STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (2 page)

“Baby, it’s not what you think. I swear to you, Wills, it isn’t.” I have no clue if that’s the truth.

“Save it, Stone. I heard you loud and clear last night. You’re not made for one woman. I was stupid to think that you were. Can you please just give me the key so I don’t miss my flight?” Her voice is laced with the anger and pain that she’s feeling, that we’re both feeling.

“Will—”

“Please!” she cries out, stomping her foot. I’ve never seen her this way. So emotional yet detached at the same time.

The blonde still standing there, watching it all.

I shake my head, imploring her with my eyes, since my words don’t mean anything right now, begging for her to not do this. Taking in a painful breath, I pull out my wallet and take out the room key.

Handing it over to her, I try one more time.

“Willow, please don’t leave. Not like this,” I plead with her.

She takes the key card from me with a trembling hand, careful not to touch me when she does.

“I’ll be out of the house by the time you get back into town. I’ll leave my keys over at the studio with Addy,” she says, looking right through me.

She flicks a glance over at the girl who still hasn’t moved and then back to me.

“You got what you wanted, Stone. You’re single and free to do whatever and whoever you want without having to worry about sneaking around. Don’t keep her waiting—she looks like a sure thing.”

With that little parting remark, I watch the woman of my dreams walk away and out of my life. There isn’t enough music in the world that could make the pain of losing her go away. This isn’t where our song ends; I won’t let it. Only I’m not sure I have much of a choice. And just like that, my heart stops beating in rhythm.

Stone

I RAISE MY FIST TO
pound on the door again when it flies open. Judge stands with a phone to his ear and gestures me into the suite that he’s sharing with Lawson. Squeezing by him, I toss my duffel onto the floor and drop down next to Law on the couch. He gives me a high five and puts a finger to his lips to indicate we need to stay quiet while Judge handles whatever on the phone. I nod in understanding and drop my head back and close my eyes, my head heavy from the pills I just took but my mind feeling light. Free. This fucking tour has lasted forever. The longest eight months of my fucking life and I’m ready to be done with it. Ready to be home with Wills.

I’m jostled by an elbow in the ribs. “Yo. What the fuck, man?” My eyes bounce around a little, my vision dancing before focusing on Law.

“You high, Stone?” he asks, concern evident in his tone.

“No. Just tired.” The lie slips from my lips effortlessly. I’m so used to it now. They need to stop riding my ass. Watching me and asking every five fucking minutes if I’m using. I make every show, sing the songs, never miss a beat, so what it matters, I don’t fucking know. His eyes narrow, assessing me, trying to decide if I’m lying. Judge breaks our stare down.

“What’s with the duffel?”

I pull a cigarette out and light it, taking a drag before answering “I’m going home. Willow’s gonna be pissed that I haven’t been home yet. She hates being there alone.”

Law opens his mouth to say something when there’s a knock at the door. Blowing smoke rings, I watch Judge go and let whoever it is in. I’m not sure who called a band meeting, but we’re all here. Arrow enters the suite with chin lifts in greeting.

“You look like shit, man,” Arrow informs me, as he folds his lanky build onto the love seat across from me.

“You’re a real sweet talker, you know that?” Flicking ashes into the empty beer bottle on the table next to me, I watch him eyeball me just like Law did.

“Stone is going home . . . to Willow,” Judge informs them.

Ro’s head swings in Judge’s direction and then back to me. “Willow is home?” The disbelief in his voice pisses me off.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t she be? She’s pissed at me, but it’s Wills. She’ll be there.” Rising from my seat, I go to the bar and fill a glass with ice, cracking open the bottle of Johnnie Walker that Judge always requests in each of our rooms. Mine was missing this trip. It didn’t go unnoticed. I’m glad his is still full. Once I’ve drained the glass I refill it, taking it back to the couch with me. The warmth of the smooth liquor mixing with the relaxing effects of the Oxy I popped before coming down here, and I feel good. Numb. Until I look up and see them all watching me, their looks a mix between disgust, pity, shock, and trepidation.

“What? Why the fuck are you all staring at me?” I bellow. “Always fucking watching me. I’m sick of it.” Shaking my head, I take my seat, careful not to spill my drink as I fall back into the supple leather, my legs stretched out in front of me.

Ignoring my question, Ro speaks up. “Bro, she left more than eight months ago, dropped her keys off at the studio with Addy, and none of us have talked to her since. We even hired a PI who can’t find Willow,” he says carefully. “Have you heard from her at all? Has there been new news from the guy Addy hired?”

“No. I’m positive she’s there though. Where the fuck is she gonna go, Ro? This is my Wills; she wouldn’t just quit me. Her aunt’s dead; we’re her only family. She didn’t leave,” I tell him in exasperation.

“She didn’t just ‘quit’ you, Stone. You pushed too fucking far and forced her out,” he spits out. He’s still mad at me for Willow leaving. He hasn’t said it, but I know he is. His soft spot for her a little more than brotherly I think, and it’s really starting to piss me the fuck off.

“You don’t know shit, Arrow. Wills is at home. You’ll see.” I’m sure of it. She has to be.

“Stone, bro, maybe it’s time to get some help. Judge and I will set it all up, and I’ll do all that I can to fin—”

I interrupt Law and shoot to my feet, “I don’t need help with anything. Not with Wills, or anything else.” Slamming back my drink I put the glass down and scoop up my bag. “I’ll be in Austin if you need me. If not, I’ll see you in a couple weeks when we head back out.” Without another word I stalk out of the room past all of their condemning fucking looks and slam the door behind me. The walls rattling from the ferocity. Fuck them.

The car comes to a stop in front of my house at the end of Comanche Trail. Dane, my bodyguard, turns from the passenger seat. “You gonna be okay, Stone? I can stay here tonight if you want.”

Reaching for the handle with a trembling hand, I shake my head no. I just want to get inside, get my hands on Willow, and get out from under the prying eyes of Dane so that I can find my stash and pop an Oxy, maybe two, and just chill with my girl. I’d love a fucking line right now, but that’ll have to wait ’til later when my contact here in town drops some off. Can’t fly with that shit and can’t make any stops on the way home because Dane would lose his fucking mind, so I made arrangements.

“Nah. I’m good. Just gonna
Netflix and chill
with Wills, don’t need you around for that,” I tell him with a smirk as I step from the vehicle.

“Stone, Willo—”

“Is here.” My voice holds more confidence than I feel, but I’m all about if you believe it, it will be. And I need it to be.

I slam the door before he can say anything else and throw my hand up in a wave as I make my way up to the front door. Sliding my key into the lock, I rush into the eerie quiet of the house, the only sound the beeping of the alarm as I go to the wall to disable it. Duffel dropped at my feet, I place my guitar case down and step over it and walk into the kitchen. No Willow. From there I head into the living room, noticing that there’s a picture missing from the mantel, and no Willow. Bounding up the spiral staircase I crash into our bedroom and throw on the lights. My heart frantic, my gaze touching on everything, but seeing only the things that are missing. No book on her nightstand, no jewelry on the dresser, no picture of her parents, no music journal. Stalking to the dresser I start yanking open drawers leaving them hanging haphazardly. No panties, no shirts, no pajamas. There’s a roaring in my ears that has me unable to hear a fucking thing other than my out-of-rhythm heartbeat as I rip open the door to the bathroom. No perfume, no lotion, no brush. I move to her closet. No dresses, no pants, no shoes. No. Willow. No fucking Willow.

“No. No. No. NO!” My yells echo around the bathroom, ricocheting in all of the empty spaces and bouncing back to slap me in the face. “No.”

Determined to find her, I dash out of the room and barrel down the stairs into the basement studio and wrench open the heavy door. No custom-made Martin, just an empty stand. No laptop. Just a music-less room. No Willow. With my chest heaving, struggling to get my mind right, I slide onto the piano bench, placing my forehead to the cool, polished wood. Finally, I admit to myself what I’d already known. What I knew the moment I called and the phone was disconnected. What deep down I’d known from the moment I watched her walk away but denied because who the fuck was I without her? Willow was gone. She’d left me. And there was not one single person I could blame other than myself. Raising my head, my gaze lands on the framed picture that she put on the piano in every place we’d ever lived in. The picture that was left behind. The picture of us on the red carpet for the very first time. Our hands are locked and Willow beams up at me in pride, her smile so beautiful, the happiness radiating through the photo. And me, looking down into her upturned face, love and need reflected in my gaze, in the way I touched her. Her favorite picture, and she left it . . . and me.

Snatching the picture up I exit the studio and head upstairs, grabbing a bottle of too-expensive whiskey from the pantry as well as the bottle of Oxy I had stashed in the medicine cabinet of the guest bathroom. I try not to look around me, pretending like there aren’t any voids in the room. That I’m not missing anything, as I snag my guitar and collapse onto the couch. The picture in my hand feels like lead. I place it on the coffee table in front of me, sitting back I stare at it, willing Willow to walk out of it and into my arms. How the fuck was she gonna leave me? After all that we’ve been through, she fucking left me? Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I try calling her again, but again I get the same detached voice telling me that the number has been disconnected. “Son of a bitch!” I roar as I whip the phone at the exposed brick wall of the living room, watching as it shatters into a million fucking glittery pieces. With fumbling hands, I pop open the top on the pills, spilling a few of them onto the hand-scraped wood table and using the bottom of my whiskey bottle to crush them into a fine powder. From my wallet I pull out a credit card and arrange the crushed up pills into even little lines, not caring that I’m losing so much of the precious powder in the grooves and valleys of the rough wood. Tossing the card aside, I reach into the hidden pocket and wiggle out the little aluminum straw nestled there. Head bent over the table I blow through all four rails of Oxy, one after another, relishing the burn that comes just before the numbing fog.

“How you gonna do me like that, Wills?” I ask the empty room. The empty house. The empty fucking life I’m suddenly living in. Whiskey in one hand, I reach for the picture I’d brought upstairs. My vision is blurred but I don’t need to see to remember what Willow looked like in it. How beautiful her dress had been, her hair, her smile. I don’t need to see to remember us winning our first award and her showing me just how proud of me she had been. I remember all of that. The way she tasted that night in the back of the limo, and every day after. I don’t need to see shit to remember how she likes to be touched. The soft smell of her skin. All of that is ingrained on my soul. I don’t need to see . . . what I can no longer see.

Mind racing, trying to recall every little thing Willow, I take a long pull from the bottle in my hand. Liquid fire hits my stomach; I welcome it. I need it to forget. The part of me needing to let her memory go has me tipping back the whiskey once again, but it doesn’t make her go away quick enough. So I take another swig and then another ’til there’s only a swallow left. Limbs heavy, eyes shaky, I can still see her, hear her. With fingers that feel disconnected from the rest of me, I dig out three pills and toss them in my mouth, crunching them between my molars and shuddering from the bitter taste. Washing it away with the last drops of whiskey.