Chapter 26
FASCINATION STREET
Sometimes I wish I could punch the asshole on the other side of the screen.
The person who thinks that just because they’re anonymous on the internet, they can say whatever nasty thought comes to mind with no consequences.
I’m in an Uber, heading back to the hotel, trying to distract myself from the dread, but only making it worse when I read more of these fucked up comments.
People are so…vile. My own twin is proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who you are; everyone can become a monster.
While the majority of our fans have taken the news about Jorge and Oli in stride, others are openly spewing their disgust all over the internet.
Dreadful has never been that kind of metal band.
The overly macho, tits and pussy, ‘Murica’ vibes.
But those kinds of people still have ears—they know we are bad ass.
Even bigots can have taste, it would seem.
And I know their fucked up opinions shouldn’t matter—aren’t important—but they do have an impact. They still hold weight.
Their opinions can make or break a band.
No matter how many times I see the word fag, it still makes me irrationally upset.
Phoenix got the brunt of that hatred in high school.
He must be made of tougher stuff because I would have taken my dad’s work pistol and shot myself.
I could never imagine living with that every day.
Knowing how much people hate you for no fucking reason.
Just that you’re different in their eyes—wrong.
But Phoenix has always had Jorge. He’s had someone to remind him constantly that he’s not gross or a monster.
And to be fair, I kind of always suspected it, with Phoenix.
For the longest time, I thought the two of them were fucking.
Men don’t…behave like they did, you know?
Unless they’re gay.
And I don’t have any issues with that.
I don’t. But still, I worried. I got scared for them.
Phoenix is too fucking shy, and Jorge is a little crazy. I never wanted anything bad to happen to them—my friends, family. And this whole fucking time, it was my twin hurting my family—hurting Oliver. I have no idea how I missed that, either. How I was so blind to it for years and years.
Unlike most twins, Morgan and I never had that…bond.
We look similar, but we aren’t identical.
Morgan played football and ate praise out of my dad’s hands like a cultist worshipper.
I lived and breathed my guitar. It was the only thing my mom got me before she died, and I promised her I’d never stop playing.
And so far, I haven’t. I’m in a band, playing music I love more than life itself.
I should be happy.
This should be the prime of my life.
MetalDaddy666: It’s no surprise Kingsport picked them up. Arkham is notorious for promoting pervy ass homos.
VikingThunderHorseHammer: Isn’t Michael Miller’s brother a creep? I saw something about it on another Reddit thread. He’s got a faggy twin who loves little boys.
My hand shakes.
AaronTheInevitable: Dreadful is woke. Liberal trash. They’re all fucking each other. I bet Michael is the bitch.
“We are here, dude,” the Uber driver tells me, and I startle.
Fuck.
I power off my phone and get out of the car.
As I stare at the hotel building, my stomach sinks. I shouldn’t be back here. I said I wouldn’t be back, anyway. But it’s getting old trying to sleep at random women’s houses.
The last one flat-out told me that she wasn’t having me over—just because we had sex doesn’t give me the right to move in. I’m not trying to move in, I just can’t stomach being around them.
Not after what I did. Not…after everything.
But I’ve got nowhere to go currently. And as much as I hate wearing the damn thing, I sleep better with my CPAP, which is up in that hotel room.
I’m still reeling over the diagnosis.
Men fucking snore. It’s…a thing. You see it in movies, hear about it from your buddies—it’s not that big of a deal.
Apparently, I have two things trying to kill me prematurely.
I have a deviated septum and enlarged tonsils.
According to my doctor, I can have both fixed with surgery.
That’s what took out my mom, though. She had an adverse reaction to the anesthesia and coded right there on the table. She never woke up again.
So, I get to wear a damn CPAP for the rest of my life if I don’t want to die in my sleep just like she did.
It’s as much a pride thing as it is shame. I’m too afraid to get surgeries, and I don’t want anyone to know that I have to wear it. That’s another reason I’m going back to the hotel…I snore too damn loud. The last hookup told me as much.
“I feel bad, you know. You’re cute and everything, and I think we might be good together, but…I can’t sleep next to someone that sounds like they’re choking to death.”
Now that I’ve had the machine for a while, I snore worse when I don’t wear it.
Seems everything is getting worse these days.
But I can’t stand out here in this freezing cold all night.
I’m going to have to just suck it up, ignore Devon and his puppy eyes, and Lex with his uncanny ability to see through my mask.
I can’t keep getting shit faced—can’t keep relying on strangers to make me feel good about myself either.
At this rate, I’m going to catch something horrible or destroy my damned liver.
Then I’ll really be fucked.
With a heavy sigh, I head inside the lobby.
I hesitate before swiping the keycard.
It’s not too late, so they’ll probably be awake.
A crippling dread knots my guts. Devon’s going to want to talk—he always wants to talk.
Lex might, too. And that’s my own damned fault, but I feel bad for the guy.
He’s…sweet under everything. He’s a fantastic manager, too.
I think he’s the only person who can manage a group like Dreadful without cracking under the pressure.
But he is cracking. You’ve seen it. He wants to quit.
Fuck, please let them be asleep so I can die on that cot in peace. I swipe the keycard, hold my breath, and slink inside.
The room looks…normal. Smells a bit stuffy—like sweat, but upon a quick scan, I see Lex passed out in his bed and no sign of Devon. The water is on in the restroom, so he’s probably in the shower. I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights and creep deeper inside so I can get my stuff set up.
Just as I’m passing by the bathroom door, though, I freeze.
It’s incredibly obvious what’s happening on the other side of it. The rapid splashing of water, the breathing I can feel like it’s on the back of my neck. My already uneasy stomach swoops hard.
I glance at the door, spotting the open crack. Light shines through it, and somehow the sounds grow louder. More frantic and desperate.
Devon moans, and I slam my eyes shut.
My fists cramp from how hard I’m squeezing them, and a tremor races down my spine. I swallow nonexistent spit before double-checking Lex is asleep. A tiny whistle leaves his button nose.
Don’t do it, my head hisses. You want to, another voice drowns it out.
I try to wet my dry lips. I manage to take a single step forward before retreating again.
“Fuck, Michael. Harder.”
I lock on that fucking door again, my breath sawing out of me.
Like I’ve completely lost control over my body, I push the door open. Steam clogs my senses instantly, the fog seeps out and clears a direct path to the shower. I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop…fucking looking.
“Shit. Oh fuck,” he groans like a whore, and my cock presses obscenely against the fly of my jeans.
I’m a statue, eyes glued to the body writhing behind the glass door. His back flexes with each thrust of his fingers that are deep in his…
I close the door, a soft click audible.
On autopilot, I ignore the nausea, the iron rod in my pants, and rip open my suitcase.
Somehow, I get my CPAP filled, turned on, and secured to my nose.
I throw the blanket over my head, settle on my side in the cot, and pretend I can’t hear Devon coming in the shower.
Or his little string of curses afterward.
I swallow hard.
Minutes pass before he emerges. “Michael?” he whispers.
I don’t answer.
“Are you awake? You okay?”
Nothing. Silence.
He sighs. “I miss you.”
A ball works in my throat, a thousand pounds crush my sternum. I lie paralyzed, the fear overwhelming me, until I can’t recall when I finally surrender to sleep.