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Fate being a perversive creature of torture had made sure that the two other awards had gone to her new boyfriend’s band. For three and a half agonizing hours Jordan sat, slumped on the floor of his living room, surrounded by an ever growing pile of scattered, soggy tissues, watching as the woman he loved thanked everyone for their amazing support. Everyone but him.
When an emotional Zapp personally thanked Chloe for her love and guidance, Jordan was all but ready to test the so-called unbreakable floor to ceiling windows of his apartment. The only thing which stopped him from launching the round silver paperweight which sat on the nearby side table, was the fact that Bryce had given it to him.
After all that shouting at the TV, his throat was rough and raw. His mouth dry. Jordan needed a drink. For the first time in a long time, he wanted arealdrink. Anything to numb the pain.
He was in dangerous territory. Words of self-hate rose whispering in his ear. Telling him that just one drink would make him feel ok. He just needed one. And then he should call up an old dealer friend and see what else was on the menu.
No. Remember how far you have come. And the pain your fall would cause.
Jordan got to his feet, then slowly, methodically he cleaned up the mess. He yanked the Chloe tour T-shirt over his head and dangled it precariously over the top of the garbage disposal unit. “Fuck,” he muttered, tossing the shirt onto the kitchen countertop. She might have torn his heart out, but he still couldn’t throw it away.
The problem of having no alcohol in the apartment would be easy to overcome. It wouldn’t take much for him to walk out of here, go downstairs and find a seat at a bar. It was the fourth of July, the city would be pumping. No one would notice one more casually dressed guy intent on getting seriously hammered.
His hands were trembling as he picked up his phone. More tears threatened when Sheila answered. “Hey, happy fourth of July from the Scottish contingent.” In the background he could hear the thumping beat of a live band, and the roar of a hundred people all talking at once. The irony that Sheila was in a bar wasn’t lost on him.
Words failed Jordan for a few seconds. The shame of finding himself in the place he was certain he’d left behind him for good, tore at his soul. The cold truth offered up a harsh lesson. Yet again he’d failed to acknowledge his weaknesses, to respect them. To learn.
He’d stopped going to meetings. Let one too many things slide. Ignored the signs of impending doom. And the beast which lurked in the shadows had been waiting.
“I’m really sorry to call you on your day off. I just don’t think this can wait. Could you change my booking for the health retreat. I need to go to the other place tonight.” He wiped away a tear.
I am such an idiot.
The sound of the music and the crowd were gone in a matter of seconds. In their place Jordan caught the hum of street traffic. Sheila had immediately left the party. She was coming to his aid.
“Where are you? And have you taken anything?” Her questions were standard protocol. Blunt, but they would immediately inform both Sheila and the rehab people as to the severity of the situation with which they were dealing. Crisis management was her strong suit.
“At home. And no I haven’t touched a drop or taken any drugs, but the cravings are building. The therapy at the normal place isn’t going to cut it. If you can come, I’ll get a travel bag packed. I’ll really sorry Sheila, but I’m desperate.”
“No need to apologize, I’m just glad you called. I’ll have a town car waiting to meet you out the front of your building in half an hour. Do you want me to come with you?”
He nodded, grateful for her support. “Yeah. Please. I don’t want to do the car trip on my own. I think I might need you to talk me down before we get out of the city. And Sheila, please don’t tell anyone. I swear I am clean, I just need help.”
“I’m on my way.”
An hour and a half later, Jordan checked himself into a private drug therapy clinic in New Jersey.
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
He hadn’t called. After the awards show and a long evening of interviews and photo opportunities, Chloe retrieved her phone from Marta’s care and checked her recent messages and calls. There were dozens from friends and well-wishers in the music industry, but nothing from Jordan. Her silent treatment of Jordan, and then the grand Zapp reveal should have ensured an angry jealous response.
Not even a text. Am I that disposable?
He either hadn’t watched the awards show—or if he had—Jordan hadn’t cared enough about her to call. News of her and Zapp was all over the internet, Jordan couldn’t possibly have missed it.
In the back of the limousine on the ride home after the whirlwind of after parties, Marta and Gabriela offered their heartfelt condolences. “I’m sorry, but we did tell you he was no good. Those sorts of guys, the ones who come from money, they don’t treat women well.”
“You will be better off without him.”
“He was only holding you back.”
“We are the only people who really love you.”
Their words were cold comfort to a shattered heart.
She’d agreed to the Zapp experiment but not for Foster’s reasons, that it would be good for album sales. Chloe had wanted to see what Jordan would do. Would her being seen in public on the arm of another man stir his jealousy? Make him finally take a stand for their love?
All she wanted was for Jordan to go into full cave-man mode, get on a plane, and come claim her. Take her to bed and fuck her brains out. To agree to make their relationship public, and finally admit that he loved her. Was that asking too much?
