Page 9

My lips are inches from the floor when my eyes catch on a cellophane baggie just under the bed. I scoop it up quickly, relief flooding me when I see the white substance at the bottom. I empty it into my nose, sniffing in deeply to get right.

I drop back on my knees, blowing out a long breath as the high flows through me. My limbs aren’t as tight, and my heart doesn’t clench behind my ribcage. The familiar floaty feeling is back, the torment of my past chased away, the wave of unease that coursed through me only moments ago receding.

I slide my fingers into the bag and collect the remaining powder and coat my gums, making them tingle before they go numb.

Banging sounds at my door, and Mitch shouts, “Let’s go, Ryder. We’re soooo fucking late. Don’t want to lose money by giving refunds.”

My mouth is slow to form words, and I have to push through the dense cloud of my high to say, “Almost ready.”

I stand on shaky legs, tottering to the side with every step. It’s like the entire room is quaking, threatening to take me back to the floor. I barely manage to pull my pants and vest on. My boots with all the buckles are a bitch to fasten, my fingers clumsy on the ties and clasps.

My eyeliner is smudged more than usual, and I’m not sure if it gives me a more grunge aesthetic or if I look as high as I feel.

I stare at myself in the mirror when I drop the lining pencil in the sink. I can barely bring myself into focus. Everything blurs together. I gently raise my fingers to the mirror, rubbing down my reflected visage.

Anger courses through me as what Zed says runs over and over through my head. I’m not a fucking addict. I just need something to make the thoughts and memories go away. I only use enough to forget.

The hollowness of my cheeks and my dead eyes stare back at me, taunting me, making Zed’s words ring true.

With a shout, I punch the mirror, not wanting to see myself anymore. Blood drips down my hand, but I don’t pay it any attention as I saunter out of the room, pushing past Mitch.

He stumbles beside me, and I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. “You don’t look so hot. And Jesus, your hand. How will you play?”

I peer down at it as if from far away. Glass shards are embedded in my knuckles, but I don’t feel them. I don’t feel anything.

S haking off my hand—droplets of blood flying everywhere, some getting on my bare chest—I say, “I’m good. Doesn’t hurt.”

He scoffs but reaches into his pocket, pulls out a napkin that he has for who knows why the fuck, and presses it into my hand.

“At least stem the bleeding.” I grunt but do what he says, tossing the napkin away when it’s soiled, and I reach for another.

He passes me a bandana, and I wrap it around my knuckles.

The ride to the concert venue is short, but my stomach roils the entire time. I grab a bottle of tequila from a cupboard on our tour bus and drain it, tossing the bottle on the floor when I’m done. It does nothing to calm the storm in my belly.

Fuck it, whatever. The show will only last an hour or two. I can push through for that long, then go back to the hotel to get some sleep.

I’m shaken out of my stupor by Zed, who has a scowl on his face. “You can’t go on like this,” he says, grabbing my chin and turning my head side to side. “Jesus, Ryder. How much did you take?”

I bat his hand away then push him across the aisle of the bus. “Get the fuck off me, man. I’m good. Let’s fucking go.”

His hands on me make my skin crawl, and I have to shake myself to get the feeling from my limbs. That does nothing to stop the sloshing in my head.

Walking into the building with all the noise and people bustling about makes me want to slap my hands over my ears and turn around, to say fuck this show. It’s too loud, too bright, too busy .

But I push forward, avoiding even brushing up against people, or I might vomit. Every step closer to the stage seems to take an eternity, like I’m walking through quicksand.

My legs threaten to buckle at any moment, but I square my shoulders and make my way to the stage. The lights are too bright, and the crowd is too loud, but that’s normal. As soon as I get out there, I’ll get used to it, and I’ll survive.

I always do.

The backing music for “Prayers for Me” come on, and the crowd goes wild.

Mitch pats me on the back with a wide grin on his face as he brushes past me to sit at his drum set.

He twirls his sticks before he picks up the beat of the music playing.

Kas strums his guitar and walks out onto the stage to loud applause.

Softly, he sings the chorus of the song over the backing track.

Then it’s my turn.

When the spotlight lands on me, raucous cheers greet me. My stomach lurches as I stumble out, my fingers unable to catch the strings of my Fender. The fucking handkerchief is in the way, but I’m probably still bleeding, so I leave it on.

Once I’m standing at the mic, I grab it, leaning heavily on the spindly stand. “Sorry we’re late,” I slur as I look around at those assembled. They all blur together, colors and faces clashing in my muddled brain.

“We’re…we’re…”

My stomach lurches violently, and bile rises in my throat. There’s no way I can hold it back.

Turning to the side, I vomit, my eyes bulging with the force of it. I can’t seem to stop, dropping to my knees, my palms landing in my mess.

When my stomach is empty, I attempt to stand, but I can’t rise to my feet.

Hands grab at me, but I push them away, wanting to do this on my own.

I don’t want strangers touching me right now.

My past and present are clashing violently, and I can’t distinguish the touch of those that want to help and the person that hurt me.

Getting to my feet, I stumble a few steps, then my knees buckle, and the ground comes rushing up toward me. There’s no pain as my face hits the stage, and then my world goes black.