Chapter 48
48
AGE 20 TO 21
T his was a mistake. I should go before she shows up and sees me. But my feet remain rooted to the ground within the small cluster of trees I’m hiding behind. Vivien’s apartment building is across the road, and I have a perfect vantage point from here. Luckily, Ash already had her address, and a bit of sleuthing on my part coughed up Viv’s schedule, so I know her last class of the day finished twenty minutes ago, and I’m hoping she’ll show up soon. It’s not that far of a walk from UCLA to here.
The entrance to the apartment building is protected by a keypad, and the front desk area is manned by round-the-clock security personnel, according to their website, so I didn’t even bother trying to get inside. I don’t like the idea of approaching her outside as Westwood Village is a busy spot with tons of people coming and going all the time, but I don’t have any other choice.
Though I’m not recognizable yet, I still took precautions, wearing a cap to hide my distinctive hair and sunglasses, which cover a good portion of my face. Back home, wearing shades when it’s almost dark would be cringey as fuck. Over here, I fit right in with all the other pretentious dicks.
Rubbing my clammy hands down the front of my ripped jeans, I narrowly avoid the temptation to look at my watch again. Now that I’ve decided to grow a pair, I’m desperate to talk to Vivien. To find out if there’s any hope left or if she’s written me off completely.
Nerves fire at me from all angles as the clock ticks, elevating with each passing minute. By the time it’s pitch-black outside, my shades are off, and I’m seriously considering going home. If I stay here much longer, I’ll probably get arrested for loitering. I’ve only walked two feet toward my bike when she finally appears, rounding the corner with her American bestie .
If I wasn’t so fucking anxious, I’d laugh at my own thought. Plenty of Viv’s Americanisms rubbed off on me in the same way I think plenty of my Irishisms rubbed off on her. My breath falters in my throat as I scoot behind a tree and follow her movement with my eyes. My heart is ping-ponging around my chest, and butterflies are rioting in my stomach. My fingers twitch as electricity zips through my body like lightning. She still affects me like crazy.
As she walks under the lights at the side of her building, it’s as if Viv just stepped under a spotlight, and I now have an up close and personal view. Pain is visceral as I drink her features in for the first time in months. Although she looks pale and there are bruising circles under her eyes, she still sucks all the air from my lungs. Fuck, she’s so goddamn gorgeous. Her beautiful curves are hidden under an open coat and a shapeless baggy jumper. Paired with black leggings and black boots, it’s an unassuming look that’s totally her, but she still looks stunning.
Vivien clamps a hand over her mouth, and Audrey snakes her arm around her shoulders, hurrying them towards the front door.
Every nerve ending in my body cries out for her, and my feet move of their own volition, only slamming to a halt when I spot the large bulky male trailing the girls a few feet back. Astute eyes scan the area around the two women as they walk towards the entryway, and his body language confirms he’s primed to swing into action at the first sign of danger. Shite! I’m going to lose her if I don’t go now, but the obvious bodyguard has me second-guessing myself.
Who is he, and who hired him? Viv? Her parents? Reeve? Acid churns in my gut like sour milk, and I can only stare helplessly as Vivien and Audrey enter the building, closely followed by The Rock wannabe.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Air expels from my mouth as I kick the bark of a tree in frustration, wondering what to do now. The chickenshit part of my persona wants to flee, but I’m not a coward. Jay is right. I’ve got to man up and talk to her. I’m striding across the road a few minutes later, having decided to announce myself to security and request they let her know I’m here and I’d like to talk to her, when a chauffeur-driven car pulls up to the curb. My instincts are on high alert, so I do a quick U-turn and dash back under the protective cover of the trees.
A guy in a black suit climbs out from behind the wheel and opens the back door.
Bile swims up my throat as a tall, toned figure gets out of the car, carrying a big box of what appears to be chocolates. Another man gets out the other side of the car, rounding the rear and waiting on the sidewalk. His broad frame and sharp gaze confirm his bodyguard status as he checks out the area while his charge ducks down, reaching for something inside the car.
When the guy pops back up, he’s cradling a massive bouquet of flowers in his free hand. While his head is tipped down, he’s wearing a cap and shades, and his features aren’t easily identifiable, I know who he is.
Shock renders me frozen as I stare at my twin in the flesh for the first time.
Reeve straightens, looking around for a few beats, before his bodyguard says something to him. Anger locks my muscles up even tighter when I spot a few lilies perched between the purple roses in the bouquet.
Fuck him.
And fuck her.
I should have trusted my instincts from the start. Instead, I listened to my sister and Jamie and allowed hope to tentatively bloom in my heart.
But I was right all along.
She is back with him.
They’re just playing it much smarter this time. Keeping it hidden to avoid the paparazzi attention.
Fuck this.
Those two manipulative assholes deserve one another.
I’m done.
As I stumble from my hiding place, I feel eyeballs following my retreating form, but I don’t care if I’ve been made. I take off running, get on my bike, and hightail it out of there.
Dropping the bike off at our gaff, I avoid anyone seeing me and walk to the nearest dive bar where I proceed to prop up the bar for the night. Pain is my constant companion as I knock back whiskey like it’s going out of fashion. I want to get blind drunk so I can blot out all the thoughts flitting through my head.
“Want company?” a woman with a sultry voice asks as the legs of the stool scrape across the wooden floor when she hops up beside me.
Whipping my head to the side, I can barely make out her features through my blurry eyes. “Depends,” I say, signaling to the bartender to pour me another measure.
“On what?” A warm hand lands on my arm.
“On what you want.” I rub at my tired eyes.
“Hmm.” She props one elbow on the bar and perches her chin in her hand. “I suspect this is a test.”
My vision focuses, and I get a good look at her. She’s older than me but not by more than a few years. Pretty in that fake, manufactured L.A. way. Bottle-blonde hair, skinny as fuck with massive silicone tits and oversized glossy lips. She isn’t a patch on my Hollywood, and that’s why I slide off my stool and grab her hand. “Not anymore.” Images of Vivien and Reeve fucking have been assaulting my mind since I sat down in this shithole. I need to fuck that treacherous bitch from my mind, and now is as good a time as any to start.
Her smile is instant, her enhanced lips spreading over a dazzling set of perfect teeth. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Dragging her to the nearest single-door bathroom, I walk her inside and lock the door. She’s on me like a rash, shoving me up against the door and grabbing my soft dick through my jeans as she stretches up to kiss me. The instant her lips touch mine, it’s like being doused in a bucket full of icy water. Her touch is all wrong, and I instantly feel sick to my stomach. My skin is crawling like a thousand fire ants are throwing a party across my flesh. I’m not gentle as I push her off me, offering no explanation as I unlock the door and storm off. Tossing a few bills down on the counter, I leave my drink behind and stomp out of the place, feeling even more fucked up then when I entered.
Christmas comes and goes, and I enter fully into the party spirit, getting drunk whenever possible, purely to blot it all out. Vivien haunts me continuously unless I keep myself busy or distract myself with booze or weed.
Our no-hard-drugs rule is more important than ever before. Too many bands have fallen prey to rock ’n’ roll excesses as soon as they make it, and we’re determined not to get lured into the same trap. Only for our rule, I think I’d be falling down a more slippery slope.
This is a personal hell. One of my own making. However, my bandmates and my sister don’t deserve to suffer the consequences of my poor decision-making, so I do my best to be present for the band, to try to hide my inner pain, only succumbing at night when I’m in bed alone with nothing to buffer me.
Our family thoroughly enjoy their visit. Though Ma is clearly worried about me, she bites her tongue. I do my best to fake it, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep, and I eat solely to fuel my body. I’m working out more than ever, and I joined a local boxing club. Though I regularly pound the bag and go a few rounds in the training ring with various blokes, nothing eliminates the raw ache that constantly eats away at me until it feels like I’m only a walking bag of bones.
The only thing that offers any respite is music. My addiction seeps out of me onto the page as I purge my emotions through song lyrics. I want to hate Viv for what she’s done, but longing and pain are still my foremost emotions. I hate how much I still want her after everything she’s done, but the truth is, if she rocked up here tomorrow and begged for my forgiveness, I’d take her back in a heartbeat.
I still want her, so fucking much, and it’s doing my head in.
After I told Ash and Jay what went down in Westwood that day, neither of them have pushed me again. Ash has stopped ringing and texting her, and collectively, without articulating it, we’re all relegating Vivien Mills to the past.
In January, I let the others drag me to a club for my twenty-first birthday where we all get completely shit-faced. It helps to block out thoughts of Vivien celebrating my twin’s birthday with him. After another failed attempt at getting with a different woman, I have to face facts: Vivien broke me. Ruined me for all other women. Forget about fucking, I can’t even kiss anyone.
I think I’m destined to be permanently alone. Pre-Viv Dillon was perfectly comfortable with eternal bachelorhood. Post-Viv Dillon is lonely as fuck and drowning in pain because the only woman he wants no longer wants him.
By the end of February, the album is done, and the label are ecstatic with the songs we’ve produced and practically frothing at the mouth in anticipation of launching us on the world in the summer.
It’s early March, and we’re at a giant meeting with the band, Frank, Dave, Ava—our publicist—the VP of marketing, a few people from the marketing team, and one of the management bigwigs, brainstorming different things. This is stage one of forming a promotional plan to introduce us officially to the music scene. Currently, we’re arguing over the band name. And surprise, surprise, my sister is the person fighting the hardest to keep Toxic Gods.
Always knew she was full of shit when it came to our name.
“The name fits, and they’re already garnering attention online. All the old YouTube videos are racking up thousands of extra views by the day. We’ll lose all that exposure,” Ash proclaims.
“The name has negative connotations,” the VP of marketing argues back. “Toxic suggests something unpleasant, something detrimental to one’s health.”
“And Gods suggests arrogance,” some dick from the marketing team adds.
“Arrogance and rock star go hand in hand,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table. My arse is numb from sitting in this chair for so long, and I’m on edge. I’m itching to put my gloves on and imagine my punching bag is Reeve Lancaster’s face while I pummel it to oblivion.
“Not anymore,” the VP says. “Times have changed.”
Bullshit, but I don’t bother arguing. I’m keen to end this effing meeting, not prolong it.
“I know you’re concerned about losing any ground the band has gained,” Dave says, speaking directly to Ash. “But what’s come before really doesn’t matter. This is a new start, a clean slate. I know you guys have support in Ireland,” he adds, letting his gaze roam between me, Ro, Con and Jay. “But it means nothing here. Our team is the best at what they do. We only get one chance to make a first impression. The work we put in these next three to four months will make or break the band.”
I like Dave. We all do. And I trust him not to feed us crap. He’s our liaison with the label, and we’ll continue to work closely with him while signed with Capitol Records. His career hangs in the balance if things go wrong, so I’m inclined to listen to him more than any of the others.
“We’re on your side, Aisling,” the VP says, pronouncing my sister’s name all wrong, which pisses me off because Ash has told them repeatedly how to say it. “We have a vested interest in ensuring the band succeeds. We think they’re one of the most exciting alternative rock bands to emerge in the last decade. Every facet of their brand needs to be nailed down tight before we launch, and I’m telling you now they need a different name.”
Jay sits up straighter, leveling a look at the older woman Darth Vadar would be proud of. I smirk as I let him handle her. “It’s not Aze-ling, it’s Ash-ling.”
“My apologies. I mean no offense.”
“None taken.” Ash warns Jay to pipe down with a subtle thigh squeeze under the table before swinging her gaze our way. “It’s your call.”
“I’m not attached to the name,” Con says, gripping the arms of his chair tight. He’s gone hours without a toke, and he’s even more keen than me to leave.
“I like our name, and I hate having to let it go, but we’d be foolish to ignore the advice of the experts,” Jay confirms.
“Plenty of bands have changed their name. I’m fine to go with something else,” Ro supplies.
“Then it’s decided,” I say, not bothering to offer my view. It’s pointless when there’s already a majority.
“Good.” The older woman looks relieved. “The team and I have come up with a list of suggestions,” she adds, flicking a button on the fob in her hand, and a new page is projected on the wall-mounted screen. “You can, of course, suggest your own, but we need to agree on a name fast. Otherwise, it will hold up everything.”
We debate the names at length, and none of us can agree on them. While a few are decent, none are quite right. The meeting is just about to break up—with the agreement we can take forty-eight hours to come up with our own suggestions—when it comes to me, birthed straight from my soul.
“Collateral Damage,” I say, my loud voice booming around the room.
There’s a pregnant pause as everyone stops, giving it consideration.
“It has negative connotations too,” the pompous marketing dick says.
“Not in the same way,” the VP argues as a lazy smile crawls over her face. “Toxic is poison, and that combined with the arrogance of Gods is too much, but Collateral Damage conveys power and influence. It’s the unexpected reaction to the action. It carries gravitas.” She positively beams at me. “I love it. It’s perfect.”
Well, okay then.
We discuss it a little longer before taking a vote.
And that is how Collateral Damage emerges from the ashes of Toxic Gods.
As I walk out of the meeting, I can’t help laughing at the irony.
All along, I thought Vivien would be collateral damage. I never imagined it’d be me.