He lets out a wounded noise, then winces.
“Feels like I got jumped by the ocean.”
He rubs his temples, groaning again.
“Shoulda hit pause on this.
“My brain’s about three waves behind.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say,
glancing at the mixing board,
all pulse and glow, having its own heartbeat.
“Studio’s full ‘til next Sunday.”
Ace sighs, chair creaking as he leans back,
stretching his arms behind his head.
Across from us,
Digby Holliday—London-born rocker and currently the second most miserable bastard alive—stares up at the ceiling like it was the one who broke his heart.
He’s sunk into the couch,
limbs long and wrecked,
one foot kicked up on the coffee table,
lip ring caught in his teeth,
tattooed arms crossing his chest.
Eyes, bloodshot.
Curls, a mess.
Just a man bleeding from a woman who loved drugs more.
He’d been her punching bag,
her vein to stick,
the mirror she smashed every night.
Now he’s stuck with needle tracks in his memory, and a thousand stitches in his heart.
Digby’s humming again, same line, same key
looped to death in his head.
“It’s off,” he mutters,
dragging a hand down his face.
“The whole thing’s fuckin off, mate.
