Chapter 2 #2
Adriana trails after me, guiding me out into the darkness.
The second the tour bus door shuts behind us, the scent of weed and expensive perfume envelops me.
Her fingers circle my wrist, and she yanks me.
Hard. My back slams into the edge of the counter, a sharp jolt of pain I barely register.
Her other hand is already on my leather jacket, pushing it off my shoulders.
“Take off your jacket,” she murmurs. As usual, it’s a command that has my insides twisting.
My hands are moving before my brain can form a protest, the worn leather sliding down my arms. She’s already pulling the small, polished black kit from a drawer.
The quiet click of its opening is louder than the screaming inside my head.
My pulse kicks against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to break out.
The skin on the inside of my elbow twitches, a Pavlovian response of anticipation and dread fused into one dizzying emotion.
“You did so well tonight,” she purrs. The needle glints under the dim overhead light.
My stomach knots, but my arm is already extending as I sit on the couch.
I look away, my gaze fixed on a smudge on the microwave door.
The needle bites. Then, the warmth. It explodes in my veins like a wildfire racing through a forest of deadwood.
My vision tunnels, and my heart is suddenly pounding in my chest. The world recedes as the meth tears through my body.
Adriana’s fingers trace the line of my throat, then tangle possessively in my hair, tilting my head back.
“I love you,” she whispers, her breath fanning over my lips.
Her mouth crashes into mine, and I let her take whatever she wants, my muscles tensing all over.
Nothing feels quite real except her grip in my hair and the drug.
Love. Yeah. If you loved me, you wouldn’t do this to me.
We fall onto the narrow couch in a tangle of limbs, a blur of scraped teeth and hard, demanding kisses.
This is a transaction. A leash. Her body is a contract I never signed but can never fucking escape.
Her hands are at my belt, and I’m already hard from the chemical rush and the hollow, post-show adrenaline crash.
I hate her so much, but the meth makes me want nothing more than physical pleasure.
She opens her thighs for me, and I unbuckle my belt on autopilot, the leather sliding free with a rasp.
And when I bury myself in her in one rough thrust, my eyes roll back in my head. There’s no warmth or real love.
My breathing stutters as I immediately set a brutal, aggressive pace. It’s the only kind of sex I’ve had for seven long years. The only kind I’ve been allowed. The last time I had sex that meant anything...that felt like anything...was with…
The thought is a memory that cuts deep. Emma.
Knowing I’m hate-fucking this bitch is the only way I’m able to get through these nights.
So I’m always aggressive. I can’t help it.
But the problem is, she likes it. Adriana’s nails drag down my back, sharp little lines of pain that ground me in this awful moment.
I focus on that sting, on the mechanical rhythm of my hips. And then—
The bus door swings open with a creak.
Micah steps in, grabs a cold beer from the mini-fridge, and glances over. His eyes meet mine for a split second. There’s no judgment, no interest, just a blank acknowledgment. Adriana doesn’t even pause. Neither do I. Because this is normal.
This is our life.
This is what we do on nights we should’ve died together in some hotel room.
Adriana’s legs wrap around my waist, her sharp heels catching on the loose fabric of my jeans.
I pound into her, the meth-fueled energy making my movements hard and fast. My gaze clashes with hers, envisioning the life leaving her eyes as I squeeze her throat.
I swear I squeeze it harder every goddamn time. Maybe one day, she’ll just die.
Her nails are so fucking sharp as her body tenses, and she orgasms with a short, clipped gasp, but I don’t flinch.
I don’t feel a thing. I just keep moving, a machine set to a function, chasing a climax that feels more like a system shutdown.
I finally come with a grunt, my forehead dropping to her shoulder as my body shudders through the release.
For a moment, there is only the sound of my ragged breathing and the metallic taste of the high on my tongue.
Adriana lets out a giggle, her body sated from how rough I was.
I know I’m a full grown man and could easily overpower her…
but I’ll be forced into withdrawals if I don’t just give her what she wants.
The majority of what I do with her is willing…
sort of. I hate giving her what she wants, but I can’t imagine giving her any form of intimacy that doesn’t border on abuse.
I push myself up, my mind already beginning the slow, awful comedown. After it’s all over, she fixes her lip gloss in the reflection of the microwave and gives me a condescending pat on the cheek.
“Get some rest. Thanks, baby.” She leaves without looking back. Just like that.
I sit up slowly, my skin vibrating with leftover adrenaline and chemicals as I buckle my pants back up.
I somehow make my legs work long enough to get off the bus, through the service hall, across the lobby, and into the elevator.
The ride up feels like floating and sinking at the same time.
Especially when the elevator lurches. Ugh, fuck.
When I finally reach the hotel suite, Micah’s on the couch, remote in hand, watching cartoons of all things.
I guess it’s something bright and stupid to drown out everything else.
He glances over as I stumble in. His throat bobs, but he doesn’t say anything to me.
We never bother each other with that shit, because we’re both trapped.
There have been times when he’d barely make it through the hotel door after he was out with god-knows-who.
I collapse onto my bed fully clothed. The sheets are cool.
The ceiling spins like a slow carousel, and it makes me fucking nauseous.
Outside, the city noise seems muffled. The drugs pull at me like sinking mud.
My chest aches with something I don’t have the words for.
Loneliness, shame, guilt, rage…I don’t know.
This feels like the first loose thread of my unraveling. I can’t do this for much longer. I abandoned the love of my life seven years ago, and I’ve barely spoken to my parents or sister in years.
I’m trapped with these people, and the only way out feels like it’s already waiting in my bloodstream. I stare at the ceiling until the blackness takes me—but it doesn’t feel like sleep. It feels like practice.