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“You’re a dick,” she huffs from the bed.
“Evidently,” I deadpan, slamming the door behind me.
“You can’t keep things from me forever,” she calls. “The truth always catches up with you.”
I smile at the bathroom mirror, a sad smile that knows she’s right, but also so very wrong. Because she’s still in the dark about some things.
“Pack your bags, Princess. We’re going home.”
Present
Rory
Like a moth to a flame, a junkie to his favorite drug, a girl with daddy issues to a destructive bad boy, I’m hooked again.
Five rounds between the sheets with Mal and three apology emails to Callum later—which remain unanswered, much to no one’s surprise—Mal is fast asleep next to me. I’m still guilt-ridden and feeling low about Callum, yet somehow high about being here with Mal. It’s an emotional overdose that makes me feel scattered. Bittersweet remorse dipped in ecstasy.
I send Summer a quick text informing her of the latest development in my love life and ask her to leave her judgment at the door. When she starts blowing up my phone with text messages and calls, I flip it over and slip out of bed. I take the elevator up to Ashton’s room.
I know I’m bypassing Mal’s direct request, but I’ve come up with a plan. He’s so secretive about whatever’s going on in Tolka—like Father Doherty, Ms. Patel, and Maeve and Heather—I decide to beat him at his own game.
I knock on Ashton’s door, and he opens up a minute later, his golden robe wide open and revealing his loose anaconda, which flips from side to side like a wiggly tail. I blink, focusing really hard on his face and trying not to blush.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask.
He nods, sparing me the sex-slave jokes—even though, for the first time since we’ve met, I do look thoroughly screwed—and steps aside to let me in.
As I suspect, there are two girls in his bed, sleeping soundly. One of them is Brandy, and it feels like some sort of validation of an unkind thought to find her there. He leads me to a separate room—a living room of sorts—and we sit across from each other. I pitch him my idea—stay in Greece, soak up the sun and some culture, and write the album. I bring out the big guns and my selling points: this place is so much warmer, and close to big cities, and the sea. It is full of tan, gorgeous tourists he can sample. Besides, it’s only for a week out of the entire project. We’ll be back in Tolka in no time. What’s the rush?
Ashton nods vehemently, though he seems kind of distracted, a faraway look stamped on his face. “Yeah. Great idea. Yeah.”
I realize it’s the first time I’ve caught him semi-sober.
“Are you okay?” I scratch at my eyebrow.
He laughs, reaching for a bottle of whiskey. “Why wouldn’t I be, honey pie?”
I shake my head. Not your business, Rory. But isn’t that what people say when they turn a blind eye to truly devastating things that happen in the world? I make a mental note to bring Ashton’s drug problem to Ryner’s attention next time I email him, which should be tomorrow.
When I get back to the room and tuck myself under the blankets next to Mal, I think about how I’m putting him in a position he doesn’t want to be in. If whatever’s waiting for him in Tolka is that important, he will have to spit it out in order for us to up and leave. If it turns out to be nothing—well, I earned a week in the sun.
I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but all I can see in my dreams is my mother, running down Tolka’s Main Street, crying hysterically with me in her arms. In my dreams, I’m tiny. Still a baby. And I’m bleeding all over. We leave a trail of blood as the entire village follows us, running.
They are chasing us.
And we are running away.
I wake up in a cold sweat and feel the familiar chill wrapping itself around me. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
I maneuver myself between Mal’s arms and borrow his heat, but sleep doesn’t revisit me.
A NOTE FROM ASHTON RICHARDS
Despite what y’all think, I’m not a world-class idiot.
I can tell she broke up with Hugh Cunt or whatever that suited, English dude’s name is. I mean, when she and Pissy Poet are in the same room, you can cut the sexual tension with a butter knife. Also, I’m privy to the fact that Pissy Poet and Sex Slave want to spend the next few days going at it like the world’s about to end.
I’m a pretty decent human, believe it or not, despite how the media portrays me. I mean, sure, I love my drugs. MDMA keeps me happy and bursting with colors and inspiration, and that’s the type of shit I’m known for. I’m the smiley, carefree guy.
