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Do you see that guy sitting on the couch with his head in his hands? Not the hungover one. C’mon, I’m better looking than that dude. That’s Ledger. He’s had a rough night, but I’ll get to that a little later.
I’m the one with the dark brown Mohawk covered in ink with a beer in hand. That’s me. The crazy looking motherfucker drinking before noon. Sadly, the drinking isn’t even surprising.
I bet Icansurprise you. Listen to this. I once read the entire dictionary all in one sitting. Took me forty-seven hours and I read it out loud which made me sound something similar to Eminem’s raps. Although I did learn some cool words like Barmecide, which means illusionary or imaginary and therefore disappointing. And meacock. A cowardly or effeminate man. Both of which I can relate to.
“Hey,dumbass.” Scarlet slaps the back of my head. “Some chick has been calling the house asking for you all morning. The next time the phone rings, answer it and tell her to cut the shit.”
Scarlet’s always riding my case, and after the night I had, Ihatethe sound of Scarlet’s voice. Not her in particular, I actually tolerate Scarlet. Probably like her better if she’d let me fuck her, but the chipper sound of her telling me what to do is like fingernails on a chalkboard. It makes me want to punch her.
Not that last night was any different than any other night, unless you count being Tased. Then I guess you could say last night turned into something I’d rather forget. You don’t need to know the details, but it involved a nun and a Taser and a party to celebrate me not dying. I like to celebrate.
I stare up at her, trying to focus on her face, but I can’t see it. Without my contacts in, she’s just another blurry figure. “Who the hell are you talkin’ about?”
Sighing—like she can’t be bothered with my miniscule questions—she shrugs, tossing the house phone in my lap. “Fuck if I know. Wouldn’t leave her name. C’mon, get dressed. I’m hungry and we’re meeting Rod for lunch”—she waves her finger in my face accusingly—“to talk about what the hell we’re gonna do now that you’vedecidedto ditch the tour.”
Fuck that shit. Explaining myself is thelastthing I want to do today. “I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are!”
I wave her off. “Leave me alone.”
“I would, but it’s my job to bother you. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just leave.”
My dismissal means nothing to her. “Get dressed.”
Tossing the house phone on the table, I reach for my cell underneath a bag of weed. Squinting at the screen, a familiar number appears. It says I have twenty missed calls. And while we’re at it, that’s actually a low number. I once had seventy-eight missed calls before I checked my messages. I’m not a talker, I barely even text, but for some reason, people don’t get it and keep calling me expecting I’ll answer. I’ve gone weeks without checking my phone.
All twenty calls are from the same person. I only have to look at the number to know who it is. Why is that? Well, that’s fucking predictable.
Predictable because everyone has addictions. You’ll soon find I have several, but one in particular owns me in more ways than one. Funny, I used to give my younger brother, Shade, shit about his strung-out calls from Rhya, when I’m no different when it comes to Amberly.
The only difference between Rhya and Amberly? It’s usually me who needs her. Amberly doesn’t get high and call me to talk her off the ledge or bail her out of jail. That’s what I do to her. She calls to check on me, make sure I’m not using again. I’ll straight up tell you to your fucking face—drugs or drinking—it’s something I chose. I can’t call something I chose addiction, can I? It’s a choice I’m making knowing damn well what it’ll do to me. Addiction to anything, drugs, alcohol, adrenaline. . . it begins and ends in your mind. What you give power to has power over you, because you allow it.
I did coke for the first time when I was nineteen. I kept doing it, and as with anything, it formed something I couldn’t,didn’twant to let go of. I’m not saying I’m one of those pale, jittery fuckers with holes in their arms who can’t function without a line or shooting up. That was Rhya, not me. I’m more of the good-time user. If it’s at a party and available, I’ll do it. And that leads me to the girl who keeps calling.
Amberly Sky Johnson. . . just thinking her name sends a rush through my blood even the purest of coke can’t give me. I’m talking about the legit pure shit too. Not the “Trust me, man. This shit bangs.” She’s like the premium grade you find inside a Peruvian jungle lab.
This girl, fuck, she’s wild, unattainable and nothing someone like me deserves. She’s loyal to my demons and I crave her madness because I can’t stand to be inside my own head. Her and I, we don’t see what it does to us, but underneath, there’s beauty I can’t explain. She’s not just a girl I can’t have. Don’t see it like that. She’s a feeling. Angst. A desire for more. She’s too much, not enough, and in my head. I hate her but love her for the same reasons is the only honest answer I can give you.
If you ever saw the tiny purple-haired girl, you would never think she was capable of doing anything illegal aside from destroying my heart. Although, there was that one time where she was protesting animal rights and was escorted to jail. When she’s not calling to check on me, she calls because. . . well, I never really know. It’s crazy shit like, I need you to go to a party with me. . . or can you pretend to be my boyfriend, fiancé, whatever. I once pretended I was a pimp so she could get money out of her friend’s ex-boyfriend, who owed her rent money. How did I pass for a pimp and get the money? That’s a story for another day. Just know I can be very convincing when I want to be, and you don’t ever want on my bad side.
So you see, there are more differences between Amberly and Rhya—my brother’s cocaine-addicted suicidal friend who eventually killed herself. Amberly does all that shit forotherpeople. She’s like the Mother Teresa of bullshit.
Throwing my phone back onto the table, I lean back against the couch and stare at the ceiling. I don’t have it in me to call her back.
Beside me on the couch, Ledger sighs, lifting his head, bloodshot eyes focused on nothing in particular.
Oh look, he’s still here. I forgot the bastard was there contemplating his royally screwed life. I’ve known Ledger for about ten years. He suffered a broken back a couple years ago when he took a fall in Las Vegas. The accident left him with partial paralysis and ended his riding career. Just not his sex life. Apparently. Now he builds tracks and ramps for motocross tracks. And fucks strippers.
“I can’t believe this. I’mtotally fucked.”
“Nah.” Turning my head so I can look him in the face, I smile. “Not unless you tell her.”
He gives me that look. The one he always gives me that screams, you’re an idiot. I know this look. I get it often and from almost everyone I know. “How am Inotgoing to tell her, Tiller? She’s my wife and I fucked another chick.”
If you ask me—and no one usually does—it’shisstupid his fault for getting married in the first place. How the hell did he expect to remain faithful when she’s off working all the time and he’s here, with an endless supply of pussy on hand?