Chapter 55
Chapter Fifty-Five
Roderick
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a surprise, asshole?” Eddie answers, his voice cutting through the static.
Maybe this call is a bad idea. I’m pacing. My bare feet slap against the cool wood of my apartment floor.
The moment they said they’d patch me through to Eddie, I should’ve hung up. Made an excuse. Pretended I’d called the wrong number.
But I didn’t.
“You still there, Wilder?”
“Hey,” I mumble, throat dry. My voice cracks from more than just nerves—it’s the shame, the uncertainty, the million fucking things I’ve done wrong with no idea how to start undoing them.
This is my lifeline, and if he says no, I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
He pauses, tone shifting. “You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just . . .” My fingers curl into a fist. “You told me once that if I ever decided to get clean, you’d help.”
There’s a beat of silence. I hear him say something muffled—probably to someone nearby. “I’ll be back. It’s going to be fine. We’ll get to him.”
It’s like I’m interrupting something, and I should hang up, but he asks, “Didn’t you just get out of rehab?” The background rustles. A door slams, shutting the world out.
“Yeah. I’ve been out for a little over a month.
” I sigh, because it feels like it’s been forever and not long enough since I walked out of the center.
“I don’t think that’s the point. I’ve been out and my life is still in shambles.
I haven’t done anything that screams, ‘this asshole is really trying.’”
“You’re clean?” he asks again, and this time his voice is sharper—focused.
“Yes, for sixty-two days, but that’s not—”
“Wilder,” he cuts me off, firm and unflinching, “I need you to stop right there. The fact that you’ve been clean for sixty-something days? That’s already a win. I don’t care what else you think you’ve failed at—this matters. You hear me?”
I press my palm to my forehead, closing my eyes. It doesn’t feel like much though.
“Have you talked to your sponsor lately?” he asks.
“There’s not much to say.” I shrug even though he can’t see it, that same shrug I’ve given a hundred times to anyone who ever tried to care.
“What about meetings?”
“Do I have to go?” I sigh, then rattle off my schedule since I got out. Therapy. Reading. The occasional run when my knees don’t hate me. Trying to write. Mostly failing. Mostly avoiding.
“Ah, okay,” he says slowly. “So we haven’t done anything. You’ve just been going through the motions.”
“You make it sound like I’m a loser.”
“You are,” he says, not even trying to soften it. “But not because of what you’re doing right now.”
A bitter laugh bubbles up. “I tried to see if I could get my career back.” I tell him about the agent who wouldn’t take my call, about Connor and the stroke, and how everything just . . . fell apart again.
“Kit told me—”
That’s when he snaps.
“Wait—you went looking for Kit?” His voice drops an octave and sharpens like a knife. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“No,” I say quickly, guilt flaring hot and fast under my skin. “I didn’t. She took Connor’s place . . . the two times I’ve seen her have been a coincidence. Not because I was looking for her. I wasn’t ready—I’m not ready. And of course I fucked it all up.”
“Of course you aren’t ready—and fucked things up,” Eddie growls. “Listen, I’m out of town this weekend. Can you sit tight until Monday? We’ll start figuring out what the fuck we’re doing with you then.”
“I just . . . I need some direction.” The words feel like they’re made of glass and barbed wire as they leave my throat. “You don’t—”
“You need someone to lean on,” he cuts in, no hesitation, like he’s been holding that line in his back pocket, just waiting for me to finally admit it. “And I know your brothers won’t touch you right now.”
“I could call the band,” I say.
“No. Barret’s barely keeping it together even when he swears that he is doing great. Dexter’s hanging on by threads of his own. And Alec . . .” He exhales—it’s long, almost desperate. “You know damn well that’s a fuse you don’t want to light. Not right now.”
I close my eyes and let a slow breath out through my nose. My mouth is dry and all I want is something—someone—that makes this feel less impossible. Someone I can talk to.
“I can call Cleo and—”
“No.” His voice shifts, frostbitten and final. “You leave her out of this. You hear me?”
It’s not advice. It’s not even a warning. It’s a boundary snapped into place with no wiggle room. A goddamn wall.
And he means it.
“She’s the only one who believes in me,” I say, low and tired and maybe a little broken. “I don’t want to fuck her up too, but she might be able to at least listen to me.”
“Of course she believes in you. That’s who she is.” His tone softens for half a beat, then tightens again. “But we are leaving her out of this, Wilder. Do you understand me? She’s got enough on her plate. You don’t get to drop this on her.”
I nod like he can see it. “Yeah,” I agree because he’s right. I should actually be the one protecting my sister, looking after her.
“How are the cravings, Wilder?”
“Lurking,” I admit. “Always.”
He lets that hang between us a second. “All right. I need you to hit a meeting today and another tomorrow.”
My silence lingers too long, and he adds, “I’m not asking, Roderick.”
“Fine,” I say, throat thick. “I’ll go.”
“Good. Then Monday morning, there’ll be a car outside your apartment. No excuses. You and I are gonna have a long, brutally honest conversation and figure out what you can actually do to feel like you’re rebuilding instead of just punishing yourself. Because that’s what this sounds like.”
“You seem to be an expert on this,” I mutter.
“It’s all experience,” he says, and for once, there’s no edge in his voice. Just truth. “I quit managing bands because I was partying just as hard as you were. I thought I was unstoppable. I was about to blow up everything I built because I thought I could. I believed I was like you.”
He pauses.
“I came from nothing,” he says. “And I was about to end up with nothing—burnt-out and alone and not even sure how I got there. My mother, God rest her soul, showed up one day and told me to look in the mirror and decide if I liked the man staring back.”
I swallow hard. “I wish someone had done the same for me.”
“It’s different,” he says. “You weren’t raised around normal. You were born in that spotlight, handed an image before you had a fucking voice. Your parents built the cage, but Connor? Connor Dempsey locked the damn door and threw away the key.”
I glance down at the scarring on my knuckles, the tattoos, the faded reminders of nights I can’t remember and consequences I couldn’t outrun.
“I don’t know why I still want to go back to him,” I whisper.
“Because at some point, he made you feel like you mattered.” Eddie’s voice turns brittle.
“But that man doesn’t give a single shit about anyone.
He wrecked your life to advance your career, uses his clients without caring about their lives.
He even exploited Kit . . . and fuck knows who else.
That’s why nobody hires him anymore. That’s why he’s alone. ”
My fingers drag through my hair. I feel raw, peeled open, like this call ripped away a scab I’ve been pretending had already healed.
“Are you still in the industry?”
“Nope.” His answer comes quick. “I just like to keep tabs on the people who mean something to me.”
I pause at that. My heart stumbles over the meaning, wondering who he’s referring to—me or Kit or maybe someone else entirely. But I don’t ask.
“Speaking of which,” he continues, “you’re interrupting my weekend, and I’ve got two gorgeous, naked people waiting for me in the cabin. The good thing is that our girl’s keeping his cock hard for me.”
I groan. “Fuck, Eddie. I didn’t need that mental image.”
“Oh, you of all people don’t need it.” He laughs, low and smug. “Take care of yourself, Wilder. I’ll see you Monday.”
And then the line goes dead.