Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
On what planet was music supposed to be fun? He sounded like MTV after the Suits killed it and made it a reality TV channel for pimply teenagers. Music is supposed to be overwhelming and defeating and bone-crushingly moving.
So I punched him. Now he hates me. Which begs the eternal question—what the fuck?
“The Botox clinic is down the road.” I gathered phlegm in my throat and spat it on the ground. My back still felt naked and too light without Tania. How the hell was I going to face rehab without her?
“Ha-ha. I’m here for you.” He shifted a little and kicked a rock that clashed against my boot.
“Yay me,” I said flatly, putting a fag in my mouth and lighting up. “What do you want?”
“My sponsor says I owe you an apology.”
“You have a sponsor? What did you get addicted to, eyelash extensions?”
“Always the funny guy, Winslow. And, yeah. I was. It…was…heroin.”
I did not expect to hear that. Didn’t matter, though. This entire city was built on powder and coats upon coats of makeup. Nothing surprised me anymore, other than the sheer surprise of finding someone who still had their soul intact, like Indie. I tapped my cigarette with my finger, looking sideways. Where’s that cab?
“Apology accepted,” I said.
“You don’t know what I’m apologizing for,” he countered, sticking his head between the bars of the gate like a dumb puppy. As if that wasn’t enough, his eyes were sad. His malnourished body and too shiny hair and veneer teeth depressed me, and I wondered if I looked the same. Perfectly pathetic.
“What are you apologizing for?” Seriously, where was that cab?
“Hey, did someone beat you up?” He squinted at the blue and purple staining my face, then rattled the gate like a prisoner. I halted for a moment before opening the gateway and letting him in. Perhaps I was the one who’d had his arse kicked, but he was the one looking pitiful.
“None of your business.”
“You look rough, man.” He stepped inside the premises.
“Well, let’s just say Karma is a nasty bitch, and her brother, Fate, is not much better,” I muttered.
“Anyway.” He ran his fingers through his sunshine hair. It was obvious we were making conversation—maybe even an important conversation—but we were both locked inside our worlds. “The alcohol you had sent to your rooms…that was me. I hated you, Winslow. Still do. You humiliated me in front of the entire world and made me look like a pussy. Getting back at you was almost easy. Hotel staff would do anything for money. But, it was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
I finally stepped out of my own head, from my misery and doubt and worry over everything Stardust-related, to attend the shitshow in front of me. I turned around to face him.
“You sent the alcohol?” My head was pounding. I’d been so certain it was Will. Turned out, it wasn’t his doing, either. So what was Will responsible for, really, in terms of ruining my life? Just for taking Fallon. And even that had been a huge favor.
“I did. I wanted you to relapse.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “I wanted you sad. Like me.”
“You little…”
The cab arrived just then, the driver honking outside of the gate. I grabbed my duffel bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Fuck you.” I shoved my index finger to his chest, then left.
“Alex…” he called after me.
I would forgive him, later. Not today.
I rang Blake on my way to the airport, knowing he’d fill Alfie and Lucas in.
“We should probably report him to the police,” Blake said. “That’s what he did to you.”
“Nah. I’m better than the shithead,” I said, and at that time, it wasn’t true yet. But I knew I needed to be better than him, and better than most people, to redeem myself.
So I did.
The second time in rehab was different. I knew it was different because this time, I paid attention. Not that I’d had any reason not to give it an honest shot the first time around. I was simply too self-absorbed and full of words like ‘integrity’ and ‘artistic process’ and ‘Iggy Pop.’ The first time I’d had absolutely nothing to distract me. My last album had flopped harder than a Lindsey Lohan movie, Fallon was with Will, Blake and Jenna were putting out all of the fires I’d left behind, and all I’d been asked—literally, the only thing I was expected to do—was to come out of there in one piece.
This time, I had a huge album in my hands, my greatest masterpiece, waiting to be produced and released, and I just had to sit on it. I had a girl to win—Stardust—and the uncertainty of second-guessing whether she’d even hear me out consumed every millisecond of my day. Still, I knew rehab was important.