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SIX

WESLEY

“Hold still, baby,” I tell the naked woman lying on the coffee table in front of me. She giggles, the lines of coke undulating on her tits. “Don’t want to waste anything.”

“Sorry, Ryder,” she says with a breathy chuckle. “God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. With you. I didn’t think you’d notice me downstairs. I’m a big fan.”

“I know, baby,” I tell her, gliding my hands up her sides.

“Hurry up. It’s cold in here.”

“That’s so I can see how hard these get for me.” I lap at one of her nipples, pulling a moan from her. “Now don’t move. A quick bump, then I’ll take you to bed.”

“Okay.” She licks her lips and looks at me with so much heat I almost think she’ll incinerate me on the spot.

And I feel dead inside.

Shaking away the unhappiness that starts to snake through me, I grab the rolled up one-hundred-dollar bill, put it to my nose, then sniff the line of coke that’s laid out on the woman’s right tit.

I tip my head back, not wanting to waste any of my high when my nose starts running.

After a few beats, I do the other line in the other nostril .

“Mm, fuck,” I groan and close my eyes, the effects of the cocaine coursing through me. “This is some good shit.”

“The best I’ve ever had,” the woman says, and I hear her sit up and do a line. When she’s done, she climbs on my lap, her soft breasts pressed against my chest. “Now fuck me for the next few hours.”

I grin and open my eyes. I palm her left tit and flick my thumb over her nipple. “I think I can do that.”

A marathon sex session later, we’re both lying on our back, breathing heavily. “Wow,” she murmurs, laying her hand on my chest. “Better than I could have ever imagined. You fuck like a demon.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say, cringing away from her touch. “Time for you to go.”

Unlike most of my groupies, she doesn’t get pissed at the dismissal. “I figured. I’ll remember this night forever.” She tries to touch me again, but I dodge her hand. “Thanks, sugar. I’ll be at your show tonight.”

I grunt, and she gets the hint, sliding out of bed and getting dressed.

That same unhappiness rolls over me as before I fucked that woman into the mattress. Being sober always makes my mind wander to places they don’t need to be. Singing “In the Stars” last night was a mistake. It’s getting harder and harder to take the edge off.

Fuck, I need a fix.

I roll out of bed and go to my guitar case, pulling out the bag of pills. I’m not sure what pills are in here, but they’ll do the job.

Grabbing my bottle of vodka from the floor, I toss three pills in my mouth and chase it with a hearty swig. The sting of the alcohol barely registers. I gulp down more before I sigh and lie down .

Thankfully, my mind blanks, clear of everything but the lyrics for my songs. I purposefully push away “In the Stars”. I haven’t sung that song since my first tour. Thoughts of it always sent me spiraling, my feelings toward… him …jumbling up my mind.

“Fuck,” I groan again and grab my vodka, chugging the rest of the bottle.

I need memories out of my head. Being dragged back to the past sends me on a bender, and I can’t afford that until the end of this tour.

Then I’ll get blitzed out of my fucking mind until it’s time for me to act like a functional human being again.

The liquid barely passes my throat when exhaustion hits me. I grin lazily when I feel it sinking into my bones, pulling me under until there’s no hope to be free. I allow it to take over me.

Blissfully.

“Ryder,” I hear through a haze of wool stuffed in my ears. I wave the voice away like it’s an annoying insect and turn over, wanting to drift off again.

“Ryder!” The voice is louder and penetrates the fog of the drowsiness I was floating in. I sit up quickly and swing, my fist meeting soft flesh. A loud thump and a shout ring in my ears.

When I get my bearings, I look over to the floor and see Zed climbing to his feet, rubbing his reddened cheek.

I blink slowly, trying to make sense of why I’m in Zed’s bed. “Wha…” I glance around and realize that, no, I’m not in Zed’s bed. He’s in my room, and he’s not happy.

Grunting, I grab the empty liquor bottle, tossing it to the side in search of another. My head throbs, thumping in time with my frantic heartbeat. “What are you doing here?” I climb off the bed on my hands and knees and search for more booze or pills or…fucking anything.

Zed scoffs behind me. “Put some clothes on, Ryder. The show starts in fifteen minutes, and you already missed sound check.”

That’s unimportant right now. Nothing matters but stopping my head pounding and my mouth from being as dry as the fucking Sahara Desert. If I don’t get a fix, I’ll be sick, and that can’t happen before a show.

A heavy sigh greets my ears, but I don’t allow it to affect me. Zed sits heavily on the bed, the groans of the springs filling the room. “Ryder…look at yourself. You…you need some help.”

“No I don’t. I need vodka.” I find a bottle in my suitcase and open it quickly, chugging a quarter of it.

With a sigh, I sit down on the floor and pull out another bottle of pills.

Zed watches me with eyes filled with an emotion I fucking hate, so I look away and crack the pill bottle open. Since I have a show, I only pop two.

“Ryder. After the show, I’m going to get you some help.

I didn’t think you were this bad. All rock stars do a little coke here and there, have a joint to level them out.

But this.” He stands up and waves his hands around at my filthy room.

Clothes are spilling out of my suitcase, one of my guitars is leaning against the wall, a string broken when I tried to tune it and snapped it off, vodka and tequila bottles litter the floor, and baggies from the coke I scored yesterday are empty and strewn about.

My eyes pass over the mess I made, but I can’t take it in.

I’m fine . I don’t use that much. Last night was just a bad night, and I had to get thoughts of…

him …off my mind. “It’s no t that bad,” I say, struggling to rise from the floor.

“You could help me, you fucker,” I say, crawling back to the bed to push myself to my feet.

“I’m trying to help you. After this show, I’m calling the label and telling them we’re putting your next album on hold. You’ll check into a program and get clean.”

“I’m. Fine .”

“You’re not fucking fine!” he explodes, throwing his hands in the air.

“You’re not. You have another assault case.

The last one cost you a lot of fucking money!

That’s why we’re on this tour while you’re also trying to record an album!

Now we’re looking at another suit! You’re letting everyone down. ”

I scoff and stumble across the room. “You’re only saying that because you won’t get a fucking paycheck. You don’t care about me. You care about getting paid.” The leathers I had on last night are ruined, cum and pussy juice on the crotch from my first round with the groupie. “I need more pants.”

Zed scoffs. “Yeah, I like getting paid, but it’s not about the fucking money! It’s about you.” He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “We’re friends, Ryder. That means something to me. I should have seen it sooner, the signs that you’re slipping down the route of being…”

“Being what?”

He sighs, fear entering his eyes but resolve following up close behind. “An addict. You need help to overcome this problem. I’ll call the label in the morning to let them know you’ll be going to rehab.”

“The only call you’ll fucking make is to wardrobe to get me some more pants.

I ain’t entering no fucking program, so don’t mention it again.

” I walk over to Zed and get in his face.

He’s shorter than me by several inches and pudgier around the middle but a solid guy.

I could easily take him, though he’d probably give as good as he got.

He kicks his chin up and doesn’t back down.

“Take a shower and try to sober up. I’ll have some leathers for you.

We’ll be waiting in the lobby.” As he walks out the door, Zed pulls his phone from his pocket and barks into it, telling whoever is on the other end that we’ll be late and to have the mid-show entertainment to go on right after the opening act.

I take my time getting in the shower, carrying the fifth in my hand with me. I’m nowhere close to being drunk or high, but my head is blank, and I can function normally.

By the time I finish my shower—and over half of the vodka—I feel like I can do this show without incident.

Leather pants are waiting for me on the bed, along with a new vest that has Lana’s Mischief on the back.

It’s like a dam opened up from singing that song last night, and my mind shoots back to my stay in Washington State.

To my best friend and climbing through his window.

To sitting in his basement and strumming his guitar.

To his mother telling me that I’ll make it one day, realizing my talent before any other adult ever did.

A fucking boulder lodges in my throat, and hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.

“No,” I murmur to myself. “No…”

I look around, dropping the towel as I hurry around the room. My hands shake as I search for more pills or some coke or something . I trip over my feet as I reach for the vodka I placed on the bed, but in my haste, it overturns and spills out on the floor.

“Shit!” I shout, trying to grab it in my fumbling hands, but all I manage to do is topple the rest of the bottle over. When I finally have it in my trembling grasp, only a swallow or two is left.

I throw the bottle across the room into the wall, glass shattering everywhere.

I run my fingers through my wet hair, searching for something to blank my mind.

Before I can think better of it, I drop to my hands and knees, close to sucking the vodka from the carpet until I can get another fifth from a store or have Zed run out and re-up my stash.