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My eyes flit to the minibar, and for the first time in five years, I swipe a bottle of liquor, getting to work numbing reopened wounds.
My relapse into multiple bottles isn’t what does me in, unraveling five years of lying low and avoiding my addictions.
I can recover from the drinking. I can. I know this for a fact because the minibar in my room is now empty and, after a run to the corner shop across the street, my bank account is, too.
Thank god I didn’t have to answer to Hail on why I reek of a concoction of liquor. He and the Atonement boys are out doing a radio interview.
So I fight to pull myself back together.
After taking a long shower in which I ran the water hot enough to turn my body red, and scrubbed my raw skin three times, I dress in all black and pull up my hood. I set out with guitar and notebook in hand, needing a change of environment and my music to figure out my shit before I do a whirlwind dive so far down there will be no hope of recovery.
I can bounce back from this.
But when I reach the hotel lobby, I’m met with a ghost from my past. Blood drains from my body as I spot Jackson sprawled in a lobby chair facing the elevators. Sitting there like he’s been waiting for me. Which is exactly what he’s been doing.
Did the media leak my current location, too?
Jackson’s chestnut hair is cropped short to his head now, and the hard edge to his features is out of place with the easy-going guy I knew when we played music together. Guilt jabs at me, and I tuck my head, striding for the doors. My headache throbs with each quick stride I take.
Why did I have to binge on alcohol? Why couldn’t I have walked my ass to a store to buy a pack of cigs last night and spared this awful hangover?
“Zander Graves!” his voice slices through me.
Why can’t he just keep me in the past? Oh yeah, probably because I fucked them all over. I let one of them drown and then bailed on the others right when we were handed a contract to skyrocket us into fame.
Hands ball up in my hoodie as he stops me in my tracks. “You are a fucking prick!”
He shoves me back, and I don’t even have time to brace for the fist that slams into my jaw. My notepad and guitar go flying. I hear the gutting sound of splitting wood on the hard floor, the last of my cherished belongings shattered.
Outrage erupts from guests in the lobby. Someone shouts to the front desk employees to call the police, but no one actually steps in to stop Jackson from dishing out the punishment he obviously stored up for five long years, and I’m too sluggish from booze to move out of his reach or fight back.
Even if I was sober, I wouldn’t fight back.
His fist cracks against my cheekbone. Adrenaline running high, I barely feel anything beyond a dull pounding where he landed the punch.
“Where the fuck do you get off on running away like that?” He spits out. “You ruined us, Zander! We had a contract in hand, and you ruined everything! Was it fucking cocaine that night, too?”
Another strike to my jaw. I stumble back and tuck my hands in my hoodie pocket, basking in the promise of pain I’ll feel when this is all over.
“Fight back, Zander!” he screams at me. “Why won’t you fight back?”
Because I’m fucking dead inside. Because I don’t care. Because I deserve this. Go ahead and wreck me. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve already done to myself.
“Hey!” another male voice roars through the hotel lobby.
No. I duck my head as if that will hide my tall frame from Hail cutting toward us, his features twisted in rage.
He steps between us, shielding me. He throws Jackson a, “what the hell, dude?” Then he faces me, wrapping an arm loosely around my head and drawing me close enough to rest his forehead against mine. I wince, certain he can smell the alcohol on my breath. Shame burns in my chest.
“You good, Z? Or you need me to fuck him up? Honestly, I’m not a great fighter, but I’ll do my best to make him regret his decision to mess with you.”
I shake my head and pull out of his hold. Moving back into my sightline, Jackson points a finger at me. “You should stay away from that one. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He was too busy getting high and shoving his dick down my throat to give a fuck about his own dying brother.”
Hail’s wide eyes fall back to me, full of questions. I slip around him and plant myself right in front of Jackson, driven by the need for more pain. I want him to be the vessel for justice. For failing Visage. For letting Lex die. For my mum’s depression. For dad disowning us.
“Yeah? Don’t act like you weren’t too busy sucking it to care about Lex either,” I snap back.
It’s the wrong thing to say. But again, I’m out of alcohol, and I have limited means to acquire more. My emergency credit card itches in my back pocket, but it’s got a pretty low credit limit. One I shouldn’t test with temporary means to feel numb.
