STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (26 page)

“I just wanted to make sure you were aware that this bottle is thirty-five hundred dollars before I pour you a glass,” he hedges. I can see his mind working, trying to verify that it’s really me, but with the glasses I’ve taken to wearing around here, it throws people off.

“Yeah, I know how much it costs. I gave you my card. Just charge me so I can have the bottle and we can stop talking.” The last word leaves my mouth and I go right back to staring at the bar and tunneling my fingers through my hair. I should’ve just bought a fucking bottle at the liquor store and taken it back to the house. At least I would be drinking right now. Nah, that’s a lie. Lawson would have me at a meeting quicker than I could pour two fingers worth of bliss into the glass. The manager obviously heard the irritation in my voice and is a smart man to not push any further.

I hold my breath when I hear the seal on the bottle crack.

Exhale when the first splash of whiskey falls into the glass.

Squeeze my eyes tightly shut when the tumbler is placed in front of me.

The scent of the decades old whiskey wafting up at me, calling to me, seducing me like a siren of the sea singing to a lost sailor. That’s me. A lost soul adrift on a sea intent on dragging me down to its darkest depths. Drowning me in a hell of my own making.

I can feel the manager’s eyes on me still, so I nod in thanks, praying to fuck that it’s enough for him. I need out from under his scrutiny. He slides my credit card and ID across the bar, placing them next to the open bottle and taps a finger on the plastic stack.

“You’re gonna want to put that away, eh. All it takes is one nosey drunk to get a look at it and see who you really are. You’ll have the paparazzi here before you know it and something tells me you’re not ready for all that.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just shuffles off leaving me alone, just like I’d hoped. Only now I have no one to focus on. Just me. Just my demons and I. Once again. I’m tense, my muscles wound tight in anticipation of that first sip. Alcohol wasn’t my real problem, the drugs were. But too much liquor and next thing I know, I’m an eight ball deep at some fucking party, some random chick with her hand down a rock star’s pants. It’s then that I’m on top of the world only to come crashing down and realize that feeling of euphoria was a ruse. Bullshit, because that’s when Willow hated me most. Then I hated myself because I never remembered any of it except that killer fucking high. I would spend all day trying my best to make it up to her, only to fall victim to that high all over again. It became a vicious, vicious fucking circle. Then it all fell to shit the day I finally admitted to myself she wasn’t waiting at home for me. I sat there and contemplated life and what’s important, what isn’t and how I can’t live life without Birdie. When is high high enough? The answer is never. In the moment I’ve never felt too high. That’s how I found myself in the hospital, tied to a fucking bed after being out for days. Rehab was my only option after that. I was trading my illusion of nirvana for Paradise. Paradise Rehabilitation Center: for those who seek privacy on their journey to wellness. Basically rehab for the fucking stars and I was about to piss it all away. All I’d worked so hard for.

“You want anything else?” The bartender materializes in my peripheral, her tits on display, suggestion in her voice. She’s turned up the “sexy” now that she knows who I am. Without glancing her way, I shake my head no. I’ve been celibate as long as I’ve been sober. Longer. Maybe I should throw it all away in the same day, just like I did Willow. Fuck it. Not like I’m gonna get her back now anyway. Raising my head and looking at the pretty blonde for the first time since I arrived, I know it won’t happen. She’s not what I want. Who I want. Her short, blonde hair is not the long, chocolate strands shot through with caramel that I want wrapped around my fist, falling in a curtain around me as she rides me. The brown eyes watching me aren’t the whiskey-colored pools I’ve written songs about. Her voice isn’t that soft melodic one that calms all of my demons. Nothing about this girl is right. Nothing about her is Willow.

I’m about to answer when the manager calls out sternly, “Ash, your shift is over. I have him.”

She pouts petulantly and saunters away, but not before leaving her number on a napkin along with a smudge of peach lipstick. I nod my head at him in thanks and wrap my hands around the glass. My hands warm instantly. Like this little tumbler holds all the magic in the fucking world. Tilting the glass, I watch as the amber liquid swishes around, coming close to the edge before I tilt it the other way. Around and around. Side to side. Never taking my eyes off of the waves I’m creating. Slowly I place the drink back onto the scuffed bar top. The only thing stopping me from tossing it back and letting the smooth heat of it burn as it goes down is the thought of what Willow must have gone through. What she’s been going through. I think back on all the times I’ve seen her in The Dirty Bird, all the times she turned down drinks from anyone other than Bear or his wife. Her not drinking anymore. Going back to school for a degree in Music Therapy. It all makes sense to me now. I don’t deserve to crawl into the bottom of a bottle. Drown all of my thoughts, all the pain and fucked up shit that keeps going through my mind. I deserve to feel every ounce of the hurt. Live the anguish. Why the fuck am I so special that I get to drink it all away? Abruptly I stand, nearly knocking the stool over. The manager looks over, eyebrows raised in question. Holding up the unlit cigarette, I jerk my chin to the door, signaling that I’m going outside for a smoke. He nods in understanding and I slip out into the cool evening.

As soon as I step through the door, my glasses fog up. I’m not sure when it got so fucking cold out, but it did. Lighting up, I tug my beanie out of my pocket and pull it on. With the cigarette dangling from my lips, I tuck the longer strands of my hair under my cap and pocket the glasses. My gaze lowered, I look at the toe of my boots and inhale deeply. The nicotine makes me feel light-headed, the only high I’ve allowed in so long. Flicking the ashes over and over, I pace, prowling like a caged lion. I have no fucking idea what to do with myself, only that the restlessness is almost as bad as it was when I was detoxing. Then I wanted to tear my skin off because I needed to score, now I want to tear it off out of anger and rage for what I’ve done. All the mistakes I’ve made. Snubbing the cigarette out, I immediately light another one, pacing and smoking, inhaling and exhaling, extinguishing and lighting another. Over and over until my throat feels raw and my face and hands frozen. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out here, my mind a riotous mess, but I have to go back in to at least warm up.

Head down, I go back into the bar to my seat. All of my stuff still there, the glass of whiskey taunting me. There’s a band just setting up on the stage in the back, the sound of them tuning their instruments and checking the sound making my hands itch for my Martin. The need to pour myself into some music so strong. I concentrate on that instead of the other longings setting my blood on fire. The feeling of longing never leaves me alone. Longing for a line of coke. For my guitar if it's not in my hands, my music, a drink, a cigarette, a little pill to make it all go away and then another to make it come back. Longing for Willow. Always Willow. Always fucking longing.

Three hours later I’m still sitting at the bar, swirling but never sipping the whiskey. The only reason I know it’s been that long is because Logan, the manager, told me. I’m nearly knocked off my seat when someone tackle hugs me from behind.

“Dude, do you know how many fucking bars there are in Toronto?” Lawson demands, sliding onto the stool next to me, gaze on the bottle of Glen Grant and the full glass.

“How did you find me?” I ask sullenly.

“Well, Wills called and said you shouldn’t be alone, and when I asked her what that meant, she just said to check the bars. So, I started with the meeting we’ve been going to, but they said you hadn’t been by. Guess she was right,” he says. No accusation in his voice, only concern. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Birdie called?” I couldn’t keep the hope from my voice. Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I hate myself right now. How she can even look at me, I have no fucking clue.

“Yeah. She used to call me every time she needed help with you, or if you went rogue and we didn’t know where you were, she would always text me to tell me that you were back,” Law says, sadness coating his words. “I feel guilty as hell for ignoring it all for so long and letting her deal by herself. It wasn’t fair. We all knew what the fuck you were up to. We just chose to ignore it because we worried about upsetting you and fucking with the band’s vibe.” He’d never admitted any of this to me. I had no idea that Willow turned to him for help.

“Nah, man. It’s all on me. I’m the only one to blame. I’m glad that she at least had you,” I say, sincerely.

“It’s on all of us in some capacity. We let you down as much as you let us down. We’re family. Always have been. Shoulda never let things get so bad. I’ll never let you stumble down that path again though, I promise you that,” he assures me. “Why did Willow call? And how much have you had? Do we need to call and see if we can get Koa here to go on tour with us?” Lawson peppers me with questions. His support unflappable, his faith in me not shaken.

I bow my head to gather strength. I don’t deserve his loyalty. Raising my head, I force myself to look him in the eyes. I can’t hide from this. I won’t share Willow’s pain with anyone other than Law. But I need to share my pain with my friend before it strangles me.

“Lyric’s not mine.” It’s a choked whisper, barely audible in the loud bar. The words take a moment to register with him.

“Wha-what do you mean? How can that be?” He’s so shocked by the news that if it wasn’t so fucking tragic, it might be funny.

“That night she left. I-I guess I said some fucked up shit to her, brought that other chick to the room. The one who woke up in our bed.” Swallowing past the lump in my throat I shake my head at my stupidity, at my selfishness. “I threw her out, Law. I kicked her out of our room with nothing. What kind of man does that, huh? What kind of man kicks the woman he loves out with some random bitch standing next to him?” I’m so disgusted with myself, I can’t see past the inner hate that is eating away at me.

“Stone, man, you’re being too hard on yourself. I understand that you fucked up, but you weren’t you, man. If you hadn’t been high—“

I interrupt his bullshit excuse for me. I deserve none of that. Not one bit of it.

“If I hadn’t been high, Willow wouldn’t have been roofied and fucking raped.” The words are torn from me. Taking a piece of me with them. Saying it out loud, admitting that because of me, Willow, my beautiful, perfect Birdie, was drugged and raped fills me with so much shame. So much fucking shame and self-loathing. I just want to rage. Break shit. Destroy everything around me until all that’s left in my wake is chaos that matches the chaotic storm battering at my insides. I reach for the glass and go to toss it back but stop just before I do. Eyes closed, thoughts like a fucking riot, screaming and blaming, kicking at my insides and pulling at my soul. I hurt her over and over and over, and she never stopped loving me until I destroyed her. That’s the day her heart stopped beating in rhythm . . . for me.

Whiskey glass pressed against my forehead, I feel the tears pricking at my eyes. I’ve cried only two other times in my life. The day that I realized Willow was gone, really gone, and today when she told me about Lyric. I can’t even care that I’m about to shed fucking tears again, in the middle of a packed bar. I just don’t give a fuck about anything. Law sits next to me silently. Just watching me, not trying to talk me out of drinking. Not reassuring me about what I told him. He loves Willow too. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling. Probably the need to beat the shit out of me. I don’t blame him. Would welcome it, in fact. His phone starts ringing. He curses under his breath. “Hey, Willow. Yeah, I found him. No. He’s not okay, but he’s okay, ya know?”

I whip my head to look at him. Wills is calling to check on me? Why? Why the fuck do I deserve her fucking concern? I’ve done nothing to earn it.

“Willow . . . I—I’m sorry. That’s not enough, but I just . . .” He trails off, his voice cracking with emotion. “Yeah, he did. I won’t say anything to anyone, not the guys, no one. I’ll be over there in the morning. Love you too.”

His one-sided conversation drives me insane. I can’t take knowing that he has the freedom to talk to her. To tell her he loves her, to go and see her and Lyric whenever he wants. And I don’t. I watch as Law disconnects the call, sadness blanketing his usually animated face. Without saying a word, he reaches over and takes the tumbler from my hand, throwing back the drink. He winces, putting the now empty glass down.

“Be glad you didn’t drink that. It was terrible,” he says as he blows out a whiskey-scented breath. Eyebrows raised, I look at him in clear disbelief. “Okay, it was fucking delicious. But still, be glad.” Law puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’m proud of you, Stone. A weaker man would be lying in a gutter drunk right now. The old Stone would be so high nothing could touch him. You sat here, in a bar, for hours, the devil in your hand and still you resisted.”

Shaking my head, I meet his gaze. “That’s nothing to be proud of, Law. The fact that I want to be so far gone I don’t even know my fucking name is enough. I don’t deserve that escape. It would be so easy for me to just fuck it all and score right now, but I need to carry this pain. Her pain.” My eyes screwed tight, I can see Willow’s beautiful face, the beauty mark just above her mouth, and the one dotting the middle of her plump bottom lip, dimples in her cheeks flashing at me. And then I see Lyric. Her happy smile complete with dimple, the same beauty marks, and Willow’s eyes, and my heart constricts. “Nah, I’m done taking the easy way out. This is my cross to bear, and I can’t, I won’t, get lost in an eight ball, a bottle of whiskey or a fucking handful of pills. I owe them both more than that.”

Law watches me closely, like he’s thinking of the right words to say, and I wait him out. Finally, he nods, “That’s the smartest most unselfish thing I’ve ever heard you say, bro. If you can stay straight and prove to her that you’re a different man . . .” He trails off and glances away before looking back at me. “What do you want? Do you want to be her guy again? Can you be?” He shakes his head when I go to speak. “No, man. Listen. Think. Can you be her man and help her raise Lyric knowing what you know now?” He spins the glass in his hand around and around watching me. “It’s different now. You’re not fighting for your lady and your daughter anymore. You have to love bigger, Stone. Willow loves Lyric unconditionally. Can you?”