Chapter 51
TRAVIS
My mouth is drier than the desert when I wake up.
There’s a steady pounding behind my eyelids as I force them open against their will.
My limbs feel heavy and the urge to go right back to sleep is strong.
But when my vision finally focuses, I find Ellie next to me.
Her head is tucked under my arm, her lashes fluttering as she sleeps with one palm pressed flatly against my chest—right over my heart.
The other hand is clutched tightly in my shirt, as if she was afraid I was going to run away.
The night before crashes into me like a violent wave, threatening to drag me under. The coke. The euphoric feeling that seemed to pass within seconds, replaced by an overwhelming panic. Ellie. The worry etched on her face. I texted her and asked her to stay with me.
My heart thumps harder, remembering the feeling all too well. I thought I was dying. What the fuck was I thinking? Coke by itself is bad enough, even the small amount I used. Doing it on top of Addie? Ballsy. Dumb as fuck, you mean?
Sucking in a shaky breath, I bring my hand to her beautiful round face, letting my fingers trace her jawbone. Her eyelids flicker before opening. She glances at me and a relieved gasp spills from her open mouth. Shock. She’s shocked that I’m alive.
A painfully thick lump attempts to slide down my throat, but my mouth is so fucking dry that I can’t get it down.
I’m a piece of shit.
My ribs constrict, squeezing my heart as it tries to rattle free. Nausea swirls in my gut, guilt eating the lining of my stomach when I notice tears pooling behind her cat-like gaze.
I try to send her an apology with my eyes as my grip on her face tightens, hoping it’s reassuring. I’m here. I’m ok. I’m sorry.
Her bottom lip wobbles. She bites it, trying to hold back a whimper, but it comes out, devastating and strangled. And it cuts right through my bones. My eyes squeeze shut.
Seeing her this tore up over what I did is like a gunshot straight to the chest. Leaving me exposed—raw and bleeding—with a gaping hole that I deserve.
“You really scared me...again.” Her voice cracks, and I feel a drop of something hit my thumb that’s currently stroking her cheek.
My eyes fly open. She’s crying. Goddammit.
The sight would make my knees buckle if I weren’t lying in this bed.
I bring my other hand up, catching the tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, not giving a fuck about the damage I might be doing to my vocal cords.
It’s been nothing but humidifiers, water, and zero talking since I left the doctor.
But my words are empty and useless. How many times have I apologized to her in the last few weeks? Dozens, probably, and it doesn’t mean shit. I’ve been a fucking disaster. Blowing shit up left and right and leaving her to pick up the mess.
“Don’t talk.”
I have to. She needs to hear my words, to know how serious I am this time. “I’m never going to put you through that again. I swear.” My voice comes out ragged, my pitch higher than normal, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as it did.
She searches my face and I hold her gaze.
I’ll do whatever it takes to convince her.
I’ll fling myself off the fucking bus before I make her cry ever again.
The only tears I want to see coming from her are happy tears.
The kind that come out when she’s on a laughing fit, cackling, deep and throaty with her head tipped back.
Or when I’m tickling her so hard she can’t breathe.
When she kicks and claws at me, wheezing until water leaks from her eyes.
Blissed out orgasm tears are ok, too. After I've pushed her to the brink, ate her out, and made her come over and over.
But not sad, painful, gut-wrenching tears caused by my dumbass actions.
“I will murder you myself if I catch you doing that shit again, Travis William Beckett.”
My brows shoot up at the seriousness of her tone along with the use of my middle name. My dick would be chubbed up, too, if it weren’t for her sadness. There’s not one thing about seeing her broken up like this that turns me on. I hate it. I hate myself even more knowing I’m the cause.
I clear my throat, preparing to exercise my voice even more.
She shoots me a warning glare when I open my mouth, but I ignore it.
“I’ll let you. You can take a baseball bat to my kneecaps, bash in my skull, cut me with your knife.
Do whatever you want to me.” It would probably hurt less than the pain I feel right now.
My lips move to her cheeks, kissing away her tears.
“I’ll take my time torturing you. Don’t push me,” she threatens.
A grin slips out despite the ache in my core. I’d expect nothing less and I’d enjoy every second of it.
It has taken me another three days to get my voice back to normal. It’s still a little raspier than usual, but it’s hardly noticeable when I sing. I missed two shows and hated every goddamn second.
Witnessing Ellie’s tears the other morning was the worst moment of my life. I’ll never be able to erase the image. The strongest fucking girl, nah, person, I know, and I made her cry. That will stick with me longer than the shitty withdrawal feelings.
When the bus rolls up to the venue for tomorrow night’s show, we all step off to stretch our legs and get some food.
Ellie checks into her hotel and I roam the streets alone, taking in the sights, which are mostly hotels, bars, and restaurants.
I stay out, soaking up the fresh air, taking in the bustling city around me.
My head feels more clear than it ever has.
I was close to losing everything a few nights ago.
Maybe I wasn’t on the verge of having a heart attack like I’d first thought, but it was a possibility.
I’ve been taking this whole experience for granted.
I’m living my dream and haven’t slowed down to appreciate it. Not anymore.
I start to pass by a CVS, but then remember I haven’t messed with my hair in a minute. It’s getting longer, the sides growing out more like a fauxhawk now. The pink Ellie put in a few weeks ago has already started to fade. I need a touch-up. Maybe I’ll go back to blue.
I grab a can of the spray-on color. We have a packed schedule tomorrow—media stuff, sound check, and meet and greets. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else.
Placing the can on the counter, I take out my wallet.
Something pink catches my eye near the register.
It’s a bracelet, like a little girl’s bracelet that her mom wouldn’t let her buy, so she laid it here last minute.
I pick it up, studying it. It has pastel-colored beads and a small, round charm.
I can’t tell what it is, so I turn it over, and when I do, I chuckle.
It’s a donut. A little pink one with sprinkles. Without a second thought, I drop it on the counter.
It’s perfect for Ellie—girly and fun. I still haven’t given her the keychain I had made. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for. I know she saw it when she went through my wallet.
When I make it back to the venue we’re playing at tomorrow, I stand out front, staring. It’s huge, definitely the biggest one we’ve played so far. I think it fits like five thousand people or something.
I slide my phone from my pocket and snap a picture.
I rarely do that. Ellie keeps all of our photos and videos in a shared album for us.
If I want to see, I usually check Instagram.
Before I can wonder what I’m doing, I send the picture to the group chat with my parents.
There hasn’t been any activity in months, pretty much since we’ve been on tour. They’re not big on texting.
I wait, only for a moment. The read receipt shows and then…nothing. Sighing, I climb on the bus.