I always felt like I could do anything when she was by my side.
Her love literally lifted me to new heights.
She made me feel worthy for the first time ever.
I’ve never felt the same connection with any other woman. They are just nameless, faceless fucks who help me get out of my head for a while, but I’ve never felt anything when I’m with them, never allowed anyone to get close enough to try.
Not like with her. Zeta only has to step into a room, and I’m drawn to her in a way I can’t explain or describe.
“Looking for some company tonight, sexy?” The bartender cuts through my thoughts, leaning forward on the counter, deliberately flashing me her tits.
“Not tonight, Rita.” I only ever come to this bar when I’m meetinghim. A couple times, I’ve been so traumatized after the drop-off I’ve come back inside and practically drank the bar dry.
The last time I was here, I fucked Rita in the lane out back, but I was so smashed I didn’t even wait for her to come. I was rough, and I came fucking hard, then pulled up my pants, and walked off without a word. I felt bad about that the next day. I always try to ensure the girl gets off, but I was a selfish jackass that night. If I was a normal guy, I doubt she’d be asking for seconds, but most girls have an agenda when it comes to rock stars.
I generally stick to groupies, because most encounters take place when we’re on tour, and the chance of bumping into them again is slim.
Fucking women who hang out in the places I frequent in New York is a recipe for disaster, because they always come back for more even when I explain it’s only a one-time thing. I’ve messed up a few times, and it’s always come back to bite me in the ass.
I throw a few bills on the counter, slide off the stool, and walk out of the bar.
It’s three a.m., but there are still people milling about. I pull my hoodie up over my head and keep my chin down.
One of the things I like most about living in New York is how blasé most people are about the celebrities living in their midst. Greenwich Village is home to plenty of famous people because no one usually bothers us here. I can walk about without being deluged. Sure, you get tourists stopping and asking for autographs, but most locals just stare and drool. I regularly run the streets in the early hours of the morning when I can’t sleep, and I love the sense of freedom I feel as I pound the sidewalks.
Tonight, though, I don’t want anyone to recognize me for obvious reasons.
I slip into the narrow alleyway and head toward the overflowing dumpster. He steps out of the shadows, and a red mist ghosts over my eyes like always. Looking at him sickens me every time. He thinks he looks legit because he wears an expensive suit and watch, both bought on my dime, but one look into those cold, hard eyes reveals the truth.
“You’re late,” he snaps, reaching an arm out for me.
I clamp my hand on his muscular arm, stopping him from going for my throat. I haven’t let him touch me like that in years, and I’m not about to let him now. “Take your fucking hands off me, or this’ll be the last time you see me.”
He chuckles. “You always were a stupid little punk.”
I thrust the brown envelope at his chest and turn to leave, but he grabs hold of my elbow, stopping me. “I can ruin your life.”
You already have.
“Don’t ever forget that.” The look he gives me is one I’m well accustomed to, and it never fails to send fear coursing down my spine. “I can snap her neck like a twig.” He clicks his fingers. “Just like that, and then your precious Zeta will be no more.” I hate how he continues to use her to push my buttons, and I wish I wasn’t so transparent when it came to her, but no matter how discreet I am, he always seems to know.
“And what would all your adoring fans think if they knew what you did?”
The thought of the public uncovering the truth scares me. It honestly does. But not as much as Zeta paying the price for my mistakes. If it came down to it, I’d throw my career under the bus without a minute’s hesitation if it meant keeping her safe.
I shove his hand off my elbow. “You got what you came for, so just leave me the fuck alone.”
“You owe me, boy. You’ll never stop owing me.”
Frustration gets the better of me, and I round on him, pushing him back into the wall. “You didn’t even do time! You’re the only one who got away without punishment.” I found that out a few years back when I did some digging, and it disgusted me. “I don’t owe you shit.”
He shoves me away, and I stumble a little. “The hell you don’t. It’s your fault. It’s your fault everyone was sent down, and you’ll never stop paying for that.” He slams his shoulder into mine as he pushes past me. “I’ll see you in three months. Be a good boy,Ryder, or you know what’ll happen.” He walks backward down the alley, pinning me with his evil eye. “I’ve got eyes on you.” He points his fingers at me. “Always. Never forget that.”
I spend the next three days permanently high and drunk as I do everything to banish him and my past from my conscious mind. But it doesn’t work, because it’s indelibly imprinted on my brain, and the internal scars will never heal.
Dark thoughts invade my mind, smothering me, pressing down on my chest, securing a tight grip around my heart, and I just want it to stop. I need it to end. I can’t go on existing like this, and someway or somehow, it’s going to come to a conclusion, but I don’t know if I’ll be left standing at the end.
I stagger toward my bedroom, clutching a bottle of Jack to my chest. After draining the contents, I flop back on the bed, my entire body shaking and trembling, and slowly, the tears come, gradually increasing in volume until I’m curled into a ball, screaming and crying into the void, begging someone to end my suffering.
