STONED (Wrecked Book 1) (8 page)

“I really am sorry. I don’t think before I speak sometimes.” When I glance down at the hand still holding me he drops it. “I’m French Canadian; the Frenchman in me can’t help but be rude while the Canadian in me wills him to shut the hell up,” Joaquin confesses cheekily.

Much to my dismay I find myself laughing. “Your Frenchman is rude as hell.”

“Agreed. Now that we’ve established that, will you please have dinner with me?”

I’m shaking my head no, though there’s a pesky little voice inside me screaming “yes.” “Really, I can’t. Lyric is still very young and I don’t date.”

“Now who’s assuming,
chèrie?
Nobody said anything about a date.” The cheeky bastard winks at me. “I’ll even come to your place so that you don’t have to bring the bébé out.”

Still I shake my head no. “I don’t know you well enough to let you in my home, Mr. Danjou,” I admonish. “Take care and good luck with the new album.”

This time when I turn to leave he doesn’t stop me, I’m a little disappointed. He may have said it wasn’t a date, but I get the feeling that he was just trying to put me at ease. I’m not an expert on men, far from it but I saw the interest there. Felt it. In both of us. And if I’m honest, it scared the hell out of me.

Stone

DAY SIXTY-NINE, REHAB FUCKING BLOWS
. It’s absolute shit and I hate it. I am so sick of the highs and the lows. The manic mood swings and the deafening depression. I’m so tired of the pep talks and the meetings and the ache for more of any kind of high. The back and forth between wanting to beat the shit out of the assholes who put me here—Law, Judge, the label. Condemning me to this hellhole for their own gain. Can’t get rich off me when I’m not out making records though. To the shame of letting myself get to this point. Being grateful that they cared enough to help me help myself. I’m mostly sick of cursing Willow for leaving me and then understanding why she did. Either way, missing her so fucking much I’m not sure which need is worse. The one clawing at my insides for one more hit or the one that has my heart shredded because I miss her to the point of pain. Most days I waver. Wanting to throw in the fucking towel. Take my music career and just give me the drugs because I can’t possibly do this shit for another day. Then minutes later wanting to be clean because I don’t like the me I’ve become.

Today is a better day than yesterday. After two months I’m finally allowed a visitor. They started letting me use the phone after the first thirty days, and every single one of those days I’ve called Willow’s phone hoping to not get the recording, and then immediately calling Law the moment I do to ask if he’s found her yet. I’m sitting on the lanai, the fancy word they use here in Hawaii to say patio, smoking one cigarette after another as I wait for Law. He and Judge have been staying on the island while I’ve been here. They may not be blood, but we’re brothers. Arrow is back in Austin taking a break and lying low since everyone is doing their best to keep the fact that I’m in rehab out of the rag mags. Not that it’s really working. I see what they’re reporting. The pictures of me on stage looking like a hot fucking mess when all along I thought I was hiding it so damn well. Those aren’t the pictures that hurt the most though. Nah, the ones that rip my fucking guts out are the ones of me and Willow. They throw in pictures of us back when we first started touring and she was beaming at me in every damn photo. And then they show more recent shots and you can see that smile has dimmed. Didn’t notice that either. I reach into my pocket and pull out one I tore from a magazine. It was an early picture. Wills and I posing for photographers at some charity thing. Just like in the picture, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She has her head against my chest, looking at the camera, a look of absolute contentment and happiness on her gorgeous face. And me, I’m looking down at her, my arm snaked around her waist, holding her to me. We were so fucking happy.

“Stone, your visitor is here.” The voice has me quickly folding up the well-worn page and stuffing it back in my pocket as I stand.

Lawson steps forward and pulls me into a hug, slapping my back hard enough to make me wince. “I’ve missed your ornery ass, fucker,” he says, plopping into the chair across from mine. Snubbing out the lit cigarette in the ashtray on the table.

“Missed you too asshole,” I retort, lighting up another one.

“I thought you would have kicked that habit being in here.”

“It’s the only vice they don’t try to break you of. I think they figure if you’re gonna be a fuck-up, this is the best they can hope for.” I shrug. “Baby steps,” I tell him grinning through the haze of smoke.

“It’s good to see you smile, Stone. It’s been a while.” Lawson doesn’t pull punches; he never has.

“Has it?”

“Yeah, it has.”

Looking past him at the beautiful scenery I think about that. The drugs make me happy on the inside, but apparently I’m the only one who gets that part of the high. Selfish prick.

“Anything new on Willow?” I grill him about this shit every day, and every day I get the same answer. “Not yet, Stone.” Drives me crazy.

“Actually my guy called me when I was on my way over.” My eyes snap to him. “He has a couple new leads. He didn’t go into any detail just said that he had a bite and was looking into a few things, and he should know if they’re dead ends within a month.”

“That’s all he said? He didn’t give you a location or maybe a phone number?” I ask eagerly.

Lawson kicks back in his chair, drumming on his knee. “Nope. No specifics, bro. It’s progress at least though, right?”

I nod, my leg bouncing out a rhythm the rest of me can’t match. Chewing on the pad of my thumb, the blue smoke of the cigarette I have clamped between my fingers swirls around me. I can’t stop thinking about Willow. Feel so fucking helpless in here. If I hadn’t spent the last few months obliterated out of my fucking mind I would have been able to go after her as soon as she left. Funny thing about addicts that I’ve learned from being in here—they don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves.

“I want to get out of here, Law,” I bite out.

“You want to get out or you want to get high? Because those are two different things, bro. You want to get out, you do what they tell you to. Get clean and do your shit. You want to get high . . . that I can’t help you with.” Again, not a punch puller.

“Of course I want to get high. But I want to get out more. I need to find Wills.” The exasperation is evident in my words. And I do want to get high but the need is a little less every day for the most part. The need to get out is my new constant. He’s right though. It should be a need to get clean not just out.

“I know you do, man, and I’m doing everything I can to help you. I want to find her too. But even if we do find her, she’s not gonna take you back if you’re still fucking around with all that poison, bro.” Lawson leans forward, elbows on the table. “Willow is smart and she’s put up with your shit for a long time now. Longer than you realize. You put her through hell, Stone. I won’t help you do that again.” He raps a fist on the glass topped table. “I helped you fuck up for too long. Turning a blind eye and just letting you do your thing because I was afraid of the fallout. I’m all done with that shit, my brother. It’s not just the drugs either. It’s the cheating too. Don’t think she didn’t know about that shit. She blamed that on the drugs, and I know it had to be because a sober Stone would never dick around on his girl.” He snorts out a sardonic laugh. “Man, you’ve loved that girl for so damn long, I never thought you would run around on her. I shoulda stepped in then. For her.”

My head hangs in shame as I listen to my friend, my brother, list my fuck-ups and let each one of them rip into me a little more. I don’t deserve his friendship. I for sure don’t deserve Willow. Even clean I don’t deserve her. But I need her. Want her. And I’ve already proven what a selfish fuck I am, so I’m going to have her. I can’t not have her. I don’t know how to be me without her. I’m not even sure that it’s possible.

“You think she’ll ever forgive me, Law?” I ask despondently. Wallowing in the self-loathing I’ve become so accustomed to.

“Not sure, man. She’s tough. Always has been, but she also loves you. Even when she hated what you were doing, sometimes even hated you, she loved you. I think that’s what hurt the most. I also think that’s why we can’t find her now.” Brows drawn, I wait for him to continue, confused. She dipped out because she loves me? What the fuck sense does that make? “She knew damn well if she didn’t make it hard to find her that you would and that she wouldn’t stand a chance. You and Wills have always had this crazy connection. Deep on so many levels. I didn’t think that anything could ever touch it.” His voice trails off because something did in fact touch it.

“Go big or go home, right?” I mumble.

“Fuck, I guess, Stone. You always were a fucking show boat.”

“Nah, just a rock star.” My smile feels brittle, but it’s a smile.

“I only have a few more minutes here so tell me something. Anything.”

I shrug, reaching for my cigarettes but stopping when he pretends to start coughing. Shooting him the evil eye, I grab a sucker from the bag I tossed on the table instead. I started the habit back in high school to keep from smoking so much and to keep my mouth busy during class. Next thing I knew, I was buying them in bulk and keeping them stashed every-damn-where.

Law smiles triumphantly and I shoot him the bird. Man, I’ve missed him. We’re all close, but Law and Judge are like brothers to me. Their mom took me in when I was a fifteen-year-old little punk ass. Right after I beat the hell out of my foster dad for hitting me for the last fucking time. Bastard was shocked as hell that I fought back. Kicked me out and I never saw him or his poor wife again. I did anonymously report the domestic abuse I had been in the middle of every God damn night though.

“What do you want to know? Not like there’s a whole lot going on here. I get up, I go to meetings. A lot of fucking meetings. Meditation, work out, group therapy, work out, one on one therapy, life skills, work out.” I shrug, “All kinds of fun shit.”

“That’s good. Keeps you fucking busy. And you’re fucking ripped, dude! I was going to ask how often you were hitting the gym. You look like an inked up Hulk.” Law laughs. “Are you working on your music, getting any songs down?” He’s genuinely interested. If the question had come from anyone else, I would think that they were asking because of the money we’re losing with me being in here. We had to cancel part of the tour for this little stint of mine. But not Law. He’s asking because he knows that music has always been my escape. Before the drugs were, anyway.

“Every day. They make us keep a journal, write letters, that kind of shit. Supposed to be therapeutic. So I used the journal to write songs and the letters . . .” I trail off, embarrassed to even be admitting this, even if it is Law.

“The letters are to Willow,” he finishes.

Rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, I say around the sucker, “And the letters are to Wills.”

“I really dig this lumbersexual look you’re rocking,” he jokes, changing the subject.

“Fuck off, bro. This beard is so itchy. We’re not allowed razors though, so it’s either rock the beard or let them shave me, and I’m not letting anyone that close to my throat with a blade. You know me. I’m sure I’ve pissed everyone here off enough to make them want to slit my shit.” Law laughs, and I join in.

“That’s the fucking truth!”

We spend a few minutes talking about the band, the new album we’re supposed to be recording right this very minute, and how the fans are reacting to our hiatus. Law thinks the speculation about where I am is just fueling the love they have for us. Thank fuck. My music is mine but I share it with them. Without them we’d be nothing. Even I haven’t lost sight of that.

A little chime dings over the PA system letting us know that visitation is over.

“Hey, I’ll check with them at the front desk and see if I can bring you in some of that beard oil to help with the itching, or if you want, I can see if they’d let me shave you next week during the visit. Up to you, bro,” Law says, standing to leave.

“I’m not sure I trust you with a blade to my throat either, sir,” I kid. “Either, way. I’m not sure what they’ll allow. Speaking of which, did you bring my strings and my phone and shit?”

“Of course, bro. I had to leave it all at the front so they can do what they do. Check it for stash or a file or whatever,” he kids. Pulling me in for a tight hug, we break apart and he smacks me on the back. “Keep writing, keep your shit straight and you’ll be out of here before you know it, my man.”

I nod in agreement. Easier said than done, but it helps that he’s in my corner. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all you can do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I agree.

I wait 'til he’s back through the sliding glass doors before lighting up another smoke. I’m smoking more now than I ever have, but I’m only so strong. Can only give up so much. I’ve given up drink, drugs, Birdie, my music temporarily, all driving me out of my fucking mind. The loss of each affecting me in some God damn way. I think I’ve earned a fucking cigarette.