Chapter Two
S unlight crisscrossed the floor outside the bathroom, yellow light on disgusting beige carpet.
Aiden tried to swallow, but his body wouldn’t allow it.
Consciousness strobed inside him, first in his skull, throbbing, then in his stomach, clenching and leaping, and finally in his throat, urging him to lift his head.
He pushed to his palms and heaved into the toilet.
His body purged until there was nothing left.
He rested his cheek on the cold toilet seat, panting and sniffling.
Tequila be damned, he remembered everything.
A studded belt buckle dug into his belly.
Sick soured his gums. He peeled his jacket off, tossed it, shrugged his shirt off, tossed it, set his cheek on the toilet again, hiccupped, winced, kicked off his boots, then his pants, and slithered into the tub.
The water ran cold, forcing his senses to sharpen.
He certainly wasn’t awake, but he was somewhat alert, at least. He rinsed his mouth, tested a stint of hot water, dry-heaved, twisted the knob to cold, brushed his teeth, tried not to think of Shay, thought of him anyway, lathered his skin with cheap Old Spice knockoff shower gel, and sat there. Dazed. Steeped in a ruthless hangover.
His palm remembered the weight of the knife. His mouth remembered Shay. His hands remembered bloody dirt. His body remembered the stillness, otherworldly and watched, as he swallowed blackened paper.
Live with it. The words came once, again, a third time. I’ll live with it. I have to live with it. I can live with it.
And he would. For a while, at least.
In the living room, his phone buzzed. By the sound of traffic outside, it had to be mid-day.
The phone quieted, then rang again. His mind jumped to Shay’s bloated body pushed onto shore.
Some college-drop-out dog-walker screaming at the top of their lungs.
Police and forensic teams swarming the beach.
Climactic arrest scenes from all the bullshit True Crime he’d binged on Netflix flashed behind his eyes.
He stepped out of the shower and walked into the studio, snatching his phone off the counter.
Eight Missed Calls. Six from Thomas. Two from Georgia. He checked his texts.
Thomas Manko: our set got moved to 8. last opener. sound check changed from 3 to 4.
Thomas Manko: hello?
Georgia Williams: where the fuck are you
Georgia Williams: AIDEN
Aiden glanced at the backpack against the wall.
Thomas Manko: we’re coming to get you
Aiden Moore: i’m up. text when you’re her e
The time read 3:11 p.m. He searched through his laundry for a towel and dried off.
If he ate something, he’d probably get sick, but if he didn’t eat something, he’d probably pass out during sound check.
Puking he could live with; bouncing his face off the stage would be far more embarrassing.
He dressed simply, dark jeans, black shirt, and combed wax through his hair, smoothing black strands away from his face.
The only edible product in his pantry was stale Fruit Loops.
He ate straight from the box, pacing in front of his backpack as he crunched cardboard circles under his teeth.
It was arguably just a backpack, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.
He shoved cereal into his mouth and toed at one of the straps, nudging the muddy bag toward his dresser.
A few drawers were open, clothes dangling over wooden edges.
A mattress piled with sheets and blankets filled the center of the room.
He wanted to hide the backpack for a while.
Take a break from his responsibilities: wash the knife, tuck it away, keep it close.
He’d do it after the show. Yeah, after .
Post-performance adrenaline would make him brave.
He kicked the backpack into the corner between the dresser and the wall, and grabbed his studded pleather bomber jacket off the floor.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He startled and dropped the Fruit Loops. Cereal littered the tile.
“Motherfucker,” he seethed, and brought the phone to his ear. “ What? ”
“Get your ass out here,” Georgia snapped.
Aiden tongued at his cheek, eyes pinned to the sad, dusty backpack, and ended the call.
Get in the car. Go to rehearsal. Play the gig.
Come home. Take care of the rest. Yeah, okay, good.
Yes. That was the plan—a good, solid plan.
Shay’s voice speared him. I always knew.
He inhaled a shaky breath, exhaled hard, and blinked through the sting building in his nose.
A car honked. He shoved his knuckles against his eyes.
Easy for me. Shouldered through the front door and bounced down the cement stairs.
Thomas opened the door on a gray van. A cigarette dangled from between his lips, smile coy and crooked. “You look like shit.”
“I always look like shit,” Aiden said. He fell into the seat, propping his boot on the center console.
Georgia met his eyes in the rearview mirror.
Her nut-brown skull was freshly shaved, skin accented with shimmery lotion.
Out of their four-piece band, she was the draw.
Strong, enviably beautiful, and always on enough to make it through an interview.
“You smell like a bar,” she said, and snorted. “Like, a whole bar.”
“I put on deodorant,” he said, matter-of-factly. His head thumped the seat, and he shielded his face with his forearm, curling against the window.
Dylan, their bassist, craned his neck. His long, wheat-colored hair was tied into a loose bun. He was fair, like Thomas, freckled, hawk-nosed and handsome. “Where’d you run off to last night?”
“I went home,” Aiden said. He reached for Thomas’s cigarette, took a drag, almost gagged, and handed it back. “Fuck, gross. Is anyone holding?”
“So, you don’t know where Shay is either?” Dylan asked.
Panic settled like a stone in his stomach. Aiden stared through the tinted window, watching cars on the 405 zip by. “Why would I know where he is?”
“No one can find him. We thought he might’ve been with you since you both went dark after rehearsal last night,” Georgia said.
“Well, I wasn’t. Why the fuck would I be with him anyway?” Aiden gritted his teeth. Keep it together, asshole . Focused on the acrid smoke snaking through the car and tried to calm his restless leg. He cracked the window. “Seriously, does anyone have anything? I’m suffering, like, big time.”
“Yeah, yeah, Jesus. It’s all I’ve got, so don’t be greedy. Save some for the show,” Dylan said. He tugged a duct-taped wallet out of his pocket and reached into the billfold, unearthing a silver vial.
Aiden plucked it from his palm, thumbed open the lid, and tapped a bump of powder onto the back of his hand.
He snorted, wincing as the familiar, chemical burn settled in his nasal cavity.
He closed his eyes. His throat slowly numbed.
Everything beneath his navel tightened. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and bit—headache muted, body on a tripwire, mind recalibrated.
His stomach still insisted on being a dick, though.
He almost gagged. Almost . But swallowed gasoline-flavored drip and snorted another bump.
“Seriously, Aiden,” Dylan warned.
Aiden licked white residue off his knuckles, capped the vial, and slapped it into Dylan’s hand. “Chill out, there’s plenty left.”
Commercials played on the local radio station.
Georgia’s dark-rimmed eyes flicked toward him in the rearview mirror.
Dylan propped one foot on the dash, sipping from a to-go coffee, and Thomas dropped his cigarette in an old Taco Bell cup glued to the cupholder.
Now that Shay’s name had been uttered, he was a constant buzz in Aiden’s body, appearing and reappearing.
Arms outstretched, eyes wide, lips still wet from Aiden’s mouth.
Mid-laugh, head tossed back, sunglasses slipping down his nose.
Saying Aiden’s name in four different ways: Aiden, like come here.
Aiden, like stop . Aiden, like let’s go . Aiden, like you did this .
Aiden chewed the inside of his cheek.
Stay away from that , he thought . Stay away from him. Focus, focus, focus.
“I bet he’ll show at the last minute, like always,” Dylan said.
Georgia nodded .
Aiden thought, hoped , the rest of the band would’ve avoided flicking their shared bruise, but apparently not. He picked at his cuticles. “Yeah, bet you’re right. He’s a selfish prick, so.”
Thomas sat forward in his seat, glancing between Aiden, Georgia, and Dylan, and said, “You know, it might be good if we, as a band, stopped shit-talking the guy who actually got us a gig. I know you had a falling out, but?—”
“You don’t know shit, actually,” Aiden bit out.
“Look, I get it. You’ve built your entire personality around being an asshole, but I think?—”
“We didn’t hire you to think, we hired you to sing. When it comes to what happened between Knight’s Blood and Shay, keep your mouth shut. Honestly, keep your mouth shut unless you’re singing.”
Dylan huffed, flapping his lips. “Here we go.”
“Guys, stop,” Georgia whined.
“That’s how it’s gonna be, Aiden? I mean, I’m not surprised.
If you don’t get your way, everyone else has to suffer, right?
You decide to hate someone, so we all have to?
This might be fucking shocking, but you aren’t Knight’s Blood, and I’m sick of dealing with your tantrums,” Thomas said.
He fished around in his pocket and lit another cigarette.
“You might not like him, but Shay came through for us. All you’ve done is dose yourself to death?—”
“Three seconds,” Aiden hollered. “Three seconds before I break his face open.”
Dylan arched a brow, leaning away from the passenger’s seat to look over his shoulder. “C’mon, guys. Enough, all right? This is dumb, diva bullshit. Hug it out.”
Georgia groaned. “Boys, seriously.”