Ten days after I leave rehab, we release our mini EP and travel around the US and Europe for a few months to promote it which helps to keep my mind occupied.
We return to L.A. in December, and Ro makes it back for the delivery of his little baby daughter by the skin of his teeth. Next year, we’ll begin work on a new full-length album and prepare for a tour which will kick off the following year. In the meantime, we all enjoy a much-needed break over the Christmas period.
Though I attend lots of parties, I always return home alone. I haven’t fucked anyone in months, and I have no plans to change that. I’m not interested in anyone else. And I find myself back at square one. Frustrated and pissed off to still be hung up on the one woman I can’t have.
Anger flares again, and I begin strategizing how I can use my industry contracts to leak the news about the Lancasters. I’m done holding back. Fuck what my therapist said in rehab. He loved reminding me that planning revenge got me into this mess in the first place, constantly stating the only way to fully heal was to let it go. But he didn’t get it. He didn’t understand the torture my life has been these past few years or how I’ll never get out from under it as long as the Lancasters continue to have the upper hand.
The only way I can move forward is to exact revenge, and I’m done waiting. It’s time to stop obsessing and start planning.
A few days later, the Oscar nominations are announced, and we’re on the list along with my twin. That prick seems determined to ruin every special occasion for me. Someone up there sure loves fucking with me. At least it means I’ll get to see her in the flesh. There’s no way she won’t be there to support her husband, and she can’t avoid me this time; I won’t let her.
“You should go easy on that,” Ash says, her face awash with concern as we sit across from one another in the limousine en route to the Dolby Theatre where the Oscar ceremony is taking place.
“You should mind your own business.” I drill her with a ‘butt out’ look before I lift the bottle of JD to my lips again and take a healthy glug.
“Shut your fucking face, Dil, or I’ll shut it for you.” Jamie glares at me. “You’re not taking your shitty mood out on my fiancée. Not after everything she’s done to organize tonight.”
Ordinarily, I love how my best mate rushes to defend my beloved sister. He always takes her side these days, and I only love him more for it. But tonight, it’s just another thing that’s grinding on my nerves. I’ve been in a pissy mood for weeks the closer we got to the ceremony. This is a big deal for the band. The Academy nominated Collateral Damage for the best original song, and I should be over the fucking moon.
Yet all I can think about is my imminent reunion with the woman who ripped my heart from my chest before pulverizing it to dust.
Fuck her and fuck him. Fuck them for ruining what should be a joyous occasion and something to celebrate.
“I’m worried about you,” Ash adds.
“Worry about yourself,” I say through gritted teeth. I open my mouth to hurl vitriol but stop before the hurtful words leave my lips. Tonight will be hard for Ash, too. Jamie is right. It’s unfair to take this out on my sister.
“I’m sorry,” I say before swigging from the bottle. “It’s not fair to take my shitty mood out on you. I hate I’m in a shitty mood. If I could snap out of it, I would.”
“Drinking yourself into a stupor won’t help.” Ash smooths a hand down the front of her silver-and-gold designer dress.
She ditched the pixie cut a few years ago, but she still wears her strawberry-blonde hair short, falling in sharp lines to her chin. The hair and makeup people did a great job, and she looks like she fits in with the snooty crowd. Unlike the rest of us degenerates. On this rare occasion, Jamie sided with the band, and we refused, en masse, to wear tuxedos tonight.
We’re a rock band, and Hollywood can take us as we come or leave us.
However, the event has a formal dress code, and we were told, in no uncertain terms, they would refuse us entry if we showed up in jeans and leather jackets. It caused World War Three, and at first, we were adamant we weren’t backing down, but ultimately, we did. For Ash. And our mums. They’re getting a kick out of us attending the ceremony. So, we’re all wearing penguin suits, under protest, and trying not to look pissy about it.
I didn’t want to opt for a traditional tux, so I’m wearing a fitted black Armani jacket with silk lapels bordered in red and black trousers. For our performance, I’m wearing my signature black T-shirt, ripped black jeans, and my trusty scuffed boots.
“You look stunning,” I tell Ash, wanting to make amends. It’s not her fault the Lancasters will be here. I’m sure if she could’ve done something about it, she would have. But that prick is up for a best actor Oscar, and it’s not like he’s gonna be a no-show.
“And you’re deflecting.” Air whooshes out of her mouth as she leans back against the leather seat.
Jamie presses a kiss to her head, shooting me a warning look.
Conor stares out the window as he smokes a blunt, seemingly disinterested, but I know he’s listening to every word. He didn’t bring a date because he’s in between girlfriends, and I didn’t bring a date because I don’t date. It’s not worth the hassle. It’s easy finding a willing body when I want to fuck, but like I said, even that’s lost its appeal in recent months.
“Don’t fucking ignore me, Dil,” Ash hisses, leaning forward to jab me in the chest.
I return my attention to my sister. “If you’re worried about my performance, don’t be. I’ve been drunk onstage before, and I have never once fucked up or let the band down. And I’m not even close to drunk yet.” For some inexplicable reason, drinking before we go onstage has helped my performance in the past. Go figure.
Ash pins me with a probing look. “You know what I’m worried about.”
“Why do you think I’m trying to drink myself into oblivion?” I snap, dragging a hand through my white-blond hair.
“Give me some of that,” Ro says, swiping the bottle from my fingers. “I could use a trip to oblivion myself.”
Ash curses under her breath as she watches our younger brother drink the whiskey. “Drowning your sorrows in a bottle is not the solution, Ro.”
