Chapter 35
Age 19
“ G et your shit and go, babe.” After pulling out, I toss the condom in an overflowing receptacle and zip up my jeans.
“I didn’t even come,” Lilah whines.
“Sure sounded like it to me.” I narrow my gaze. Her orgasmic screams rattled the tour bus windows.
“I faked it.” Tossing her brown hair over her shoulder, she gives me a displeased look.
“Don’t care.” I turn away, searching for my cigarettes as she flips down her skirt.
I’m a bastard. Most of the regular groupies know it and steer clear of me. This one is relatively new and caught me in a weak moment. Rather than going for a ten-mile run, I fucked her. Obviously, I chose the wrong form of exercise.
“Warned you upfront I’m not a good guy.” I warn all the groupies, even new ones like her. I don’t want them forming expectations. I sure as fuck don’t have any. My gaze snags on the half full bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the kitchenette counter. Carson probably left it and the tray that bears a white powdery residue that isn’t talcum powder. I want a drink and a hit so badly I can practically feel the buzz. But I rip my gaze away from the temptation. I’m not drinking or using anymore. I’m not a good guy, but I’m trying to be a better person. According to my bandmates, that’s why I’m no fun to be around anymore. They’re probably right. Without any shit to mask the sorry state of my life, I’m surlier than ever. Everyone took off after the show to escape me.
The brunette mutters under her breath, her stilettos clinking with her displeasure as she stomps off the bus. When the door closes behind her, I let out a breath of relief. Groupies are a waste of time. They don’t give a shit about me, and I don’t give a shit about them either.
Snagging a pack of cigarettes from the end table, I dig out my lighter from the front pocket of my jeans and light up.
I can’t drink anymore. It used to help me forget for a while, but it doesn’t change anything and abusing alcohol almost killed me. Seeing those photos of Peace with her football player boyfriend sent me on that last terrible bender. The way I felt after seeing her with him, I would have welcomed relief from the pain. Peace was my best friend. The only one who really understood me. My love for music is inseparably intertwined with her. It’s like a fucking stab through the heart singing her words onstage every night. I’ll never forget her or the promises we made to each other. Because I love to torture myself, I even named the band after the star we saw that night.
Sometimes when I’m feeling really down, I wish they wouldn’t have pumped my stomach at the hospital. Sure, my bandmates and maybe my mom would have been sad, but my old man wouldn’t have missed me. I like to think Peace would have. Maybe she’d care if she knew how much I still miss her. But she doesn’t know, and she never will. That’s all over.
Ignoring how badly my hands shake thinking about her, I bring the cigarette to my mouth and suck in the nicotine rather than swigging alcohol.
Smoking is bad for you, that tiny part of me that gives a fuck reminds me.
What does it matter? I blow out smoke. I might have become a better man if Peace and I had remained friends. But we didn’t, and it’s for the best. Her best at least.
“Fuck, I miss her.” I drop down onto the leather couch. Taking another drag, I hold it in my lungs until they burn before exhaling.
Chances are you probably wouldn’t have become a better man , my dark side points out.
That dark devil is a mean son of a bitch. He takes great delight in reminding me that I failed to protect Peace from being bullied. I fucked up losing my temper with Mark. Then I hurt her because I suck at communicating. In the end, I failed her miserably, on all counts, like everyone knew I would. She’s better off with me out of her life. Or at least that’s what I tell myself every time my mind drifts to her, which is far too often.
How can it not drift to her when the lyrics for nearly every song on our multi-platinum debut album were penned by her? When we received our first check from Black Cat, I tried to mail my cut to her, but the check came back; the envelope marked return to sender.
Peace doesn’t want any part of me. She hates me.
I hate myself.
On that subject, we can agree.
“Whatcha doing?” Carson asks. Stepping into the front lounge from the stairs, he fastens the top button on his jeans.
“Smoking.” I give him a chin lift. “What were you doing?”
“Fucking.” He flops onto the couch beside me. The worn springs creak underneath his weight.
“Was she any good?” After the VIP meet and greet, I saw him leave with a blonde. Don’t know where he took her, but I know he can have whoever he wants. He’s the lead singer. He’s got game, and he treats the groupies way better than I do.
“I got off. She got off.” He shrugs.
The meet and greets for our shows are nuts now. I guess it’s not surprising. Our first album rocks, thanks to Peace’s thoughtful lyrics, some seriously great singing by Carson, and decent instrument work by the rest of us. We’re enjoying being on a higher rung on the ladder to musical success, but we’re not where we want to be yet. We need to consistently sell out our shows if we don’t want to end up having to repay every penny of Black Cat Record’s advance.
“Give me a cigarette.”
“Get your own.” I blow a cloud of smoke at him.
“Jerk.” He waves the plume away.
“Right back at you.” I poke his tatted bicep hard.
“Ouch.” He rubs his skin. “I’m not a jerk. I’m way nicer than you.”
“Debatable.” I call it like it is. He just disguises his asshole tendencies better than I do.
“You can be nice when you put some effort into it.” He narrows his ice-blue gaze. “And you should put in the effort, especially for her.”
“Who?” I pretend not to know, hoping he’s not going to bring up his stupid idea again.
“Bro, you should call Peace.” Only Carson would make this suggestion. Stevie and Levi know not to bring her up in a conversation.
I take another deep drag on the cigarette and shake my head.
“Dude, her house isn’t far from here,” Car points out.
“How the hell do you know?” I grumble. Peace isn’t for me anymore, but she’s not for a guy like him either.
“Looked her up.” He leans over me, grabs my pack from the end table, and taps out a stick. “Know you have too.”
“You’re wrong.” I stopped cyberstalking her after I saw the photo of her with the jock.
“Since when?” he asks.
“Since rehab,” I reply. Sober for the second go-round, I see my life clearly and what there is to see isn’t good. “Too many years have gone by. Too much shit.”
“Guess you have more willpower than me. I wouldn’t be able to resist leveraging the past to get together with her now. Your Peace is a looker. Her sister even more so.” He whistles through his teeth. “Have you watched any Harmony Jinkins films?”
“No, man.” I shake my head.
“Well, you should. That bitch is insanely hot.”
“I’m not interested in Harmony or Peace.” The half-lie tastes bitter on my tongue like my life has been since Peace and I parted ways.