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“Har-har-har,” I mutter dryly. “You know what I meant. Do you think you have a drinking problem?”
“Doyouthink I have a drinking problem?”
“Honestly?”
“As if you’d waste an opportunity to be as brutal with me as possible?”
I bite back a grin.
“I think yes, you do have a problem. Definitely with alcohol. Probably with other things too.”
He whistles quietly as he starts toveryslowly clap his hands.
“My, my, Melody. I can’t believe you cracked this cold case wide open. You know, you might actually be the very first person on earth who’s come to that conclusion.”
I glare at him.
“You don’t have to hide behind sarcasm.”
“Yes, but it’s so much damn fun.”
“As fun as avoiding the real question I’m trying to ask?”
“As a fan?” He mutters.
“Yeah, as a fan. But you’re still working your ass off to dance as far away from my first question. I mean if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so. But don’t give me that ‘fame is boring’ bullshit. You werebeyondfamous for like ten years before you disappeared. You could have dipped out at any time with more money and fame than you knew what to do—”
“Fine.”
His gaze whips to stab into mine, narrowing coldly in a way that rips a shiver down my spine.
“You want me to stopdancingaround one of the most brutal, dark periods of my entire life, Melody?” He snaps.
My face falls.
“Jackson, I—”
“Ileftbecause my best fucking friend in the world killed himself, and it was such a stupid, worthless fucking waste. Ileft,” he snaps, his voice getting darker as the volume rises. “Because instead of leaving me the fuck alone, the entire goddamn world, and mostly parasites like yourself, spent ayearasking me about it, over and fucking over again. And if I’d stayed around that for another second, I was going to either blow my fucking brains out Cobain style, or…”
His eyes close as his mouth this. I sit there stunned, staring at him with my pulse thudding as he breathes slowly in and out.
“I left because after Iggy died, this shit wasnotfun anymore.”
I don’t say anything. Because there’s nothingtosay. He sips his drink, I sip mine, and we sit there in the crackling light of the fire as the storm thunders outside.
Eventually, after he’s drained another glass or two, he mutters something under his breath and stands.
“Jackson, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Leave it.”
He stalks past me to a far corner of the living room. I half expect to hear the sound of a fresh bottle cracking open.
Instead, I hear…notes.
I stiffen, eyes widening as I listen to Jackson walk back over. When he moves past me, my pulse quickens with excitement as my eyes drop to the acoustic guitar in his hands.
Holy shit, he’s going to play again.
