Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
JUDE GRAVES
I wake to the sound of music. It takes me a second to register the soft and melodic sound drifting in from the kitchen. For a split second, my body doesn’t know where I am. There’s no shouting. No boots. No commands barked in Russian.
Just...music.
I push myself upright, my head heavy, my veins already aching with that annoying, low-level panic that comes with being sober for too long. The hotel suite is dim, curtains still drawn. I drag myself out of bed and stop in the doorway.
Adriana is at the kitchen island, back to me, moving easily to the rhythm. She’s wearing gray silk sleep shorts and a matching baggy top, her hair in a ponytail down her back. A pan sizzles softly on the stove. Eggs, maybe. Butter. Coffee. It smells…good.
She looks relaxed. Happy, even. And it makes my chest feel weird.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her without announcing myself. She hums along with some song under her breath, hips swaying slightly as she reaches for a plate. There’s no tension in her shoulders, sadness, or fear.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and check it. When I see that, unsurprisingly, I have no messages, I drop onto the couch. With a heavy sigh, I reach for my kit. The ritual is muscle memory—tie off, tap, breathe, inject. The relief blooms quickly, my shoulders loosening, and my jaw unclenching.
I exhale. “Want some?” I ask, my voice rough but casual, like I’m offering her coffee.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling faintly.
“I’m good,” she says. “Already smoked this morning.” She turns back to the stove, entirely unbothered.
Adriana uses drugs the way people use wine or cigarettes—an indulgence or a vice.
For me, it’s survival. The needle isn’t simply optional.
It’s a fucking contract. I’ve always envied that about her.
I sink deeper into the couch, watching her again.
All of this feels so casual, like the woman hasn’t watched me get beaten half to fucking death.
The thought makes my stomach twist. This place feels safe, at least. I can always come back here to breathe and rest whenever I’m not at Alexei’s nightmare of a house. Well, prison.
Adriana sets a plate in front of me with a smile. Eggs, toast, fruit arranged neatly. She slides a mug of coffee toward me, too. I glare at it, feeling entirely too lazy to add creamer to it.
“Eat,” she says lightly, leaning against the counter across from me. “You look tired.”
I snort softly and pick up the fork, my hands feeling steadier than they probably should. The heroin is doing its job. “Surprising, considering I slept really hard last night.”
She smirks. “So did I.”
I chew without tasting anything. The food is good. I know that intellectually. But my body is still buzzing, floating just a few inches above itself. I swallow and glance up at her. “You’re in a good mood,” I say.
She shrugs, reaching for her own mug. “Am I not allowed to be?”
“You are,” I answer. “Just…not used to it.”
Her eyes linger on me for a second too long. “Last night was, um, nice,” she says instead.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I liked how quiet it was when I woke up,” she starts. “Felt kind of peaceful.”
My jaw tightens. Quiet isn’t peace. It’s just the pause before the next brutal wave of hell.
She hops up onto the counter, legs dangling, silk shorts riding up her thighs. “Alexei hasn’t called yet,” she adds casually.
Yet.
The word echoes in my head. I stab another piece of egg and chew harder than necessary. “He will.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I know that.”
Silence stretches between us, and it’s strangely intimate. The music shifts to another song that's slower and more melancholic.
Adriana watches me eat for a moment, then sighs. “You did good yesterday.”
My fork stills. “Did I?” I ask.
She nods. “They’re not exactly gentle men. But you kept getting up.”
I glance at her. “That’s the bar now?”
Her mouth tightens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t care.” She hops off the counter and steps closer. “You’re still you. I see it.”
I almost laugh. She sees what she needs to see to cope with the fact that I'm disappearing. Before I can say anything else, my phone vibrates on the coffee table. My body reacts instantly—muscles locking, stomach dropping like I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
I don’t even look at the screen yet. I already know.
Adriana does, too.
“Go on,” she says quietly. “Answer it.”
I pick up the phone. Nolan. I answer without bothering to speak.
“Be ready at four,” he says, ignoring my annoyance.
My grip tightens around the phone as I sigh through my nose. “Where? What am I doing?”
Adriana watches me, likely thinking how fucking stupid this is as well.
“Private event.”
“Is that all you’re going to tell me?” I ask, clenching a fist.
“Bring your guitar, boy. Alexei wants to introduce you to some people after your performance.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a second longer than necessary before setting it down. My appetite is gone. “I have to fucking perform tonight.”
"It's been a while. Almost forget you're a rockstar." She exhales slowly. “Well, that's better than going to Alexei’s basement.”
I nod once. “I’m going to shower,” I mutter, pushing to my feet.
She reaches for my wrist before I can walk away. Her touch is warm. “Hey,” she says. “Take care of yourself tonight.”
I look down at her hand on my arm. At the faint tremor she’s trying to hide. “Yeah,” I say. “I will.”
She lets go.
As I walk back toward the bathroom, my chest tightens—not with fear, not exactly.
But with the weight of knowing the illusion of safety is gone now.
I just exist in the space between commands.
And I’m already counting down until I belong to him again.
Until I'm getting beaten over and over, driven to the point of near insanity with cravings.
I take my phone with me into the bathroom and set it on the counter beside the sink. I scroll until I find one of the playlists I made a while back. And I hit play.
Music fills the bathroom through the phone speaker. I strip down, toss my clothes onto the floor, and step into the shower. The water comes on hot as hell, steam fogging the mirror before I can even look at myself.
The first song passes. Then the second. I’m rinsing shampoo out of my hair when the third one starts. I lay my palms flat against the tile, my entire body stilling while I listen to the beginning notes.
“Right Here” by Lil Peep.
My chest tightens, but it’s not as sharp as before. It’s quieter and even a little heavier, like a wild animal settling inside me instead of lashing out.
She’s there.
Not a face...or a voice. Just the sense of her. The woman from Seaside. The weight of her presence, and the way it used to exist inside me. I close my eyes as the water runs over my head, over my shoulders, down my back.
For a split second, muscle memory kicks in. The instinct to reach for the phone, skip the song or shut it off before it becomes too much. But Alexei's voice cuts through the impulse instead.
You don’t have to feel.
My jaw tightens, and I don’t move. The song keeps playing. Her presence lingers, but it’s distant. I breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
The water drums against my skull, grounding me in my body. In this moment. In the tiled box I’m standing in, naked and alone and very much not free. This is new.
Normally, the reminder makes me tense, angry, or want to burn something down and disappear inside myself.
Normally, I fight it. Or I drown it. This time, I don’t do any of that.
The song plays through, every lyric soft in a way that squeezes my heart but doesn’t rip it apart.
I don’t flinch or spiral. I don’t chase memories or shove them away with desperate, bleeding hands. I just endure it.
By the time the track fades into the next one, the feeling has dulled. It’s filed away somewhere I don’t have to look at right now. I open my eyes and rest my forehead against the tile, exhaling slowly.
So this is what it feels like.
Not healing or even moving on…but control. And the fucked-up part is, I’m not sure whether to be relieved or terrified that I’m finally learning how to do it.
I shut the water off and stand there for a second longer before getting out. I don’t recognize the version of myself staring back from the fogged mirror when I swipe a clear patch with my palm.
My eyes look empty. The hazel in them is pretty much nonexistent. It was her favorite color. I suppose that's a sign in some way.
I dry off, pull on clean clothes, and leave the bathroom without bothering to fix my hair. The suite feels quieter now without Adriana’s music playing like before. She’s sitting on the edge of the couch, phone in her hand, scrolling absently. She looks up when she hears me and studies my face.
“You good?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m fine.” It comes out automatically.
She doesn’t buy it, but doesn't argue, thankfully.
I grab my jacket from the chair and sling it over the back of the couch, then sit beside her. The cushion dips under my weight. She shifts slightly, giving me space but not moving away.
“You know,” she says after a moment, eyes still on her screen, “you don’t have to be quiet all the time.”
I glance at her. “I talk.”
She hums softly. “You perform and...comply.” She finally looks at me then. “That’s not the same thing.”
I don’t answer. Shocker.
She locks her phone and sets it down, turning toward me fully now. “If you want to talk…you can. To me.”
I let out a breath through my nose, staring at the opposite wall. “About what?”
“Anything,” she says. “Or nothing. Sometimes that’s easier.”
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny—because it’s absurd. Especially with her. “I don’t think you actually want that,” I say quietly.
Her brow creases. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because once I start,” I say, voice flat, “it won’t be pretty. And it definitely won’t make you feel better. Considering our history and all the shit you’ve done to me.”
She considers that. Then she shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “I’m not offering to fix you. I’m just saying you don’t have to disappear.”
Disappear.
I glance at her again. She’s still Adriana—composed, sharp, dangerous in her own way.
But there’s something else there now. I don’t really care enough to ask her what’s changed.
Not long ago, she was a raging, evil bitch.
Now, she’s a little softer. Honestly, it might be because she’s scared.
She’s just trying to survive, just like I am.
It’s obvious that Nolan isn’t the big dog anymore.
So I imagine that’s making her feel a little nervous.
“I’m going to disappear anyway. You should know that,” I finally say.
She gives me a look that says she knows better, but she lets it go. “Okay.”
Silence settles between us again.
She reaches out, hesitates, then rests her hand lightly against my forearm. “For what it’s worth,” she says softly, “I see that you’re still in there. And, um...” she trails off, looking away from me now. “I’m sorry for everything.”
I swallow. Part of me wants to believe her, but the rest of me knows better. It’s all self-preservation for her, I’m sure. Plus, being here doesn’t mean anything when pieces of you are already fucking gone.
Her phone buzzes a second later on the table. She doesn’t check it. I don’t either.
“I should get my guitar ready,” I say finally, standing.
She nods. “Yeah.”
I head toward the bedroom, then pause. I don’t turn around when I speak. “Thanks.”
I can hear a smile in her voice. “Yeah.”
But as I close the door behind me, I know the truth. Neither talking nor connection will save me at this point. All it does is remind me of what I’m losing. And how much easier it’s becoming to let it go.