He’d just proven to the world what a complete fuck up he was. He’d agreed to it all, but he hadn’t been able to do it.
And now he sat at the kitchen table staring at a cup of coffee in a house that was now too quiet. Never before had his home felt so empty…had he felt so alone.
Next to the coffee was a bottle of whiskey. Although he hadn’t poured it in the coffee yet, that was his plan. He knew exactly how to drown out all the voices and what accompanied them: disappointment, fear, and that overwhelming disgust he felt for himself.
Uncapping the bottle, he let the aroma waft out of its neck and inhaled it, that old familiar comfort washing over him. For a moment, he lifted it to his lips and then shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to start chugging it immediately. He had to try to show some self-restraint.
So he poured enough in the cup to bring the liquid to the rim—and, in the warm coffee, the scent intensified, making his mouth water, his hunger becoming insatiable.
Setting the bottle back down, he put the lid on and then slid the cup closer. Gripping the handle, he started to lift it to his mouth.
And paused for just one moment.
He knew…if he did this, that would be the end of it all. And this wasn’t something new. This was the asshole he’d become…and he’d put on a good mask, but his whole life had become a pattern. He’d always felt like having tight control was the way to make sure everything worked according to plan. But the control didn’t stop that fear deep inside, that one that told him he didn’t deserve happiness, that he hadn’t earned anything he’d been given, and it would rear its ugly head. Shaking his head, he had yet another paralyzing thought: that if he really did have a comeback, the next album would be the one where the fans discovered he was a fraud, where no matter what he did, they would see him for who he really was underneath it all.
That was part of why he’d fucked up his first and only solo album. He’d believed if he created a technical masterpiece, no one would be able to deny his genius. Instead, he’d stripped it bare of its soul, and it was just a hollow attempt, something that in retrospect felt like artistic masturbation. And everyone on the planet had called it.
And so what had he done after that? He’d sabotaged himself. He’d started drinking and using and lashing out at every single critic rather than admitting anything to himself. And that sabotage had caused him to lose Natalie.
And today, like back then, he was alone again.
That shit hadn’t been the first time. It had happened when he’d walked away from Jokers Wilder, acting like a hurricane intent on destruction. Those guys in the band—at one time, they’d been his close friends, his brothers, but he’d fucked it all up.
And then, near the end of the tour to support his solo album, he’d begun a relationship with Natalie, his second guitarist. When she joined the band, she’d told him she was clean and sober and wanted to keep it that way…but when Quentin started taking H to numb himself, she’d finally relented, joining him in his alcohol and heavy drug binges meant to drown out his thoughts. And, with just two dates left in the tour, there was one morning when she didn’t wake up. She hadn’t simply overdosed. Instead, she’d choked on her own vomit in her sleep and Quentin had been too out of it to save her.
That shit was all Quentin’s fault—and he’d talked through it all in rehab and tried to forgive himself. He thought he had. He’d talked to her parents and siblings, gave them a good chunk of his earnings from that tour, but they had said he didn’t need their forgiveness. They knew Natalie had had problems and it wasn’t because of Quentin.
That had somehow made it worse.
And here he was today, having done it all with Raine again. Not just once. More than once, not being there when she needed him. And the final time, not doing what he’d promised, was the worst.
Fuck.
Looking at the coffee again, he thought about it. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this shit again. Standing up, he picked the mug up off the table and poured it in the sink.
Jesus. He needed some serious help. Picking up his phone off the counter, he scrolled through his contacts and found the one labeled: Kevin sponsor. They hadn’t spoken in over a year.
But maybe it was time.
The phone rang once, then twice, and then Kevin’s voice came through Quentin’s cell. “Quentin, it’s been a while. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I…need your help.” And Quentin proceeded to bare his soul.
The next day, Quentin felt a little stronger—and he deemed it progress. After talking with Kevin the day before, he poured the rest of the bottle of whiskey down the drain and then wiped down the entire kitchen with a lemon-scented cleaner before taking the bottle out to the trash can. Not just out of sight, out of mind, but out of smell as well.
Then he’d worked out and walked the property to keep his head clear.
Today was a new day…and he wanted to watch Raine’s performance at the awards show with fresh eyes. They hadn’t spoken since that day, and it had been over a week since her manager had fetched her things.
On the big screen television in the living room, he stood, remote control in hand, and searched until he found a recording.
Jesus. He could tell by the way she walked on stage as they announced her name and the audience greeting her with applause that she was nervous—but he knew the audience couldn’t tell. There was just something about the way she moved and the way her face looked tight, even with a bright smile.
He’d been the reason for that.
That day was supposed to have been nothing but pure joy and celebration, but Quentin had let his fears get in the way.
God, she looked beautiful. Such a simple, understated dress, but she looked elegant and yet oh, so Raine. Her makeup was fresh and pure, her hair soft and wavy. She appeared to belong on that stage, and he wondered if she knew that.
