fucking know you were my god, Aaron? Does he know that you told me we can’t live without each other? That you’d do anything for me—forever? That fucking hotel room will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I know I have to look vicious—so heartbroken, so tortured. I bend slightly at the waist, giving it everything I have.
I still hold onto some small piece of you—the version who held me together—fixed me, kissed the pain away every time I fell apart. You were my last thread of hope. And you were so careless with it.
We’ll forever share this. These scars—these memories, these places. We’ll never get away. And for as long as I can’t love anyone the way that I love you—I’ll worship you. You just don’t deserve to know.
The song’s coming to a close and I think I might have a tear or two on my face, but I don’t want to wipe away the glitter.
The crowd erupts and another night of therapy has proven its effectiveness as I stare out into the club.
My chest feels a little lighter as it rises and falls in a hurry. I stare into the lights.
◆◆◆
About an hour later I’m walking up to the bar.
The rest of our set was pretty poppy and energetic so I’m thirsty and sweaty.
I order whatever their strongest mixed drink is and lean against the bar top.
People stare from different spots in the club—others pay me no mind. The bartender hands me my drink.
“Thanks.”
“Can I get your next one?” I turn around, leaning my back up against the wood. He’s got an inch or two on me and definitely a few pounds of muscle. He looks kind of like a young Johnny Depp in this lighting, but I’ve been bamboozled before.
“If I’m still standing.” I say, giving him a little smile. He could be fun. I really hope he’s fun.
“Aw—and what am I supposed to do if you’re not?” Mr. Depp is grinning down at me like I’m the freshest cookie here—eyes roaming over my bare chest, my nipple bars, my lips.
“I guess you’ll have to carry me home.” I sound sweet—like a perfect little peach. He likes that answer, placing a hand beside me on the bar and leaning down a bit to whisper in my ear. I can see the absence of a stamp on his skin.
“Tell me—will your voice still sound so angelic when you’re screaming my name?” That’s a new one. This guy actually has some moves—I’m thoroughly impressed.
My smile is growing as I prepare to ask him—wanna find out—but I don’t get the chance.
“You can’t take home and fuck a drunk nineteen-year-old.” Mr. Depp’s eyes widen—turning to look at Aaron who’s glaring at me from behind him. Motherfucker.
“You didn’t seem to mind fucking this nineteen-year-old.” I tell him, sneering at him over my drink. Mr. Depp removes his hand from beside me.
“Right. Maybe next time, angel.” And he walks away. Aaron’s grinning like he’s won some kind of game. I roll my eyes.
“You do know there’s at least five other guys in this room who want to fuck me, right? I’ll just find another.” Aaron’s smile turns into a glare as fast as it appears. He steps up right in front of me—but I don’t flinch. I don’t back away. Not anymore.
“Then I’ll be there to fuck up every one.”
“Hmm. And what happens when it’s a guy my age, hm? What will you tell him then?” Aaron ponders this for a moment—searching my eyes for something. The room around him is getting fuzzy. I think I drank too much moonshine. Time to get this show on the road!
“I’ll tell him I’ll beat his ass.” I choke on my drink—causing Aaron to slap my back a few times. When I can breathe again, I swat his hand away.
“You can’t fight every guy I sleep with.”
“You’re right. I’ll fight them before they sleep with you. That’s the point. How drunk are you?” His condescending fucking voice—his stupid fucking face. I want him so badly.
So instead—I throw my drink on him.
“Damn—” I say, tilting my head at his shocked expression. “Guess I’m that drunk.”
“Ha—” He’s smiling but it’s not pleasant. My sticky drink is dripping down his neck, soaking the front of his shirt. The people around us gasp and shuffle away—most likely due to Aaron’s psycho-killer face.