Chapter 2
chapter
two
“What does it mean when the only person who can save you is also the one you’d rather drown with?” - Cyrus
CYRUS
The walls breathe. I swear they do. Every shadow is a ghost. Patrick’s laugh echoes in one corner, my father’s mangled corpse snarls from another.
Neither is real. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop their faces from appearing and clawing at the deepest parts of my mind. Blaming me for their deaths.
I pace, bare feet dragging over the carpet that smells like old whiskey and stale sweat. Four fucking days sober, three fucking nights without sleep. My skin feels like it’s peeling off from the inside, which I don’t think is possible, yet it still feels like it is.
My heart won’t slow, like the thumping music from the club has taken up residence inside my ribcage, but without rhythm—without offering salvation.
I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.
LG Records gave me two weeks…two fucking weeks to get right, or I’m out.
Auguste Gaillard gave no wiggle room as he sat unaffected by my grief, behind his oak desk.
Out of the band, out of the deal, out of the only thing that matters.
He said it like a lifeline, but it’s really a noose.
The rest of the guys—my supposed friends—will stay with the record.
I’m the one they’ll cut, like a diseased limb poisoning a body.
And maybe I am.
I rip the cord out of the wall and toss my lamp across the room. The crash when it hits the floor is a small relief. The second crash, when I hurl my guitar case against the dresser, damages the corner but also something inside me. The sound isn’t right…hasn’t been for months.
Patrick’s not here to write, to laugh, to tell me I’m dramatic.
He’s not here to keep me in line or tell me to fuck off when I’ve gone too far.
He’s not anywhere, and yet every time I blink, I see the disappointment in his eyes before he walks away.
I don’t want to be an angry, selfish prick, but I am.
I’m fucking pissed that he got behind the wheel.
I’m fucking pissed that I didn’t stop him.
I’m fucking pissed that he died, and most of all, I’m fucking pissed that it all stems from Haven.
Fuck, I hate him for that. And…I miss him just as much. I wish I could punch him square in the face and hug him at the same time.
My throat burns, and tears sting my eyes. I drag both hands through my hair until I want to rip it out.
“Fuck!”
The room spins, and I gasp. My chest is too tight. I grip my T-shirt over my heart. My skin is crawling. Every cell is screaming for a fix to the constant ache. Just one shot, one line, one drink, one dance, one fuck. And I hate myself for needing anything.
I stumble to my desk and throw the first thing I touch. A book smacks against the wall. A glass follows, and the shards scatter across the carpet like little daggers waiting for me to walk across them.
“Jesus Christ…what the hell is happening in here?”
Her voice slices through the mania. I spin around, panting, and there she is in the doorway. Haven. Red hair wild from sleep, green eyes sharp in the lamplight. She’s wearing boxers with red butterflies and a cropped tank that rides up, revealing her stomach.
I lick my lips, my pulse spiking for an entirely different reason.
“Get the fuck out,” I growl. My voice is as raw as how my soul feels.
She steps in anyway, avoiding the debris field.
“You sound like you’re murdering someone in here. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I laugh, the sound manic and bitter. “What’s not wrong with me? I’m climbing the fucking walls while Mommy and Step Daddy are sipping martinis on some Mediterranean cruise.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Anita and my dad told you to get clean. You can’t exactly expect them to babysit you while you do it.”
“Babysit?” I sneer. “Neither of them would know how to babysit a fucking dog, let alone a human.” Haven crosses her arms. “Don’t give me that look. They gave me an ultimatum, then bailed the second it got ugly. Story of my life.”
She runs her hands through her hair, and the move makes her shirt ride higher. I shouldn’t notice, but I do. My gaze lingers too long, and that’s when Haven notices me.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she orders, cheeks flushing.
“Like what?” I stalk closer. Jumping on the bed and then off to land in front of her, enjoying the way she shifts back a fraction. “Like you’re the only thing keeping me from putting my fist through this wall? Destroying my room? Destroying my life? Because maybe you are.”
Her throat works, mouth opening and closing.
“You’re spiraling, Cy. You need help.”
“Don’t fucking say that word,” I snarl, pressing closer. The air between us sizzles. “I don’t need help. I need this gnawing inside me to stop before I do something to shut it up.”
Haven’s eyes soften, and I want to erase the sympathy from her face. Or kiss it. Or both.
“You don’t get it, Haven. You can’t,” I whisper, and then say louder, “you don’t know what it’s like to feel as if the whole world is talking about you.
People are saying that Patrick’s death is my fault.
” I hit my chest. “Mine.” Shaking my head I let her in on all the fear.
“But what if it is my fault? And what if the haters are right? What if I really am a fake, a fraud, will never be good enough?”
“Cy, both of those are blatantly wrong and Patrick would never want you to blame yourself for his death. And, yes, of course, you’re enough or LG wouldn’t have signed you,” she says far to calmly.
“Please, my mother is fucking your father. I assume he likes his dick, or my mother would cut it off for not signing me.”
Haven rolls her eyes. “That’s not how it works, and you know it. Yes, you jumped to the front of the line to be seen, but you still need talent. My father wouldn’t sign a talentless loser.”
The certainty in her tone stirs a feral-ness inside of me.
My hand shoots out and fists in the hem of her tank, yanking her closer. Haven gasps, stumbling, and suddenly we’re chest to chest, breath mingling, every nerve lit up like a fucking beacon. And I don’t care that they are bright red and warning me to stop. I can’t.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” I murmur.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe you,” I say, my forehead touching hers. She smells like blueberries again. Sweet. Tempting. Like home in a world where everything is perfect.
Haven splays her fingers on my chest as I walk her backward and push her up against the wall.
“Cy…” The single word sounds like a plea. But does she want me to stop, or to continue? I’m not sure I even care which one.
My pulse jackhammers. I want to destroy her.
I want to save her. I want her to make the ghosts shut up and the ache go away.
My lips crash against hers, and a fire licks its way through my body.
The burn is real, and it’s wiping out everything else.
Haven moans into my mouth and doesn’t push me away as I deepen the kiss.
She tastes exactly like I remember. Sweet, deadly, perfection. The only other time I got to taste her lips she was timid and we were cut short with my mother walking in. But, she is not timid now and we won’t be interrupted this time.
Cupping her face, I take. I take all I can. When I finally come up for air, my lips are sensitive, and I love it. The pain in my chest is less, more like a shadow as I soak in the glazed look in her eyes.
Gripping Haven’s hips, I pick her up, and she squeals. She pulls in a deep breath as I attack the soft skin at the base of her neck. Her fingers rake through my hair, and I lose all control. All that matters is that I have Haven.
Turning back to the bed, we land in a heap on the sheets, her hair fanned out like fire. My body cages hers, and darkness wraps around us both.
“Cy—” she starts again, but I don’t want to hear it.
“Shut up,” I rasp. My mouth is inches from hers. My thumb brushes bare skin as I mold my body to hers. “You want to save me, Haven? Here’s your chance. Take it. I’m fucking begging for you to save me tonight.”
Her green eyes are wide, defiant, maybe even afraid. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t push me away. And God help me…I kiss her again.
It’s brutal and hungry. A collision of grief and fury and need. She is my forbidden fruit, and I can’t stop. The longing I feel for her is finally breaking free, and I let it go. There is no fighting it anyway.
When she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, the world tilts again. Everything shifts inside of me like a deadly earthquake. Nothing remains standing.
The bed creaks as I frantically pull my T-shirt off. The heat between us spikes to atomic levels when Haven touches me. I press closer, losing myself in her gentle caresses and the sound of her soft whimpers.
This is wrong. I know it is, but I don’t care. I want her. Haven is mine. The last thought I have before I’m completely lost to the moment is the most fucked-up of all…
I hate that Haven is my rescuer and my ruin, and I’ll never forgive her for it.