Page 14 of Grand Romantic Delusions and the Madness of Mirth, Part One

B olan

I wake up still hard as a rock, heart pounding from a dream, a nightmare, I’m not going to remember. Because I’ve spent the last six months making sure I pass out so hard every night that I don’t remember.

I fucking hurt. Thankfully, for right now at least, that pain is purely physical, including a migraine harsh enough that I can already tell it’s fucking with my vision.

My fucking balls ache, making it really obvious that I haven’t, yet again, been able to come.

Even though I’ve spent the last fucking day, maybe even longer, attempting to do just that.

My stomach heaves.

I throw myself out of the tangle of limbs pinning me to the bed.

The mattress is half off the frame, but I recognize enough of my personal shit to orient myself as I lunge toward the bathroom .

My foot comes down on my fucking 1957 Les Paul Goldtop — I know what I’m stepping on even without actually seeing it — and I instinctively throw myself forward and off it.

Because no matter what else I destroy, including myself, I’m not risking snapping the neck of the only thing I own of any worth.

I don’t get my hands out to stop myself. No other thoughts of self-preservation rise to the forefront of my mind, and my should-be-innate shifter reflexes can’t counter the combo of drugs still rampaging through my system.

So I fall. I fall forward unhindered, driving my head into the bathroom doorframe before crumpling to the hardwood floor.

Pain slams through my neck and up my spine.

I can’t move.

I can’t move.

I can’t move as sheer paralyzing agony sweeps through my system.

I have no idea how much time passes until I’m able to finally open my eyes, to turn my fucking aching neck just enough to see that the Goldtop appears unharmed.

Not a single one of the other fuckers passed out around the room stirs.

Even though I’m fairly certain, and then confirm, that I’ve fucking cracked the thick wood casing of the fucking doorjamb of this fucking ridiculously expensive heritage restoration in the fucking middle of a toff-claimed section of London.

Years ago now, extremely ironically, I paid more at auction for the guitar than I did for the apartment.

Actually, it’s possible the label owns the place, not me.

I hate it either way. Mostly because of the completely neglected, completely modern, tricked-out recording studio occupying the ground floor .

My sweat-slick skin sticks to the hardwood enough to hinder me, but I manage to roll over onto my side. That not-so-smooth move triggers an unbearable need to puke again.

I lurch up onto my hands and knees, scrambling to the fucking toilet to retch. And retch. I manage to spew only gobs of bile while navigating the worst physical pain I’ve felt in my entire life.

Maybe I’ve broken my neck.

I mean, I’m a shifter, so even that would heal quickly. If I got the drugs out of my system. But there’s no way I’m detoxing rapidly enough for it to matter right now.

I navigate another wave of my body trying to expel the shit I’ve pumped into it. Except none of it is in my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I ate solid food.

I press my forehead to the rim of the toilet, seeking out the coolness of the ceramic and trying to ignore that the lid and seat is fucking up, and there’s probably piss all over the place.

Unable to bear the thought — despite my continual attempts to stifle it, my mind always wins out over my matter — I slump back against the tiled wall, legs bent, hands hanging over my knees.

I try to breathe through my mouth and ignore all the sickening scents permeating the bathroom, most of them rising off my body.

I’d like to pretend this is me at my lowest. Except I catch sight of the tattoos spiraling up my arms, and not for the last time, I fucking regret the fucking hubris that made me permanently affix those particular lyrics to my flesh.

Mage-wrought tattoos — I have more across my shoulders and chest — aren’t easily removed, even for a shifter.

Everyone who gets anywhere near me coos and pets my arms — as I intended — telling me how that particular song is still their favorite after all these years. One of my first major hits. My first million albums sold and my first million euros made.

Her song.

The words of which are an utter lie.

Because my singular lowest-of-low day has nothing to do with drugs, alcohol, or almost breaking my own neck out of sheer stupidity. What the fuck is that guitar doing on the fucking floor anyway?

No. I’m so fucking typical, I’ve built a ridiculously popular band based on one single moment.

A kiss.

And a rejection.

Great songwriting fodder, right?

Except it was me who did the rejecting.

I was the coward.

Still am. Though now I’m a coward with a possibly broken neck.

My dick is still so fucking hard that it’s starting to hurt more than my head.

I pull myself up by the counter, find a package of triptans in the cabinet — yep, actual prescribed meds for my migraines — and melt three under my tongue even though the dose is one a day. I’m also pretty certain I’m not supposed to mix them with whatever else I’ve taken in the last twelve hours.

I get the shower hot enough to sear off a layer of skin, and scrub the stink off me. I let the hot water heater run down, draining it over the back of my head, neck, and shoulders.

The headache eases enough that I manage to get out of the shower and get half dried. I avoid catching sight of my reflection, keeping my back to the mirrored cabinets over the double sinks .

I’m going to have to do something about my dick.

I know there’s probably a half-dozen people arrayed throughout the apartments that occupy the converted mansion, including the three people I’m fairly certain are still currently passed out in my own room.

I could fuck any of them without needing to do more than wake them up and ask permission.

But I have hazy memories of doing that for fucking hours already without relief.

Honestly, those memories might not be of last night at all …

I already know what I’m going to do. Already know the only thing that’s going to bring me that relief. I already hate myself for it.

But what’s one more time?

I wander into my trashed bedroom. It stinks in here as well. I pick up the Goldtop, setting it safely on its stand in the corner. Then I yank open the sashed window, letting a ball-chilling rush of air within.

Right. It’s February.

Still naked, head and neck still aching, and dick still too fucking erect, I turn back to the room and shout as loud as I can, “Get the fuck out!”

Four people jerk awake. Not just the tangled threesome whose limbs I’d liberated myself from, just to almost break my neck. The three women were on the bed with me, but my fucking asshole bass player, Gustave, is sprawled on the floor by the door to the hall.

All four blink at me stupidly.

An utterly irrational need to be alone sweeps through me, countering enough of the physical pain that I snarl — my beast suddenly and violently rising to the forefront. “Get the fuck out! All the fucking way.”

“Asshole,” Gus groans, but he manages to roll to his feet .

He’s naked. I really hope that I didn’t cross swords with him last night. Because not only do I loathe him, I know he insists on riding bareback. And no matter what a fucking asshole I am otherwise, I don’t.

No little bastards for me. I already know what it’s like to grow up without a father. Though mine died a fucking hero.

One of the women — brown haired, full breasts and hips — grabs some clothing and scampers after Gus.

Unfortunately, the other two fixate on me. Shifters of some sort. They’re up on their knees now, eyes dilated and literally panting. When they realize they’ve drawn my attention, they whimper and tilt their necks invitingly.

Fuck. This is what I get for not keeping my beast tamped down.

“No,” I say sternly— and a little like I’m speaking to toddlers and not to grown-ass women I probably fucked a half-dozen times last night.

Not that I remember any of it.

“Please, alpha …” The lighter-haired blond starts crawling toward me.

Lots of shifters would take what she’s offering. She’s eager, and I have a raging hard-on. Sex, among multiple partners or otherwise, is acceptable fun among shifters. As long as biting stays out of it.

Biting is only for chosen mates.

But I don’t want any of it. The dominance. The games. The hierarchy within packs. None of it.

I snatch my phone off the bedside table, eyeing the array of pills spilling out of an ash-and-butt-filled ashtray. I don’t know what any of those highs promise, though, except that I can no doubt blame my current dick problem on one of them. Or a combination .

“Out!” I fling the command over my shoulder as I stride back into the bathroom.

The darker blond bursts into tears. “You’re such a prick.”

“Yep,” I say. “I’m guessing you fucking loved it when it wasn’t directed at you.”

I shut the bathroom door behind me, but before I get it all the way closed, I see they’re scrambling for their clothing. And the rest of the drugs.

They won’t be stupid enough to steal the guitar — it’s even more iconic now that I’ve played it on seven hit albums than it was when I purchased it. But they can take whatever else they want.

Their selfies are probably already online. Meaning one of the band’s many faceless publicists will be shrieking in my ear within the hour. Or would be if I bother to answer my phone.

I lean over one of the sinks, opening the mirrored cabinet so I don’t have to look at myself, then knocking a bunch of shit aside so I can set my phone on a shelf at eye height.

I position my dick over the sink and find some sort of cream in one of the drawers.

It’s probably not meant to be rubbed — hard and fast, no doubt — into a dick.

But I’m already in enough pain that I don’t fucking care.