I shake my head, saying, “No, thanks,” and walk past them to the living room.
Joseph knows me so well that he knows when I need him and when I need to be left alone. And being left alone is what Ineedright now. I feel stupid, and I know I only have myself to blame.
Needing a distraction, I open the laptop and log onto my socials. I may want to be alone, but with too much quiet, my mind will take over, drowning me in too many emotions.
The first notification that pops up is from Anna, saying she’s checked into the Rutherford Regent Hotel in Monaco. I close myeyes, breathe out, and shake my head. Then I start to wonder, if I do some Google searching, I might be able to figure out where he was last night.I look over my shoulder at the guys, and they’re both busy in the kitchen, so I turn back, open the search engine, and type inhisname and the date.
Links start to pop up on the screen.
Most of them are reporting that the brothers of12GAUGE-Slayedare trying to slay each other. I crease my brows, opening the first link. At the top of the page are photographs taken outside a bar in Monaco, withhimholding Hux by the scruff of his shirt.Helooks furious. Then, there are more pictures ofhimtalking to a girl who looks like Anna. It’s hard to make out, andhe’srunninghishand throughhishair. The next one is ofhimsitting at the bar with a stein of beer and tons of empty shot glasses.
Figures!
So, from what I can piece together,heand Hux fought, Anna tried to calmhimdown, and thenhegot drunk to forget. I’ve seen all I need to, so I go to close Google, but a thought comes to mind. I type in Google Alerts and sit, staring at the screen for a minute.
Do I want to be alerted to everything that comes up abouthim?
I hesitate, knowing that feeding this temptation—seeinghisname,hisface,hislife plastered across my screen every day—will only make it worse. But I can’t stop myself.
Every piece ofhimI can cling to is the only thing keeping my heart beating.
So, like the complete, out-of-my-mind idiot I am, I typehisname into the alert settings and send the updates straight to my email.
Let the self-destruction begin.
***
Over the next week, my inbox fills with pings from Google Alerts, each one another gut punch.
Every article paints the same tragic picture—‘he who shallnotbe named’ is spiraling, fueled by drugs and alcohol.
One report claimshewalked into an after-party with white powder dusting his nose, the paparazzi snapping up their million-dollar shots. Another sayshewas found lying in a gutter on a street in Monaco, barely conscious, just two days after my breakdown.
The police pickedhimup. Found a bag of cocaine onhim. Chargedhimwith possession. But because there were only remnants left,hemanaged to walk away with nothing more than a fine. It’s impressive what fame can do for you.
Then there’s the mugshot.
Hisdisheveled hair.Hisvacant, bloodshot eyes. The rugged face that once made my heart race now haunts me.
Rumors swirl—whispers of12GAUGE-Slayed breakingup after the tour. Fans are leaving mid-concert because the brothers are fighting on stage. Becauseheis so‘off his face’hedoesn’t even know what songhe’ssinging.
Word is, Rob Luxley wants to drop them.
He’sa mess.
Andhelooks it.
In every image, every grainy paparazzi shot,he’snot much different from that unkempt, hollow-eyed version ofhimselfinhismugshot.
He’snothing like the man who once owned every stageheset foot on—untouchable, electric, larger than life.
He’snothing like the rock god I knew.
And even though I despisehimfor breaking my heart, a deep, aching sadness settles in my chest because I know exactly who’s responsible.
Hux.
I cannot forgive him for dragginghimback into this life, for putting temptation right in front ofhimwhenhewas already so close to losing control. And now, ever since that night—the nighthenever called—he’sbeen falling.Fast.
