Chapter 17
AWOLNATION, FEED ME
There’s a fine line between genius and madness.
It feels like I’m walking this line barefoot
with a splinter nailed deep between my toes.
I’m cross-legged on the floor of my writing room,
drowning in insanity.
Paper is scattered across the rug—
some balled up with regret,
some torn 'cause they pissed me off,
some waiting for their fate to be decided.
Pens and highlighters are scattered like pills.
My laptop's wide open,
tabs screaming for attention.
Half a mug of cold coffee is chilling beside me.
So is a bottle of water I keep reaching for but never drink.
My body knows I need water.
My brain says caffeine is more damaging.
So I drink the coffee.
My temples are jackhammering,
a pulsing behind my right eye.
The air reeks of burnout.
And obsession.
And exhaustion.
And fucking writer’s block.
The notepad’s in my lap.
My pen's tapping against my lip.
There's no music in my head.
All I have is rhythm with no spine,
drive with no heartbeat.
I don’t even want to send the rap anymore.
But now it’s war against art—
a fight between me and the page.
And I don’t lose to shit I create.
It’s been three days since he walked away.
I thought he would’ve texted by now.
But no texts came through.
Not even a hi or fuck-you.
I keep checking my phone like a teenage idiot,
thinking about him when I swore I wouldn’t.
My head’s full of him,
and I hate it.
I hate how he’s standing inside my mind,
smirking as if he's got no place better to be.
I mouth the next line under my breath,
testing it,
forcing it into shape,
but the syllables fall limp, the flow dies quick.
I'm the problem,
as if I got my own hand around my throat,
and the only way through
is to stop lying to myself.
Buzz.
My pen stalls in my hand.
My phone’s face-down on the rug.
Ignore it.
But it could be him.
It’s probably not him.
I sigh,
hating how quick he owns my first thought.
I grab it
and flip it over,
my heart on her knees,
praying before seeing the screen.
Eli Stone
I know you’re not the one signing the checks, but damn. Can you at least tell me what’s going on? It’s been weeks. No payment or answers. It’s the same old “we’re working on it” from Raymond and the label.
My rent’s due, my band’s waiting, my team’s pissed. We did our part. We recorded the tracks and gave them exactly what they asked for.
Pretty crazy I gotta chase down money for my own music.
I know you can’t fix this. But can you at least try to get some answers?
I read the message twice.
As if the letters will change,
turning into a problem I can fix.
But they don’t.
This isn’t the first artist who’s gotten stiffed.
Only the first who sent the problem
directly to me.
I’ll head to the office tonight to see what I can find out.
The phone slides out of my hand,
and hits the floor,
sounding louder than it should.
I lean back,
spine to couch,
and stare at the ceiling.
Everything’s crashing down around me.
The label.
My career.
My Boys.
My control.
My heart.
Me.
And I can’t pick up the broken pieces fast enough.
I drop my head into my hands.
Then Little Death creeps in,
a hot pull, a warm ache between my legs.
It doesn’t ask what’s wrong,
doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care.
The habit slides down inside me like—
you seem tense, Baby. I can fix that.
And my thighs squeeze back,
answering like a slut.
I need one good high.
One orgasm. One release.
And everything resets.
One climax to stop the shaking,
to feel like I’m not dying anymore,
to take back control.
I check the time.
It's almost 6:00 p.m.
Raymond will leave Soundwave in an hour.
Which gives me half an hour with Ben.
A date with Little Death.
I grab my phone again.
Meet me in Room 613 in 10
Ben (Boy #1)
Aight Baby
Room 613 feels like freefalling backward
through choppy black waters.
Sounds like screaming underwater
while the bass counts down to the numb.
Smells like a Axe body spray and evergreen.
It’s what I want this room to smell like,
so I wouldn’t ever mistake this place
for warm or home.
Ben’s already here,
waiting with a sardonic smile,
sitting at the edge of the bed
like an anchor rusted into the ocean floor—
at ease, comfortable, never leaving.
“Don’t fuckin’ start,” I snap,
crossing the room,
my robe swinging open
with nothing underneath.
I’m not talking about the lobby.
Or him.
Or a goddamn thing.
His grin’s got no rush to it.
He knew we’d end up here.
This hour’s been stuck under his skin since the Astor.
I snatch his jaw,
pulling his face down until his gaze hits mine.
“You said you miss fuckin’ me, huh?”
My fingers dig into the stubble peppering his cheeks,
and his mouth falls open on a broken breath.
I raise my chin.
“How bad you miss fuckin’ me?”
His jaw locks up in my hold,
devilry dancing in his eyes.
“Bad enough to fuck you through the wall if you let me.”
My palm lands on his shoulder,
and I lower him.
He hits the floor, knees cracking black marble,
breath blowing hot across my hip,
and his eyes crawl up my body,
crystal blue filtering through his lashes.
But they never make it to my face.
They stop at my tits, and he stares,
sliding his hands behind his back,
fingers locking together.
I grip his hair and yank him closer—
mouth first—
before Andrew walks back into my thoughts.
Ben’s head bows,
flat tongue dragging through my slit,
sinking over my clit,
licking heavy and savage.
Little Death gasps.
My brain dives into an ocean of nothing.
A low moan shakes from Ben.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, Baby,” he growls.
His mouth is moving.
His tongue is moving.
I’m the only thing standing paralyzed.
‘Cause it’s too late.
In my mind, Andrew’s thumb is dragging slow across my knuckles, navy eyes slipping in where tongues can’t reach,his phantom kiss still tingling my lips as if he never fucking left.
None of it’s real,
but my body’s dumb enough to yearn for him.
My heart’s dumb enough
to beat louder as if Andrew will hear it.
He’s the one who left—
my heart should know better.
This is how his angel cries,
finds herself in the deep end,
numb and dry-eyed,
her heartbeats echoing
like fists on a locked door,
each sharp breath nailing pain into her chest,
pretending an addiction
isn’t just another name for coffin.
My heart should fucking know better.
“Say yes. C’mon, Baby, fuckin’ say it.
“Tell me I can fuck you.
“I been watching you—”
I been watching you…
Ben’s looking up at me,
his mouth soaked and smug.
His lips keeps moving,
but all I hear now is the song.
That fucking song…
The guitar repeats, repeats, repeats—skeletal, bones rattling.
Every Breath You Take—
every pluck lurking,
every drumbeat sneaking,
like footsteps stalking
heavy with obsession.
My eyes crack open to motel room 613.
The drugs mope sluggish inside me—
thoughts,
blinks,
all dragging their feet.
I’m tied down, sprawled on a motel mattress groaning under me,bedframe pressing its knuckles into my spine,
wrists screaming,
ankles caught,
rope sawing skin.
The air stinks of sweat, sex,
and sweet rotting roses.
Petals stick damp to my thighs
like blood gone cold.
My head’s packed with wet cement.
I can’t lift it.
All I can do is move my eyes,
from the ceiling,
to the walls where candles drip,
hundreds of little eyes spying.
Fear comes slow, then all at once,
stealing my voice so I can’t scream.
Then under the song
is the sound of flesh on flesh.
Hunter’s shadow stretches across the wall.
He’s in the chair at the foot of the bed,
naked and grunting.
Moonlight through the cheap curtains
catch the spit shine on his shaft
while his fist pumps his cock raw
like a wild animal.
His breath's heavy.
His hungry, mad eyes
are pinned between my spread legs,
my body positioned how he wants.
I’m not a person at all.
Just a body to get him off.
Just a prop in this fucked-up love song on replay.
I shut my eyes,
hold my breath,
and make myself a corpse.
I pretend I’m sleeping
because if I’m awake,
he’d use me.
And if I stayed asleep,
he’d still use me.
But sleep is the only way to look in control while losing it.
There's no winning,
only him finishing.
So I lay there—
no tears—
while the song goes on and on...
Andrew’s voice ghosts through my head,
bringing me back to the now—
“… I’m still here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
And I want to abandon myself for believing it.
I fist Ben’s hair, tugging his head back.
His neck's exposed, his mouth glistening.
We both need intercourse,
but not for the same reason.
He sees the okay in my face,
the defeat in my shoulders,
the exhale,
the nod—
the signs of surrender.
His eyes flare, black pupils eating the blue,
a whole new monster waking up inside him.
He stands,
grabs my hands,
and leads me to the bed,
his fingers slipping under the silk of my robe,
pushing it off my shoulders,
sliding it down my arms,
and letting it pool at my feet.
His hands, they’re starving,
knowing exactly what will satiate.
And right now, they want me on all fours.
My knees hit the mattress.
My palms sink into the sheets.
When he walks away, leaving me there,
I keep an eye on him,
tracking him at the corner of my eye.
He swipes the remote from a side table.
A click later,
heavy metal shakes through the speakers.
The vibrations shake up my spine,
a fistfight inside my ribcage,
scratching its nails across my nerves,
my bones,
the floor,
as my heart's ducking for cover.
He walks to the open closet,
naked with his back to me.
I don’t know what he’ll do next.
The not-knowing makes me shiver.
He’s a collector. A boundary-tester.
A man who likes to see how far
skin can stretch before it splits.
A man who wants to see
what he can get away with.
He’s been holding back.
And I’m scared of what happens
when he doesn’t.
He turns with the spreader bar in hand,
and a breath punches through my chest.
Restraints don’t turn me on.
They lock me down,