Page 13 of Toxic Kiss

I wake sprawled across the foot of a king-sized bed in my boxers, head pounding, mouth tasting like I sucked on an ashtray.

Blondie is gone, and the only proof that she was ever here is the condom wrapper on the floor. Thank fuck. I don’t need to engage in another meaningless encounter.

I can’t stop asking myself what, Patrick, would think of all this. The lights, the parties, the glitter we choke on. Takeout for every meal, singing until my throat is raw and cracks.

He was a far better person than I can ever hope to become. I still can’t face Patrick’s family. I’m a coward, wondering what they think when they hear the songs we wrote together or see the tour ads. Do they hear his ghost in every chord? Or am I the only one who tastes ashes when the music plays?

It’s dark outside, like one long stretch of night. I swear I’m turning into a vampire or maybe their servant. I only go outside after the sun goes down, and I bleed myself dry for everyone else.

My arms are shaky, and weak, but I manage to sit upright. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stand, then end up on my knees.

“Fuck,” I growl, and stare down at my useless limbs. “What the hell?”

This isn’t the normal pins and needles that come with lack of circulation. I can’t feel them at all. Panic surges through my body as I shift my legs around in front of me. I cycle them like I’m riding a bike on the floor, and they move, so I’m not suddenly paralyzed.

“Fuck you, body. Fuck you.”

Giving it all my effort, I get to my feet. I’m a bit unsteady, but ever so slowly, the feeling begins to return.

“I must have pinched something,” I say to the room, but I don’t really believe it.

Forcing the fear aside, I pull my hood up and put on my sunglasses despite the dark. Then I weave my way through the empty bottles and discarded clothing. I don’t see any of my bandmates as I sneak out down the back stairs. No one sees me, no one is outside when I walk out and cross the pavement to the tour bus. I pound on the door, and Declan, our manager, opens it.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I say, before he says something that will make me want to punch him.

“Whatever, just get ready. Do you want me to put on coffee?”

“Is that even a real fucking question?” I slam the door to the back room that serves as my personal penthouse. I strip, shower, dress, and then chug coffee. Go through the motions.

An hour later, the tour bus pulls up to the studio, and I can see those hoping to get a photo run over, cameras and GoPros already rolling.

“Fuck, I hate this,” I mumble.

Phones record, and flashes sting my eyes when we climb out. The air is humid, and my stomach rolls the second my boots hit the pavement. I slide on my sunglasses to block out the light and the scrutiny.

Declan paces near the doors, already mid-rant through his Bluetooth. When he turns to us, his face is all business. He is the puppet master, and we are dolls on strings.

“Look sharp,” he snaps. “This is the Jack Malone Show. National TV. Late-night. Millions of viewers. Try not to light yourselves on fire for once.”

I rub at my temples to ease the ache behind my eyes and follow the others inside. Vex walks beside me as silent and tense as ever. Ledger and Eren trail behind, whispering low. Ash lags, sunglasses and hat on, eyes glued to the floor as if the weight of the ceiling might crush him. He is beyond hungover today and might actually look worse than I do. Note to self, don’t agree to do a live appearance less than twenty-four hours after a concert.

Inside the green room, everything has a sweet, sticky floral haze of too much body spray and vape smoke. The fluorescent lights are too bright. Couches are too white. Every person who walks into hair and makeup wears a fake smile. They call it touch-ups, but it feels more like they are slapping an inch worth of crud on my face. All I want is to scream ‘Fuck off’ at every single one of them.

Vex drops into a chair and pulls his hood up, glaring at anyone who gets too close. Ledger paces as he taps his chin and goes over answers to possible questions. Eren scrolls his phone, most likely looking at cat videos. Ash sits on the couch, earbuds in, leg bouncing like it’s trying to break free of his body.

“Everyone just fucking chill,” Ledger mutters, giving us all the death glare. “It’s twenty minutes of PR, then we’re done. Don’t give Malone anything to chew on.”

We all look up at him. “No one said anything,” I say.

Ledger wheels on me. “Oh, you don’t have to. I can feel the asshole volcano building.”

“I’m not an asshole volcano.” That earns a look from the others. “Okay, fine, I can be an asshole. Doesn’t mean I was planning on it tonight,” I say, lying. I have no interest in being here.

“I promise nothing,” Vex grumbles.

I lean against the wall with my arms crossed, wedged in the corner like I’ve been bad. All I need is a dunce cap to complete the look. My stomach spins, and I swallow, but all I can taste is alcohol still ghosting the back of my throat—a reminder of everything I regret.

A knock at the door has us all glancing over. A PA with a clipboard and headset pokes her head in, and I see Declan behind her.