Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I turn to Cain, watching him light a joint and take a hit. Not all of us Nar-Anon kids are straight edge. Lars was. Guess having your crackhead mom burn up your entire right arm is the best anti-drug advertisement any kid can be exposed to.
I frown. “How could you let him do this?”
Cain’s laugh is empty. Without saying a word, he walks past me toward Lars. “I wasn’t responsible for my mother’s addiction, and I’m sure as fuck not responsible for his. That guilt trip shit doesn’t work on me.”
I rush after him, taking two strides to each of his. Why does he have to be so tall? We reach Lars. His head is down as he repeats the same chords on the scratched-up guitar.
“What’s she doing here?” Lars slurs. “What do you want, Billie?”
He doesn’t look at me. That hurts. Especially since he was proselytizing his undying love for me two weeks ago.
“Cain brought me.”
Lar’s eyes are focused on his guitar. His fingertips leave red streaks as he picks at the strings. I expect him to say something. I don’t care if he yells. At this point, I’d even appreciate a punch to my face. But all he does is gaze into the void as he strums the opening chords of “Stairway to Heaven.”
Instead of singing the lyrics, Lars turns to me. His golden-brown eyes, usually so vibrant, now appear dull. “You should go, Billie. You never belonged here.”
My hand springs to my cheek as I wipe away the moisture. I didn’t even notice the tears falling down my face. I was too focused on the sharp cruelty of Lars’ words.
You never belonged here.
“Really, Lars? That’s how it’s going to be? Suddenly I don’t belong because my junkie mom liked her drugs in pill form instead of from a needle?” I jump at the clang of the guitar hitting the wooden boardwalk, holding my ground as Lars steps forward. “You think you’re the only one in pain? You think you’re the only one who loves him?”
“Loved. You can’t use present tense when talking about the dead,” he spits the words as he takes another step toward me. He’s so close that I can feel the heat of his body and his breath on my skin. Lars bends to pick up the bottle of Jim Beam, taking a swig. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. We can all go back to our lives. You, to your fancy school. Cain and me drowning in this shit town until we join Trevor in our graves.”
“So that’s it? We’re over?”
“We’ve been over for weeks, Billie,” Cain says. “We ended when Trevor died.”
“Guess forever meant nothing to you both.”
Lars grabs my chin, and I wince as he presses his fingers into my skin, holding my face still. “It was supposed to be four of us, not three. We don’t work without him. Without him, we’re just missing puzzle pieces.”
Lars brings his lips close to mine, and my eyes instinctively flutter closed. Messed-up anticipation swirls in my mind, and lust churns in my stomach.
Lars screams before shoving me and walking away. “Live your life, Billie. There’s nothing left for you here.”
I turn to Cain. He takes another hit from the joint, avoiding my gaze. “He’s right.” He jumps up and nods toward his bike. “I’ll take you home.”
The universe made me fall in love with three men in different ways. The one who became my family died, and the two who lit my soul on fire want nothing to do with me. The universe is a sonofabitch.
I brush the tears that won’t stop falling from my cheeks and try to control my shaking voice. “I’ll find my own way home.”
1
Cain
Glass shatters on the wall. Seems like things never change. The only difference is that it was a bottle of Jim Beam ten years ago, and now it’s a five-hundred-dollar single malt.
“She’s not going on tour with us,” Lars growls. “I don’t give a fuck that she’s Vinyl’s best reporter. Find someone else. Wasn’t she supposed to become a do-gooder addiction counselor type of shit job?”
I turn to our manager. “Find someone else, Kaye.”
Kaye throws her hands in the air and paces the tour bus. “She’s interviewed the biggest musicians in the world. Her bylines get more hits than any other music journalist in the world. You want to fuck up your career because you had some puppy love bullshit when you were in your teens?” She stops moving and stares at us. “This is the big time. After the Grammys, everyone wants a piece. Besides, she doesn’t need to know who you are. Those gas masks you all wear give you anonymity.”
“She’ll catch on once she’s touring with us on the bus. We don’t sleep in masks,” Lars says. His hands shake as he grips a bottle of whiskey.