Chapter 17
Ender
O f course, they all think I fucked Olivia. Why would it be any different? She started this big show of a fight because I wouldn't touch her, and they all assumed the worst of me. I shudder; the thought of fucking her actually repulses me. My dick wouldn't get hard for her even if I tried.
I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to rein in some of my anger. The moment that conniving bitch realized nobody would believe me, she ran with it. She played it out exactly like she wanted to, so she could use my name and reputation to get herself out of the rest of the tour.
That's what she really wanted, to be free to live her life. How do I know? Well, probably because she flat-out told me. That's why she came over in the first place.
She claimed she wanted to 'talk' about the last leg because she met someone and wanted to run off into the sunset with him. I don't know why she had to make me a part of her story. She could have just quit. It wouldn’t have made any difference to us, but she didn’t want to disappoint her daddy.
He bought her place on tour, and god forbid she make herself look like a fool .
Why not sacrifice Ender's reputation? Everyone else does.
That's all I've been to everyone for the last two years, a stepping stone they can use somehow.
Olivia didn't need to actually fuck me. The press she will get from saying she did is enough.
She'll sell her story to the tabloids about how I'm a terrible person, and the world will believe it.
I can see the headlines now: Rockstar seduces his opening act.
Whatever. It's better to let them think I'm some kind of man-whore. That keeps them out of my business. If they believe I'm consumed by women, they'll never know I've been silently falling apart.
The more the pressure builds, the further I slip under the surface.
Alcohol helps numb the pain, but nothing really takes it away.
Nobody wants to know what's really happening inside my head. It’s a dark, lonely place, a true testament to how a person can be struggling in silence while also being watched by the entire world.
People like the idea of me, that's all. I'm a figure that represents something in their fantasies. I haven't been a real person in a long time. I’m exactly who Glen expects me to be, the eligible Rock God, even if it eats at the corners of my soul. Maybe that's why I’m always so damn angry.
The way I feel doesn’t matter. I’ll just continue to drift alone, because one wrong move and all of this could be over in a matter of minutes.
It wouldn't be hard to leave it behind. I could come clean with the world and announce I’ve been celibate for two years.
I could debunk all of the stories about my sex life, but I doubt they would believe me.
Part of me is tempted to rewrite my narrative. How bad would they feel if they realized the person they've been idolizing for so long is actually broken inside?
It would be so easy to give in, but I've heard it's a long fall from the top.
If I'm expecting it, maybe that will soften the blow.
Could there be a future for our band without having me as this universal sex symbol?
I don't know. The world will never know, because I would have to let them see the real me.
Fuck that, and fuck Lane for trying to say he's gone through the same thing I have. He has no idea how lonely it can get when you lose two of the most important people in your life and then are expected to keep carrying on like nothing happened.
My nostrils flare as I clench my jaw, refusing to let the tears that are welling up fall.
Feeling sorry for myself isn't going to change anything.
I take a deep breath, letting anger replace my sorrow.
Lane never has to worry about being alone.
He has River. He has someone that he trusts to keep him warm and suck his cock whenever he wants.
The fact that he had the audacity to compare himself to me is out of line.
I shake my head, wincing as I move the bag of whatever frozen vegetable I managed to grab.
I still can’t believe he punched me. I throw it across the room, not giving a single fuck when it hits the wall and bursts open.
I’ll just pay for room service to clean it.
I'm a rockstar, remember? They won't even bat an eye .
I stand and stomp over to the large window that takes up the entirety of one of the walls of my room.
One of my forearms lands above me as I lean down and glance out over the city.
A line of cocaine would cure all this shit I'm feeling right now. Too bad I can’t touch the shit ever since Rocky died from it.
Fuck, sometimes I crave how invincible it used to make me feel.
Rocky and I were the life of the party after a hit of some good blow.
We would hype the whole damn place up, living off the excitement of being able to live out our dreams. It was happening.
We signed the deal with the record label, and we were going to make it big.
Except he never got to live out the damn dream.
His dream killed him before it really began.
The bright lights of the rushing city remind me of the lights from that night.
They were flashing. We were partying, and then the lights were flashing, and I had no clue why.
I was too high to notice how many times Rocky went back for more.
He was my brother, and we were supposed to protect each other, but I failed him.
I was too busy trying to escape the pain from my broken heart, and the flashing lights ended up taking my brother from me.
I thought losing Alara was the worst thing that would happen before I lost him, too.
He would be ashamed if he saw me now. I'm a bigger disappointment than I've ever been.
Thoughts of giving in to temptation and calling up my old dealer to see if I can get a fix spring to the front of my mind. I don't know how to keep doing this. How do I keep living this life when all I want to do is escape it ?
My fist slams against the window as the urge to feel numb becomes louder and louder.
I've been able to ignore it before, drowning out the noise with alcohol instead.
Something about one of my bandmates punching me in the face makes me want to cave.
One line won't drag me back under. I'll have just enough to make the pain disappear and then come back here and go to sleep. Rocky would understand.
Fuck this. It doesn’t matter what Rocky would think.
He’s dead. One time will be fine. Nearly two years of sobriety from the drug that took my brother's life will go down the drain, but I don't care.
I rip open my bedroom door only to find Nix sitting on the floor across the hall.
He stands up as soon as he sees me and shakes his head, pointing back to my room.
"I'm not letting you leave." He stands in my way.
FUCK! I want to push him out of the way and hit him like Lane hit me.
"Move." My words are stern, as though someone else were saying them.
"Go. Back. Into. Your. Room," Nix says, one word at a time, like I'm a child. "You can go in by yourself, or I'll have security come and lock you in. Either way, you're not leaving this apartment tonight."
"I don't know who you think you are," I start, but he interrupts me before I can continue.
"I'm the person stopping you from doing something you'll regret." He eyes me like he can actually see I'm hurting .
That's impossible. Nobody notices anything except my fuck ups. My lip lifts in disgust. He's just here so he can pretend to be the savior, yet again. That's all this is. He doesn't actually care about me.
"Ender," he says, pulling my attention out of my mental spiral. "Please just watch a movie or something and sleep it off."
My brows furrow. He's being nice. I don't like it when people are nice. I can't think straight. He's right, though. Leaving will only ruin my sobriety. I knew it the moment I opened this door.
"Fine," I concede. "But get the fuck away from my room. You don't need to sit in the hallway and babysit me like I'm a child."
"I wasn't babysitting you. I heard you throw something and knew it would be a matter of time before you tried to storm out," he says, like he knows me.
"Whatever. Go away." I take a step back before shutting the door in his face.
"I'm telling security not to let you leave," is the last thing I hear before his footsteps wander off.
As much as I hate that he stopped me, I'm thankful. I'll never admit that, though.