I’m done.
As I stumble from my hiding place, I feel eyeballs following my retreating form, but I don’t care if I’ve been made. I take off running, get on my bike, and hightail it out of there.
Dropping the bike off at our gaff, I avoid anyone seeing me and walk to the nearest dive bar where I proceed to prop up the bar for the night. Pain is my constant companion as I knock back whiskey like it’s going out of fashion. I want to get blind drunk so I can blot out all the thoughts flitting through my head.
“Want company?” a woman with a sultry voice asks as the legs of the stool scrape across the wooden floor when she hops up beside me.
Whipping my head to the side, I can barely make out her features through my blurry eyes. “Depends,” I say, signaling to the bartender to pour me another measure.
“On what?” A warm hand lands on my arm.
“On what you want.” I rub at my tired eyes.
“Hmm.” She props one elbow on the bar and perches her chin in her hand. “I suspect this is a test.”
My vision focuses, and I get a good look at her. She’s older than me but not by more than a few years. Pretty in that fake, manufactured L.A. way. Bottle-blonde hair, skinny as fuck with massive silicone tits and oversized glossy lips. She isn’t a patch on my Hollywood, and that’s why I slide off my stool and grab her hand. “Not anymore.” Images of Vivien and Reeve fucking have been assaulting my mind since I sat down in this shithole. I need to fuck that treacherous bitch from my mind, and now is as good a time as any to start.
Her smile is instant, her enhanced lips spreading over a dazzling set of perfect teeth. “Now you’re talking my language.”
Dragging her to the nearest single-door bathroom, I walk her inside and lock the door. She’s on me like a rash, shoving me up against the door and grabbing my soft dick through my jeans as she stretches up to kiss me. The instant her lips touch mine, it’s like being doused in a bucket full of icy water. Her touch is all wrong, and I instantly feel sick to my stomach. My skin is crawling like a thousand fire ants are throwing a party across my flesh. I’m not gentle as I push her off me, offering no explanation as I unlock the door and storm off. Tossing a few bills down on the counter, I leave my drink behind and stomp out of the place, feeling even more fucked up then when I entered.
Christmas comes and goes, and I enter fully into the party spirit, getting drunk whenever possible, purely to blot it all out. Vivien haunts me continuously unless I keep myself busy or distract myself with booze or weed.
Our no-hard-drugs rule is more important than ever before. Too many bands have fallen prey to rock ’n’ roll excesses as soon as they make it, and we’re determined not to get lured into the same trap. Only for our rule, I think I’d be falling down a more slippery slope.
This is a personal hell. One of my own making. However, my bandmates and my sister don’t deserve to suffer the consequences of my poor decision-making, so I do my best to be present for the band, to try to hide my inner pain, only succumbing at night when I’m in bed alone with nothing to buffer me.
Our family thoroughly enjoy their visit. Though Ma is clearly worried about me, she bites her tongue. I do my best to fake it, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep, and I eat solely to fuel my body. I’m working out more than ever, and I joined a local boxing club. Though I regularly pound the bag and go a few rounds in the training ring with various blokes, nothing eliminates the raw ache that constantly eats away at me until it feels like I’m only a walking bag of bones.
The only thing that offers any respite is music. My addiction seeps out of me onto the page as I purge my emotions through song lyrics. I want to hate Viv for what she’s done, but longing and pain are still my foremost emotions. I hate how much I still want her after everything she’s done, but the truth is, if sherocked up here tomorrow and begged for my forgiveness, I’d take her back in a heartbeat.
I still want her, so fucking much, and it’s doing my head in.
After I told Ash and Jay what went down in Westwood that day, neither of them have pushed me again. Ash has stopped ringing and texting her, and collectively, without articulating it, we’re all relegating Vivien Mills to the past.
In January, I let the others drag me to a club for my twenty-first birthday where we all get completely shit-faced. It helps to block out thoughts of Vivien celebrating my twin’s birthday with him. After another failed attempt at getting with a different woman, I have to face facts: Vivien broke me. Ruined me for all other women. Forget about fucking, I can’t even kiss anyone.
I think I’m destined to be permanently alone. Pre-Viv Dillon was perfectly comfortable with eternal bachelorhood. Post-Viv Dillon is lonely as fuck and drowning in pain because the only woman he wants no longer wants him.
By the end of February, the album is done, and the label are ecstatic with the songs we’ve produced and practically frothing at the mouth in anticipation of launching us on the world in the summer.
It’s early March, and we’re at a giant meeting with the band, Frank, Dave, Ava—our publicist—the VP of marketing, a few people from the marketing team, and one of the management bigwigs, brainstorming different things. This is stage one of forming a promotional plan to introduce us officially to the music scene. Currently, we’re arguing over the band name. And surprise, surprise, my sister is the person fighting the hardest to keep Toxic Gods.
Always knew she was full of shit when it came to our name.
“The name fits, and they’re already garnering attention online. All the old YouTube videos are racking up thousandsof extra views by the day. We’ll lose all that exposure,” Ash proclaims.
“The name has negative connotations,” the VP of marketing argues back. “Toxic suggests something unpleasant, something detrimental to one’s health.”
“And Gods suggests arrogance,” some dick from the marketing team adds.
“Arrogance and rock star go hand in hand,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table. My arse is numb from sitting in this chair for so long, and I’m on edge. I’m itching to put my gloves on and imagine my punching bag is Reeve Lancaster’s face while I pummel it to oblivion.
“Not anymore,” the VP says. “Times have changed.”
Bullshit, but I don’t bother arguing. I’m keen to end this effing meeting, not prolong it.
“I know you’re concerned about losing any ground the band has gained,” Dave says, speaking directly to Ash. “But what’s come before really doesn’t matter. This is a new start, a clean slate. I know you guys have support in Ireland,” he adds, letting his gaze roam between me, Ro, Con and Jay. “But it means nothing here. Our team is the best at what they do. We only get one chance to make a first impression. The work we put in these next three to four months will make or break the band.”
