10. Chapter 7
I’d Rather Overdose
Dallas
So much arguing. My brother and my best friend. Arguing again about Rain-fucking-Gamble. Same as always.
What year is it again?
How many times have they had this exact argument?
More than once. That’s for damn sure.
It is too much, between that, the shivers, and the bone-deep ache in every single fucking part of my body; I can’t sleep. Not really. Can’t keep food down, either. Even water makes my stomach turn.
There is only one thing I want. And I want it more than anything.
Magic, Meow, or its chemical name, Mephedrone and the brief euphoria that comes with it.
But I made a promise. This time, I promised Dutch it would be the last time.
That this time, if he helped me, I would get sober for real, for good.
Only getting sober means surviving detox.
Right now, that is seeming less and less likely by the second.
But if I can get through the first forty-eight hours, it will ease.
Not go away. The craving never goes away.
It’s always there, worming its way beneath my skin.
But I know from previous experiences that the first few days are the worst.
The last time I got clean, I made it six whole months. My longest stint ever. The time before that was only a week. The time before that, a month. The times before that, I didn’t quite keep track of because they weren’t even long enough to count.
Though their voices are muffled by the closed door, I can still hear Dutch shouting at Cohen. Maybe the sound is so familiar that that’s why I finally drift off.
I wake up again hours later when the bedroom door opens. There are only two people who would dare come in here, but thanks to the light from the hallway I can tell the shadow isn’t big enough to be Dutch. Cohen, it is.
“You okay, man?” his shadow shape asks.
“Yeah, man,” I snap back, “Just heaving my guts up and wishing for death or drugs, but you know, other than that, I’m fucking great.”
Sheepishly, he answers, “Sorry, stupid question.”
On stage, Cohen might look the part of a rock god, but off it?
The guy puts his foot in his mouth more often than anyone I’ve ever met.
I should feel bad for being a dick to him when I’m sleeping in what I’m pretty sure is his own damn bed, judging by the crisp linen and woodsy smell of the sheets.
But I can’t help it. Nor can I help noticing that it’s just him. No signs of my brother.
“Where’s Dutch?”
“Work,” my best friend answers without making eye contact.
“I heard you arguing,” I say bluntly. Cohen doesn’t deny it or say anything at all, really, and maybe because I get off on the pain, I push, “It was about her, wasn’t it? Rainy?”
He doesn’t answer that either, at least not right away.
“Yes, okay, yes. Because Dutch refuses to see that this whole reunion thing is a bad fucking idea, at least if she’s involved. Look at what happened to us, to you, because of what she did!”
He gestures to me, pale and shaking, like I don’t know how shitty I look right now.
I catch his wrist mid-air, the first sign that maybe the drugs haven’t stolen all the strength in my hands that came from years of playing the bass.
That forces him to look at me. I wait until his green eyes are locked on mine to say, “My little problem is not Rainy’s fault. ”
It pains me to admit it, but I do know that’s the truth. Even though it is easier to blame her for my problems, for all of our problems. And ninety percent of the time, I do. Consider this a rare moment of detox-induced honesty.
“No, it’s mine,” Cohen replies, finally pulling his hand and gaze away with a pinched expression. I can’t help the way my eyebrows lift. Apparently, we’re both feeling extra honest today.
“But I don’t think us getting back together—The Pistols, I mean—I don’t think that’s…”
“What?” I ask.
“Your brother seems to think that the band getting back together will be some sort of magic cure for your…”
When he trails off again, I lose a little more patience. “For my disease? For my addiction? You can say it, Co. I do. I’m an addict.”
Certainty rings through my words, because I’ve learned by now there is no point in denying it. But Cohen lives in denial, so he sweeps my statement aside. “Yeah, well, I don’t see how getting The Preaching Pistols back together would solve anything.”
“I do,” I whisper.
It hits me all at once. How much I miss music. How much I miss playing bass. How much I miss being on stage. How much I miss having something, anything to focus on, other than just my nightmarish past or getting high.
Rockstars might have a certain kind of reputation, and sure, we had the occasional bit of fun, but it was never a problem until the band entered its downward spiral.
Cohen watches me. Whether he’s waiting for me to say something else or just trying to judge if I’m lying or not, I’m not sure. He stutters a little. A condition from when he was young, that only comes out now when he’s anxious or unsure.
“You s-s-s-ure?”
I nod. And maybe it’s because I can almost feel the weight of the bass in my hand, or maybe it’s because I’m a dick to everyone when I’m coming off a high.
Or, maybe I just sense that my best friend needs a push, some trigger that will force him out of the comfortable, boring-as-fuck beige bubble he’s built around himself here.
“Consider it your way of paying me back for all of this,” I gesture to my body, noticing for the first time in a long time how thin my arms, my chest, even my legs have gotten.
I’m always kinda scrawny; bad nutrition and shitty foster homes will stunt your growth like no other, but now I’m downright frail.
Cohen curses loudly, “Fuck!” But when he unrolls the contract that’s been clenched in his fist this whole damn time, I know I’ve succeeded. Even though it hurts, I manage a small smirk.
Cohen groans and points to his bedside table. “Fine, toss me that fucking pen.”
It’s a weak toss, but he manages to catch it.
His long guitarist fingers wrap around it before he sits on the edge of the bed.
He uses his knees as a table, resting the contract there so he can sign it.
He doesn’t seem to notice how close my feet are to his left thigh.
Or he isn’t bothered by it. But I am. Bothered by the way my toes instantly stretch to get closer to my friend, while he flips through each page without really reading, initialling at the bottom before stopping to sign the last one.
I know he’s thinking of the last contract we signed and of everything that came after.
Him, Rain, the love, the pain. I’m thinking of it too.
Remembering the unique form of torture that is watching your best friends fall madly in love only to break up, and sewer your whole career while they’re at it.
Did I mention that one of the best friends in question is the man you’ve loved in secret for most of your life?
Now, I lay here, knowing I’m the reason he’s signing. Knowing that I’m throwing him and Rain back together again. Knowing that, no matter how much he claims to hate her, he’s never really moved on either.
Yep, this confirms it. I have a pain kink.