She bites her lip, finally falling quiet.
When I pull up to the valet drop, she unbuckles slowly and turns toward me. “Come up with me?”
I shake my head immediately. “No.”
Her green eyes narrow as she drags a nail up my arm. I tense. “What’s got you suddenly so uninterested? You used to always come to my room. What the fuck, Jude?”
I swallow hard. “Maybe the fact that I overdosed onstage in front of twelve thousand people fucked me up. Maybe I know I’m probably going to die soon. Or that you assaulted me the othernight while I was walking the fine fucking line of overdosing again. And maybe,just maybe,that makes me not give a shit.”
Her mouth twists, eyes flicking away. “You work for me, too.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not high on meth, Adriana. I’m not going to fuck you.”
“I don’t like working with Nolan, you know,” she murmurs, softer now. “I hate my life, too. I’ve hated it for years.”
I don’t have the patience for this. “Could’ve fooled me. Honestly.”
She scoffs. “Fine. But don’t make this a habit. I’ll tell Nolan you’re falling short on your responsibilities to me.”
“Shut up, Adriana.”
She pauses with her hand on the door, her expression twisting with disappointment. “I wish that you would just like me. You’re the only person that doesn’t make me want to run away. We’re more similar than you think.”
My knuckles go white around the steering wheel. With a huff, she steps out and slams the door.
The highway back to Seaside seems endless. My hands are shaking before I even hit the next exit. Emma’s face drifts through my mind—her voice, her warmth, her hope. She has no idea who I’m becoming. And sooner or later, I’m going to have to tell her how deep I’m in...or walk away and let her think I never loved her at all.
I pull into the driveway with Adriana’s perfume still clinging to my hoodie. I’m going to need to wash the damn thing now. Inside, the house is warm, dim, and smells faintly of cheap broth. Micah is sitting cross-legged on the couch, hunched over a bowl of ramen, slurping noodles like an animal.
He looks up, mouth full. “Sup.”
I snort. “You’re disgusting, dude.”
He waves his fork at me. “Starving artist. Let me live.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can utter a witty response. But the moment fades fast, leaving only the familiar ache crawling up my spine. I walk straight to the coffee table. My hands know the route without thinking. I open the drawer and find the black case. My pulse kicks, and I eagerly remove my hoodie. When I glance back at Micah, his eyes are already glossy and unfocused. High as hell.
“Order somethingreal,” I mutter, handing him my phone before flicking on the lighter.
“Hell yeah,” he grins, already scrolling. “I’m thinkin’ Thai. Not evenremotelynoodled out yet.”
I’m not listening anymore. I sit on the edge of the couch, strap my arm, and ready the needle. The sight of it makes something inside me recoil, but the craving steamrolls everything else. My veins are already jumping.
I slide the needle in. Push the plunger.
The world softens instantly. My body loosens like someone let all the tension bleed out at once. I fall back into the couch, head tipping against the cushion. Warmth floods my limbs. My heartbeat slows to a crawl. Micah is still tapping on my phone beside me, like I didn’t just inject heroin. Like we’re just two friends hanging out, not destroying ourselves slowly.
“She’s cute as fuck for this,” he mumbles.
My eyelids lift halfway. “W—what?”
He holds the phone up. “Emma. She texted. Wants to hang out tonight. Asked what we’re doing.”
A bolt of guilt stabs through my high. I take a slow breath, sinking deeper into the heroin’s pull. “Tell her,” I say quietly, licking my lips. Speech is fucking difficult right now. “That we’re not doing anything tonight.”
Micah glances at me with a pointed look, but doesn’t argue. “Alright.” He types something, thumbs moving fast. “Sent.”
My phone buzzes again in his hand, but I don’t ask.
