Prologue
Ash
I’d never believed there was any kind of grand purpose to my life, or to the relationships that came and went from it.
I’d never believed in fate, or karma, or any of that shit.
With all the bullshit I’d been through, why would I?
I definitely wasn’t feeling any kind of manifest destiny that day.
I couldn’t feel much at all.
Then I got off the chairlift at the top of the mountain, the edge of my snowboard caught in the ice and I went down, hard, twisting the shit out of my knee.
It had been three days since I’d broken up with my girlfriend, Summer. Three days since I’d had my heart smashed.
Three days since I’d started partying.
It was a gorgeous, clear morning. Bluebird day; fresh powder, perfect conditions. I’d planned to spend all fucking day on my board, sweating out the alcohol.
Then, you know, start drinking again.
But then I fell getting off the fucking chairlift.
I was barely able to crawl out of the way in time before the guys getting off the chair behind me ended up on top of me. It was two of my bandmates, Pepper and Janner, who pretty much pissed themselves laughing at me. Zero sympathy.
I could’ve boarded circles around either of these guys, hungover or not, but in that moment, they weren’t the ones on their asses in the snow.
At least Johnny, who’d been on my chair with me, gave me a hand up.
It was our first run of the day. The four of us had just dragged our asses out of the hotel, and my day of boarding was already done. Couldn’t put much weight on my knee, couldn’t even coast my ass down the hill. Had to sit down in the snow and wait for help, while Janner sat with me—and laughed at me.
Guess that’s what you get after staying up most of the night, drinking way too much tequila with a bunch of rock stars.
And circus freaks.
And a bachelorette party.
Long story.
The medics had to collect me and give me a ride down the hill on a snowmobile. They took a look at my knee and wrapped it up, told me to go easy on it for a few days. I passed when they asked for photos; I wasn’t in the mood to play rock star. But I signed their skis before I limped on my way.
By the time I got back to the hotel, it was a ghost town. Everyone was on the slopes. So I got changed and did the only thing there was to do: start drinking. I hit up the empty lounge, sat at the bar, ordered a beer and chatted a bit with the bartender.
Johnny came back to the hotel not long after I did.
I was alone at the bar when he found me. Said he was too hungover to board and ordered himself a drink.
“Shot of bourbon,” he told the bartender. “And one for my wounded friend here.”
I looked at Johnny then. Really looked.
I didn’t know Johnny O’Reilly well. I didn’t know we were friends.
I’d only met him a few times before. We were both rock stars on the rise, both from Vancouver, spent a lot of time in L.A.. Ran in the same circles, hit the same parties.
Two days before, he’d come to my breakup party in L.A., and here we were.
