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I letmy eyes scan over the basement club, ignoring the normal whores desperate for attention. For a look, a kiss, a fuck. Anything from the King of British rock. Seriously, the guys are just as bad as the girls.
The fact that I fucked up so badly and wrote off nearly a whole US tour for my band, cost my label millions. I have fucked off the majority of my friends and distanced myself from the only family I have. Not one part of that matters to these people. I’m still their king and tonight this club is my kingdom.
The beat of the bass pumps through my veins, the same way the liquor does. I was born to be here—I know that and so do they. The bag of coke I just bought off my regular high-class dealer, Lucas, is literally burning a hole in my pocket. I promised my sister Cassy I wouldn’t. Not again. But drugs are not even a rite of passage anymore like they used to be in this world. It’s just the norm. Etiquette. Expected and understood.
They let the rock stars in here, the gangsters and the drug dealers too. It’s like some modern-day Kray Twin run nightclub. We just need a bent copper and the whole thing is a caricature of decadence and obsession.
Welcome to London.
I bring the JD in my glass to my lips, letting the liquid burn. Trying not to get distracted by any of the girls in here. You’ve seen one stripper you’ve seen ‘em all. Although the girl over there with the dark hair and the tattoos is really something. Legs for fucking days and cans that can barely be controlled by that measly material excuse for a dress. The guy next to her, who is clearly her ape of a boyfriend, is leering—I couldn’t give a fuck. I wink at her. I can’t help it, how could I not? She’s damn gorgeous. I watch as her cheeks blush a flame-red colour. I do it again, then shoot the baboon boyfriend a look that tells him I know his girl’s wet for me and not him tonight and move the fuck on.
My black-booted feet take me towards a door which opens up onto a balcony. The fresh air mixes with the smell and taste of cigarettes, and strangely burns my lungs. I might smoke the odd joint and I’ve certainly never been shy about shoving fuck knows what into my body in the form of narcotics or hallucinogens, but I’ve always drawn the line at hanging a fag out of my mouth. My lungs and my voice pay my bills.Or they did until I fucked up.
There’s a great view of London from up here. My courtyard, my garden, my kingdom. London is my home. I’ve travelled all around the world with my brothers, but I think this puff of smoke on this tiny island will always be home to me. There’s some commotion down below, a fight maybe? We’re only a few stories up and the bass is so loud you can’t hear what’s being said but something’s going on down there. I strain my neck to try and see.
Fuck.
The crunching noise, the hollering. The screech of rubber. The sound of metal colliding with brickwork.
Some entitled fuck has just smashed their £100,000 Lamborghini into the side of the building opposite. Probably high as a fucking kite. But the crunching noise does something to me. It reminds me of how I got here. How I was that entitled fuck. How I ploughed into that building after I’d injected so much heroin in my system, I thought I could fly.
How I screamed at my sister when I found out she’d been with my best friend.
How I punched Finch, my best friend when I found out he’d fucked her.
How I told the world about what Ali, our manager, had shared with me and only me about how she wished there was a world we could live in where we could be together.
How my mum died at the hands of an evil fuck like that prick getting out of his Lamborghini, not even six months earlier than my accident.
Bile creeps up my throat. I drop the glass in my hand, not even waiting to hear the shatter and smash of glass and the crash of ice cubes on the concrete. My feet pound back into the club. Past the legions of people. The pretty faces I saw before are all just blurs. Faceless as I desperately head for the closest bathroom. I find the toilets and push the door in, slamming into a cubicle, ignoring the strange look I’m getting from the blushing attendant. With shaking hands, I lock the door and then I turn and empty the contents of my stomach into the bowl. Ignoring the tears burning my eyes, streaming down my face like the pathetic piece of shit I am.
Who I always will be.
A Failure. A screw up. Nothing. A waste of fucking space.
