Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
There was a light at the end of the cold, dark tunnel of my existence: even I knew I couldn’t cancel the remainder of “Letters from the Dead” tour. Jenna was going to rip me a new one and stuff it with dynamite if I even mentioned such possibility. The insurance company was on my case, my record company breathed its rancid, corporate breath down my neck, and I was actually making a decent comeback and building a buzz around my next untitled album. Besides, my mates relied on me. Mates who, as much as I wanted to kill, I owed, too. Our relationship was messy and abnormal and completely off the rails. They constantly betrayed me in a bid to bring me back to life. And it had worked.
Until now.
I made a promise to myself that no matter how this shit was going to pan out, I was going to make sure Fallon did the right thing by Stardust and her family.
I stood by the kitchen island of my hotel suite, clutching her note until my fingers almost snapped. The scent of Indie was still in my nostrils and on my pillow and inside my fucking guts, when the door behind me opened. I’d been trying to get high off of bath salts unsuccessfully for twenty minutes when Lucas walked in and shut the door behind him.
Yeah, I was using again. Or at least trying. Shit, I wasn’t even good at being a drug addict. How embarrassing was that?
“Don’t even think about it.” I sniffed, trying to light up the little rocks of salt. How the fuck could you get high on them? I needed new mates. New, young, loser mates who’d teach me how to get high on pathetic things. And it hadn’t even been a full four hours since she’d left. I dreaded to think how I’d fare a week from now. Heroine? Crack? Riverdale? I’d die if I became the very thing I loathed.
“Don’t think about what?” I heard Lucas moving behind me, but didn’t turn around.
“Everything. My answer is no, no matter what. Don’t talk to me. Don’t apologize. Don’t offer your condolences. For the last time—I shagged Laura long before you’d met her. There was no need to shit on my only serious relationships, twice in a row.” I dumped the salts onto the counter in frustration, essentially walking right into a conversation with him. Idiot. I was an idiot. A part of me—albeit a small and insignificant and muted by the general bullshit swarming in my head part—realized I deserved it. Everything that had happened to me. Indie leaving. Fallon acting like a crazy bitch. My mates and agent babying me, lying to me, micromanaging every single breath I took, from my love interest to my records, deals, interviews, and general wellbeing. Lucas appeared by my side and wiped the marble counter with his arm, throwing the half-baked salts to the floor.
“You think this is about Laura?” he screamed into my face. “Are you mental? What’s wrong with you? It’s not about Laura, and it’s not about Fallon. It’s not even about Indie. It’s about you, you arsehole. I’m in love with you.” He shook, spitting the words in my face.
I turned around to fully face him. The words trickled in like rain through a cracked ceiling. Slowly but surely. If only I could wrap my head around them. “Huh?”
He took my arm and pulled it. I let him, too stunned to think of something coherent to say. Our faces were inches from each other, but far enough that I could see his expression. Tortured, almost like me.
“I’m in love with you. Have been for the past—hmm, let’s see, I don’t know, twelve years? Everyone knows. It’s obvious and plain for everyone to see. I started playing the drums because of you, for fuck’s sake. You needed a drummer, couldn’t find one—no one wants to be the drummer, it’s a lonely, reclusive job—so I did it. I wanted to be close to you, and you wanted to start a band, so I learned to play an instrument. Then I became your instrument. Then I picked up your leftovers—Laura, your idiotic lady friend, Fallon, and everyone else around you—to have more pieces of you. More precious pieces of Alex-fucking-Winslow, the guy who, unfortunately, possessed it. The charisma, the talent, the presence, those eyes. Those damn eyes, Alex.” He let go of my arm and cupped his hands over his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation and pacing around the room.
I wanted to light a cigarette to do something with my mouth—I sure as hell felt too inadequate to speak—but was too shocked to move. Everyone knew? Was I even living in the same universe as my mates? They seemed to have been keeping a lot from me.