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“I’m going to take this one, guys,” Layla says brightly, reaching over to squeeze my fingers tightly. “Sometimes, you can’t help people, no matter how much you want to. Whatever mistakes were or weren’t made, my understanding is that Lyrica is getting the help she needs now.”
A banging on the window makes us all twist in our seats and Kyle makes a slicing motion with his hand across his throat. About fucking time.
“It appears you have your answer, Carla,” Jerry says over her sputtering voice. “You have a great day now.” Hitting the button, he begins a recorded commercial, his eyes wide as they swing to me. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m very sure the question Carla asked was not on the list of approved questions,” Layla says smoothly, rubbing her finger over my racing pulse point.
“I also believe this interview is now over,” Atlas continues, standing with Mav. “You understand, don’t you? Lyrica’s overdose is a very serious and real traumatic event that happened to us, and we are concerned this line of questioning could happen again.”
“I also think Draven needs a break. What do you say, mate?” Mav says.
“A break sounds Lovely,” I mutter, standing up. Layla moves to take her hand off my wrist, but I refuse. Instead, I thread my fingers through hers, locking them together.
“Thank you for having us,” Layla says primly as we walk out.
Kyle has a blood vessel that is pulsing in his forehead as he sees us. “Time to go,” he grunts, taking the lead.
“I’m really very sorry,” the producer says as we leave.
“All calls go through him. The girl either lied about her question, or he’s lying,” Layla says softly. “Either way, I’m so sorry, Draven.”
“You made it better,” I mutter. “You didn’t have to say anything to help.”
“Of course I did,” she says in surprise. “I refuse to suffer idiots or bullies, and that woman was both.”
Tyler chuckles, his hand cupping the back of her neck. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m making Layla my new support blanket for a bit.
“Fuck, Draven, that was shit luck. Kyle, how do we keep that from happening?” Atlas growls.
It feels nice to be taken care of. I rarely need it, nor am willing to accept it.
“I’m good,” I rasp, though I still refuse to pull away from Layla. “I let my guard down and that was stupid of me.”
“No, this is why we have an approved question list,” Kyle says, shaking his head. He has Layla’s guitar in his hand, and it makes me feel a bit better to see that he really did go to fetch it.
A part of me felt as if he was leaving us to hang in the wind. “The next interview isn’t until eleven, so I’m going to take you back to the hotel and call the three other radio stations we’re booked with to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”
It makes sense that people are curious, but is it wrong that I don’t want to give them that part of my soul? Shuddering, I try to shake off the feeling of owing people my blood and pain.
The walk through the lobby of the radio station passes by in a blur, and then we’re back on the bus. I let go of Layla’s hand, telling myself I shouldn’t depend on her. I need to find my way on my own two feet.
So why does it feel as if I’m drifting the second I let go?
“What do you need?” Mav asks under his breath as he sits next to me. Layla is laying into Kyle, and I have to admit she’s awfully cute when she’s angry.
These are exactly the feelings I don’t need, so I decide to shove them away. “I think I need to smoke,” I sigh. “I need something to quiet the pain and the itch I feel under my skin.”
Atlas is close enough to hear me and nods, glancing over at Layla. Grimacing, he shakes his head at me. Yeah, I’m going to need to do this in their room. The baby chick has made it quite clear how she feels about drugs.
When we arrive, the three of us make tracks as if we’re young kids trying to get away with something. Atlas and Mav always have pot on them as a rule of thumb, and they rarely touch anything stronger than that.
I gave up most of my vices, but when the world is just too loud today and my demons are calling for their pound of flesh, I find that it helps.
“Lay is going to be so pissed at us later,” Atlas mutters once our asses hit the couch cushions in his room.
Despite how I’ve been thawing toward the baby chick, I shrug. “She’s not our keeper,” I remind him as he pulls out a joint from his bag. I don’t want to talk, I rarely do that with these guys, and they’re my best friends. I just want to drift for a bit.
Atlas lights up, and I swear I start to feel better as soon as I begin to smell it. Mav and Atlas found a decent weed connection in Vermont, which is working out perfectly right now.
