Chapter 1 Jesse
ONE
JESSE
The noise backstage hums with activity, but it’s like static.
A chaotic symphony of roadies shouting, cases slamming, and gear being packed up in a rushed frenzy.
My ears are still ringing from the set, but it’s a familiar ache, one I’ve grown used to after nearly six years on the road.
It’s the last night of a series of homecoming headliners after wrapping up the European leg of our tour, and it feels good to be done for a couple of weeks.
Not that I’m complaining. I love that I get to be on stage like this for a living.
This is my first tour sober, and, if I’m being honest, it’s been a lot harder and more exhausting without the drugs to blur the edges and get by.
It’s… different. More involved. Louder. Busier. More intense.
Naz bumps his shoulder into mine as we cut through the dimly lit hallway, sweat dripping down his temples.
“So what now? You crashing early like a good boy, or…”
I arch an amused brow at him, feeling the familiar tug of temptation. “Or?”
He shrugs, a wicked gleam in his eye that I recognize.
Naz doesn’t want to stay in, however exhausted he is.
We all get restless in different ways. He craves the neon lights, thumping bass to drown out the rest of the world, the thrill of someone’s mouth on him before sunrise.
He’s being polite, trying to gauge my mood.
“Let’s go to that club you like,” I suggest, more to appease him than anything else.
I’m not sure I’m really in the mood, but I don’t particularly want to be alone, either.
And I don’t want to keep the guys from decompressing in their own ways.
It’s not their fault I haven’t settled on a new outlet for all my restless energy yet.
His eyes flick over me skeptically. “You sure? It’s not exactly your scene anymore.”
Not my scene anymore.
My stint in rehab isn’t something the guys bring up often, but it hangs awkwardly between us and probably always will.
It’s a stark reminder of how hard I’ve worked to get this far, learning how to exist without pills or powders or drinking until I blacked out every night.
Living life without a crutch, especially given our lifestyle, is a never-ending test of my willpower.
This tour has been one long test, one I’ve passed with flying colors–so far.
I can’t say it’s been easy. The consequences of numbing myself just to get by for years have made living life on the road, promoting, performing, and being constantly surrounded by crowds of people that much more overwhelming. There’s no quiet in this life.
I sling my arm over his shoulder, the gesture more for my comfort than his. “We’re all good. I don’t need booze or blow to have a good time. Promise.”
Partying and peer pressure were never the problem.
It was finding quiet inside my head, calming the impossible itch of my own skin.
I’m not tempted by the people around me having a good time.
In fact, when someone gets really fucked up and shows their ass, it’s an effective reminder of how the drugs turned me into someone I never wanted to be.
From the moment we step into the club, I know tonight will test me more than I thought it would, though.
The music slams into me like a wall. Everywhere around me is thick with bodies, lights strobe off mirrored tiles, smoke curls through the air and settles on my skin, in my eyes, over my taste buds and up my nose.
It’s overstimulation to the max. Even upstairs in the restricted VIP section, where the rich and recognizable get corralled and cordoned off from the masses, I feel a familiar sense of claustrophobia wash over me.
I hate this.
If there’s anything I miss about my party days, it’s not feeling like I want to burst out of my own skin. I miss losing myself in a sea of strangers, dancing in the chaos, feeling the crowd's energy instead of standing away from it, fearful that my brain will melt if anything or anybody touches me.
The others don’t mind or don’t notice my off-kilter mood, but no one is drinking as much as I know they normally would.
Or maybe they assume that I’m struggling with cravings.
I don’t know how to tell them it’s okay to let loose.
Knowing my presence is a burden only makes me feel worse, and I don’t need even one more thought in my head right now.
Even if they are holding back on purpose, they’ve all still managed to find their respective distractions.
Naz is grinning salaciously at something a pretty twink is whispering in his ear.
Ari is chatting with a guy sitting on the other side of our booth, turned fully around like he’s not even with us.
And Will is lost in his own world. He’s got a beautiful woman straddling his lap, but he keeps flicking his eyes towards his brother.
Will’s always been protective of Ari, but I still find the way he’s glaring at the guy he’s talking to amusing.
Meanwhile, the girl in his lap is staring right at me.
She’s hot, I’ll give her that. Smooth tan skin wrapped in a pink bandage dress that leaves little to the imagination.
Her blonde hair is pulled over one shoulder, her eyes rimmed with dark blue eyeliner that complements her eyes.
It wouldn’t be the first time Will and I have shared a woman, if that’s what she’s hinting at.
I consider it, just for the release, if only to shut off my brain for a while.
As hot as she is, there’s nothing in me that feels interested enough to risk being touched.
Even her pink tongue darting out to lick her blood-red lips isn’t enough to make me want it.
I look away before I give her any ideas.
It takes effort, but I find small, singular things to focus on to calm myself down.
I sip my club soda and let the bubbles fizz over my tongue, memorize the rhythm of a single flashing light, find shapes in the haze of smoke.
I light a clove cigarette, inhale the spicy smoke, and slowly start to relax.
A flicker catches my eye, and I look over to find Naz watching something on his phone. It looks to be sports highlights of a football game.
My nose crinkles. “Are you that bored?”
A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Just checking some highlights and stats from last year so I can finalize my fantasy roster for this season.”
I blink at him slowly, conveying my lack of interest. I’ve never been much of a sports fan, although I do strangely enjoy watching random obscure Olympic events, like speed walking and break dancing. Also curling. That is a weirdly entertaining sport for no good reason.
There’s a flash of a football player on the screen that registers as familiar. He’s probably super famous, but I have no idea who he is. I can’t even see his face through the helmet while he sprints down the field, but something about him feels familiar. It unsettles me.
When I drag my eyes away, I notice movement under the table. My eyebrow raises and I look at Naz with a deadpan expression. “Really?” Naz shrugs and keeps talking, like there isn’t a guy under the table sucking his dick.
“Have you given any thought to Gavin’s pitch?”
Our new manager won’t shut up about it. “It’s the biggest stage in America! The biggest audience you’ll ever have! An opportunity to immortalize your music.”
I scoff and shrug. “You know I don’t give a shit about the Super Bowl.”
If the guys want to do it, I’ll agree to it whether I really want to or not. I don’t care.
Truth is, I don’t care about much lately.
The stage, the crowds, the screaming. It doesn’t have the same sparkle it once did.
I don’t think it’s because I stopped taking drugs, either, because it’s not like I needed to be drunk or high all the time–that wasn’t my problem.
My problem is that it all gets to be too much sometimes.
Everything is too much, too loud, too crowded, too excessive.
And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up, as much as I love it at the same time.
I stub out my clove and make my escape under the pretense of taking a piss.
The bathroom’s just as overdone as the rest of the place.
Gleaming marble sinks lined with hand towels, lotion, and tiny bottles of mouthwash are on one side of the room, coke lines dusting the counter like it’s a regular complimentary offering.
Mirrored walls reflect warped images of myself.
A stranger I barely recognize, with hollow eyes and shit posture, stares back at me.
I put a piece of cinnamon candy in my mouth and turn away.
The door swings open, and the girl who was on Will’s lap strolls in. She grins and walks towards me, hips swaying, eyes on me. She drops to her knees in front of me like she’s been invited.
I let her open the front of my jeans, surrendering to the moment, hoping for a fleeting escape from the tangled mess of my thoughts.
She’s barely gotten started, but I’m already bored and feeling restless.
She moans as she discovers the row of piercings along the underside of my cock, and rubs her tongue over them, which usually does it for me.
Instead, the desire to push her off me slithers beneath my skin.
I grit my teeth and try to give my body a chance to react.
Her mouth is warm and wet and likely skilled, but I feel nothing. No desire. No ache. Nothing.
The door swings open again, and Will strolls in, grinning when he sees us. “Damn, Jess,” he laughs, feigning disappointment. “Always stealing girls from me, and guys from my brother.”
I chuckle humorlessly, pat the girl on the shoulder, then turn her towards him. “She’s all yours.” Maybe I should feel bad about treating her like something to be passed around, but she goes happily enough.