I need to focus on looking semi-human before our manager gets here, because if he finds out I’m partying hard again, he’ll string me up by my balls. Or send me to rehab again.
Rod is the best fucking man I know. He literally saved me single-handed, and our band, Torment, has received worldwide fame thanks to his expert management and savvy business skills.
I owe him so much.
I owe him everything.
As messed up as I am, I shudder to think of how much worse it would be if he hadn’t found me busking that day. If he hadn’t taken a chance on me. If he hadn’t whisked me away to New York and given me so many opportunities.
Letting him down only adds to my guilt, and I wish I could say I never do, but I’m locked in a vicious cycle where guilt and remorse drive my actions, only adding more shit to the pile.
I have the music career I’ve always wanted, wealth beyond my wildest dreams, and women throwing themselves at me everywhere I go. I should be on top of the world, yet I feel like I’m stuck at the bottom of the ocean, my feet harnessed to the ocean floor, my mouth open in a silent scream, gagging as I drown in a sea of self-hatred, my body bucking as I’m sucked downward into an endless dark void that refuses to let me go.
“He’s still out there with his fuck buddies,” Mike supplies, dragging me back into the moment.
My anger instantly flares. “Do you actuallywantto be fired?” I roar, shoving past him out into my bedroom.
“I tried to get them to leave, and one of them screamed I was manhandling her. Garrett just sat on his ass and laughed.” He, at least, has the decency to look apologetic. “You know I won’t touch that.”
My anger fades instantly. We had an incident, a couple years ago, just before I went completely off the rails, when Mike was accused of assault by one of the groupies after a party in my L.A. pad. All he’d been trying to do was help the girl to leave, but she was fucking smashed, and she fell over as he was escorting her down the hallway. The top half of her dress had fallen open in the process, and she screamed bloody murder, accusing him of undressing her with intent even though he hadn’t laid a finger on her. I wrote a check and made it go away but Mike’s wary of touching any of the girls now, and I can’t say I blame him.
I storm into my open-plan living room, my skull protesting at the noise blaring from the wall-mounted TV. Garrett Jones, guitarist and backup vocalist for Torment, my usual wingman and closest friend, is sprawled across my leather couch, in just his boxers, with a scantily clad girl on each arm and one on her knees between his feet.
Yanking the remote off the table, I mute the TV and stalk over to my buddy. “Get them the fuck out of here now!” Gar knows how I feel about this, and I’m pissed he’s taking advantage. “Rod’s on his way here.”
I claw a hand through my hair, forgetting it’s so much shorter now, instantly grieving the loss of my longer tresses. “Are you fucking insane? He will rip us a new one if he knows what went on here last night.”
“Dude. Relax.” Garrett steps over the girl at his feet and clasps hold of my shoulders. “He won’t hear about our eightsome from me.” His piercing green eyes are laughing as he raises his hand for a knuckle touch.
Ignoring him, I collapse on the couch behind me, shaking my head. “Fuck. Me.”
That’s a new record even for us.
I swore I was giving up the orgies after the last one. One of the girls had secretly recorded footage on her cell, and she wasted no time releasing it. It went viral in minutes and crashed Twitter. Shit like that does wonders for the band, but I cried like a pussy that night imagining Zeta watching it. Not that it should matter. She must hate my guts after the way I ended things, deserting her like that without another word.
“Been there, done that, and have the aches to prove it,” the brunette in the black lacy panties and bra says, sitting down beside me and running her hand up my chest.
I slap her hand away, more irritated than usual. “Get the fuck out now.”
“Dude.” Gar pulls his mouth away from the blonde he’s currently locking lips with, looking over at me. “Relax, it’s not like Rod doesn’t know you’ve fallen off the wagon. And the redhead Mike just kicked out has already posted pics online.”
I bury my head in my hands, groaning. I know I’m going to get the rehab speech now.
“Just get them the fuck out of here, Gar. I mean it. I want them gone.”
I storm back into my bedroom, violently slamming the door behind me. My hands ball into fists, and I really want to hit something.
Controlling my frequent bursts of anger is becoming more challenging. Every little thing seems to set me off these days, and I know I’m losing my grip on my sanity.
Stepping into my walk-in-closet, I drop the towel and spend fifteen minutes beating the shit out of my punching bag. After another quick shower, I pull some clothes on, and when I emerge from my room, Garrett is dressed, sipping a coffee as he flirts with Maggie in the kitchen. It doesn’t bother him that she’s in her late fifties with children older than us—he still flirts up a storm any chance he gets.
“Here,” Maggie hands me a cup of her special honey and lemon concoction the instant my foot hits the kitchen floor. “I’m guessing you need that.”
“Thank you.” I kiss the top of her head. “And thanks for cleaning up the place.”
She cups my cheek. “You don’t want to do this again, Ryder. Remember what happened last time. You might not be so lucky again.”
My stomach drops to my toes at the memory, and I hate that I’ve let her down too.
