Page 10 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

" R J don't stop, please..."

That voice, and the way I'm rocking into her is the only thing that keeps me sane these days.

The medicine doesn't work like it used to, and the way Grey Skies has rocketed to the top of the rock charts has really thrown me off.

Routine has been a big part of what's been able to keep me level, and with us touring, it's taken me off that routine.

"Feel good?" I mumble, running my mouth up Montgomery's neck, closing my teeth down on her earlobe.

It drives her nuts, and I growl when I feel the tips of her nails against my back.

"Yes, RJ. Fuck me harder," she whines.

I give her exactly what she wants, losing myself in the rhythm of her body beneath mine, the way she gasps my name like a prayer.

This is the only time my mind goes quiet anymore – when I'm buried deep inside her, when her legs are wrapped around my waist and she's looking at me like I'm everything she's ever wanted.

The hotel room is dim, just the city lights filtering through the curtains, casting shadows across her skin. She's so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache. Her blonde hair is spread across the pillow, her lips parted and swollen from my kisses, her blue eyes dark with need.

"God, Montgomery," I breathe against her throat, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips. "You're perfect."

She arches beneath me, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me groan. "RJ, I'm so close..."

I can feel it too, the way her body is tightening around me, the way her breathing is getting more erratic.

I shift my angle slightly, hitting that spot that makes her cry out, and she falls apart beneath me with my name on her lips.

Since the first night we spent together, she's blown my mind in every single way.

Watching her come undone pushes me over the edge, and I follow her with a groan that comes from somewhere deep in my chest. For a moment, the constant noise in my head goes completely silent, and there's nothing but this – her warm body against mine, her fingers tracing patterns on my back, the sound of our breathing slowly returning to normal.

I roll to the side, pulling her with me so she's curled against my chest. Her skin is flushed and damp with sweat, and she looks satisfied in a way that makes something primal in me purr with satisfaction.

"That was..." she starts, then trails off with a contented sigh.

"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It was. It always is with us."

We lie there in comfortable silence for a while, her fingers drawing lazy circles on my chest. I can feel her starting to relax, her breathing getting deeper and more even.

This is usually my favorite part – the aftermath, when she's soft and pliant in my arms, when the world outside this room doesn't exist.

But tonight, I can already feel my mind starting to rev up again. The quiet that comes after sex never lasts as long as it used to, and lately it's been getting shorter and shorter.

"RJ?" Montgomery's voice is sleepy, muffled against my chest.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

The words hit me like they always do – with a mixture of happiness and complete terror. She says it so easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And maybe for her it is. Montgomery has always been better at emotions than me, better at accepting love and giving it freely.

"I love you too," I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, the only person who's ever seen all my broken pieces and didn't let it push her away.

She hums contentedly and presses a soft kiss to my chest before settling back down.

Within minutes, her breathing evens out completely and I know she's asleep.

It's always been like this – Montgomery can fall asleep anywhere, anytime.

She says it's because she feels safe with me, and the trust in that statement never fails to humble me.

But sleep doesn't come for me. It never does anymore.

I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling and trying to quiet my racing thoughts.

My mind jumps from the show tomorrow night to the new song I've been trying to write to the interview we have scheduled next week to the way Montgomery looked when she came apart beneath me to whether I remembered to call my mom back to the lyrics that are just out of reach to the fact that I can't fucking sleep again.

This is exactly how it was when I was sixteen, before I got diagnosed. The endless nights staring at the ceiling, my brain refusing to shut off no matter how exhausted my body was. Back then, the fighting helped. Now I have other outlets, but they're not working like they used to.

The Adderall helps during the day, mostly. It lets me focus on the music, on performing, on being the version of myself that everyone expects to see. But at night, when everything goes quiet, my mind takes off like a rocket and there's nothing I can do to slow it down.

I carefully extract myself from Montgomery's arms, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly but doesn't open her eyes, just burrows deeper into the pillows with a soft sigh. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and grab my acoustic guitar from the corner of the room.

The living area of our hotel suite is dark and quiet. I settle onto the couch with my guitar and the notebook where I've been scribbling lyrics, hoping that maybe tonight will be different. Maybe tonight the words will come.

But they don't.

I sit there for an hour, playing random chord progressions and waiting for inspiration to strike.

Usually, when I can't sleep, the music flows out of me like water.

It's my brain's way of processing everything I can't say out loud, at least that's what I like to think.

But tonight, there's nothing. Just empty space where the songs should be.

The frustration builds in my chest, that familiar anger that comes when my body and mind refuse to cooperate.

I've been taking my Adderall exactly like I'm supposed to – one pill in the morning, every day.

I've always been cautioned about what happens if I use it in ways I'm not supposed to.

I've never thought about it before. But it's not working like it should.

The focus that it used to give me is shorter, less reliable. The racing thoughts are coming back.

I flip my phone over and check the time.

It's three in the morning, which means I should take my medication in about five hours.

But what if I took it now? What if I took an extra one?

Just this once. It's not like it would hurt anything.

It's my prescription, my medication. And if it helps me write, if it helps me be productive instead of sitting here feeling like my skin is crawling with restless energy, then what's the harm?

I hate feeling like I'm a waste of space, and that's exactly how I feel right now.

I go to the bathroom and shake out two pills instead of one. The extra pill sits in my palm for a moment while I stare at it. This isn't a big deal. People adjust their medication all the time. And it's not like I'm taking something I'm not supposed to take – it's literally prescribed to me.

I swallow both pills and go back to the couch.

Within an hour, everything changes.

The fog that's been clouding my thoughts for weeks suddenly lifts, and I can see clearly for the first time in months. The guitar feels like an extension of my body, and the words start flowing out of me so fast I can barely keep up.

The first song is about being on the road, about the loneliness that comes with fame and the way it feels to be surrounded by thousands of people who love you but don't really know you. The melody is haunting, and I know without a doubt that it's some of the best work I've ever done.

The second song is faster, angrier. It's about the pressure of success, about the way everyone expects you to be grateful for everything you have even when it feels like it's crushing you. The guitars are going to be brutal on this one, and I can already hear EJ's voice soaring over the chorus.

The third song is about Montgomery. About loving someone so much it scares you, about being afraid that your broken pieces will cut them if they get too close.

It's raw and honest in a way that makes my chest tight, but it's hopeful too.

It's about falling in love with your best friend, and being scared that if it ends, you'll lose not only the love, but the friendship too.

I'm so deep in the creative zone that I don't hear Montgomery get up. I don't notice her padding out to the living room until she speaks.

"RJ? What time is it?"

I look up from my notebook, blinking in surprise. The room is brighter now – not full daylight, but the gray light of early morning. "I... what?"

"It's almost eight," she says, settling onto the couch next to me. Her hair is messy from sleep and she's wearing one of my t-shirts that hangs to her thighs. She looks beautiful and concerned. "Have you been up all night?"

"I couldn't sleep," I tell her, which is true. But I keep the rest of it from her. The fact that I took an extra pill. It's significant, but I can't tell her. If I put it into words, then I have to admit what I've done. "So I figured I'd work on some songs."

She picks up my notebook and flips through the pages, her eyes widening as she reads. "RJ, these are incredible. How many did you write?"

"Three," I say, and I can hear the excitement in my own voice. I feel amazing, like I could conquer the world. The songs are good – really good – and ideas for more are already forming in my head. "I think they might be some of the best I've ever written."

"They are," she agrees, but there's something in her tone that makes me look at her more carefully. "Babe, are you okay? You seem... I don't know. Wired."

Shit. I need to calm down, need to act normal. The last thing I want is for Montgomery to worry about me. She's been through enough with my mental health struggles over the years. With her dad, and his addiction problems.

"I'm fine," I say, forcing myself to speak slower, to modulate my tone. "Just excited about the songs. You know how I get when the music is flowing."

She studies my face for a moment, and I try to look casual, relaxed. "When's the last time you slept? Really slept?"

"I sleep," I lie. "Maybe not as much as I should, but I sleep."

"RJ..." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

For a moment, I consider telling her the truth.

About the sleepless nights, about the way my medication doesn't seem to be working anymore, about the extra pill I took.

But then I look at her face, at the concern already etched there, and I can't do it.

She has enough to worry about with her own career taking off.

She doesn't need to add my problems to her list.

"I'm fine, babe," I say again, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Really. Just had a burst of creativity. It happens sometimes. You know that."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she doesn't push it either. Instead, she curls up against my side and reads through the songs again.

"This one about me," she says softly, pointing to the third song. "It's beautiful."

"You inspire me," I tell her, which is absolutely true. Dropping a kiss to her forehead, I smile. "You always have."

"I love you," she says, echoing her words from last night.

"I love you too."

But even as I say it, even as I hold her close and try to act normal, I can feel the extra Adderall coursing through my system.

My heart is beating a little too fast, my thoughts are a little too sharp, and underneath the euphoria of the productive night, there's a small voice in my head warning me I shouldn't have done that. That it's a slippery slope.

I ignore the voice. I wrote three incredible songs in one night. My mind is clear and focused for the first time in months. How can that be a bad thing?

"Are you hungry?" Montgomery asks. "We could order room service."

"Sure," I say, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn slightly. Another side effect I remember from when I first started taking Adderall as a teenager. Guess because I just upped the dose, it's going to do the same thing again. "You order whatever you want. I'm not really hungry."

She gives me another look, but picks up the phone to call room service.

While she's ordering, I flip through my notebook, reading over the songs I wrote.

They really are good – maybe the best work I've ever done.

And if taking an extra pill helped me access this level of creativity, then maybe it's worth exploring.

Just occasionally. Just when I really need the extra focus.

What could go wrong?