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I exhale slowly, shaking my head. I go to toss the postcard back in Will’s drawer, when I stop.
This is stupid.
And it probably is. But seeing as Judy’s interview was total bullshit, it’s also the only lead I have in order to get the job I want.
And for once, she isnotgoing to take an opportunity from me.
My phone camera clicks. I leave the postcard from one rock god to another on the coffee table, appropriately next to the cocaine and under the nude Playboy Centerfold.
Then I’m out with the only clue I have.
3
Jackson
The first thoughtthat hits me, as consciousness slaps its chubby dick in my face, is that someone is trying to murder me.
With a fork, to the head.
I wince, groaning as the pain lances into me, cutting into my fucking soul. Until I finally relent and open my eyes.
But of course, I’m alone. I’m always alone. And the would-be assailant isn’t an intruder, or someone with an axe to grind.
The person trying to kill me isme.
In a sense. At least I only do a halfway decent job at it most times.
I groan as I lift my lids the rest of the way, grumbling and wincing as morning daylight stabs into my eyes. I roll before the sudden jerk of gravity stops me with a stomach-heaving yank. My pounding head swivels to the side, and I grunt.
Right. I’m on the couch. I never made it upstairs to bed last night.
My eyes squeeze shut, my parched lips rubbing together before I finally manage to swing my legs off the side of the couch. My bare feet touch hard wood, and I exhale slowly as I drop my head to the back of the sofa.
“Why thefuckis it so fucking light in here…” I mutter to no one.
I lift my head, turning with a wince to glare of the wall of windows on the far side of the massive, lodge-like living room.
Sleeping down here was ashitidea. At least in my bedroom upstairs, I’ve got real, actual blackout curtains. And an eye mask. And earplugs. And virtually anything else I could use to combat the intrusion of reality. Or, specially, mornings.
My least favorite fucking time of the day. Always have been.
But down here in the living room where I apparently decided to call it quits last night, I have none of those tools. And it’s too goddamn bright in here.
I stab my angry gaze at the wall of windows again—this time, piecing together the string of sheets and towels strung up over the glass…with push pins, it would seem. A hazy recollection of an even earlier hour dawns in my head—a flashing memory of me angrily tacking up the sheets to block out the light.
Apparently, it only bought me a few more hours.
I blow air through my lips, dropping my head into my hands. My fingers shove through my dark blondish-brown hair, muscles rolling as I suck in another deep breath.
Better hangovers than you have tried, motherfucker.
I stand, grumbling as I stagger over to the makeshift curtains on the windows. I peel one aside, wincing as I glare out at the pristine northern Atlantic Ocean, past the cliff’s edge.
Sometimes the view is nice. Okay, the view is always beautiful. But at times—specifically, morning times—looking at beautiful things just pisses me the fuck off.
I turn back to the huge living room. My eyes travel the dusty, cluttered floor, and then slide over the piano and the guitars leaning against it. Over the shredded and crumpled pieces of paper from the ripped-up notebooks scattered on the floor over the last month or so.
The empty bottles on the floor. And fireplace mantel. And windowsills. And…basically everywhere else where there’s a flat surface.
