Page 4 of Toxic Kiss

Ouch. Haven’s words cut like a blade, not deep, but efficient and impossible to ignore. I’ve missed sessions. I haven’t been to practice in weeks. The first tour is breathing down our necks, and I’ve been slipping. LG Records isn’t giving out second chances. Dates don’t hold for grief.

Haven stomps around to the driver’s side of the car and gets in, slamming the door. Fuck my life. When I climb in, she stares at me like she’s waiting for the apology I never learned how to give.

“Don’t bother gloating,” I tell her. “You might be right. Maybe I should leave tonight, but don’t think that I’ll ever give you a shot in the band, write our songs or let you tag along. The only thing that wants to hear you sing is a cat in heat,” I add.

It’s another lie. Haven has a sensual and smooth voice that I can listen to all day.

She bites her lip, and I know I’ve hit another nerve.

I look away, laying my head back on the headrest. Everything feels off and unsteady, and maybe that’s the point. Nothing shocks me anymore. Getting under Haven’s skin is, absurdly, the highlight of my day. If I can make someone else bleed, I don’t have to look at the hollowness in my chest. Or the pain my mother inflicted by yanking me away from everything I knew so soon after my father’s death to marry another man. If I can make Haven hurt, then good. The sharp ache of guilt and loss is as sharp today as the moment I got the call that Patrick died. It never let up.

I want to rage, to run, to smash every amp and rebuild it in a new life, a fantasy world where I choose if the statues are made from candy instead of stone.

But…instead, I flick on Haven’s radio and let the night swallow me.

Thump, thump, thump. An ugly heartbeat marching me toward oblivion.

chapter

two

“What does it mean when the only person who can save you is also the one you’d rather drown with?” - Cyrus

CYRUS

The walls breathe. I swear they do. Every shadow is a ghost. Patrick’s laugh echoes in one corner, my father’s mangled corpse snarls from another. Neither is real. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop their faces from appearing and clawing at the deepest parts of my mind. Blaming me for their deaths.

I pace, bare feet dragging over the carpet that smells like old whiskey and stale sweat. Four fucking days sober, three fucking nights without sleep. My skin feels like it’s peeling off from the inside, which I don’t think is possible, yet it still feels like it is.

My heart won’t slow, like the thumping music from the club has taken up residence inside my ribcage, but without rhythm—without offering salvation.

I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this.

LG Records gave me two weeks…two fucking weeks to get right, or I’m out. Auguste Gaillard gave no wiggle room as he sat unaffected by my grief, behind his oak desk. Out of the band, out of the deal, out of the only thing that matters. He said it like a lifeline, but it’s really a noose. The rest of the guys—my supposed friends—will stay with the record. I’m the one they’ll cut, like a diseased limb poisoning a body.

And maybe I am.

I rip the cord out of the wall and toss my lamp across the room. The crash when it hits the floor is a small relief. The second crash, when I hurl my guitar case against the dresser, damages the corner but also something inside me. The sound isn’t right…hasn’t been for months.

Patrick’s not here to write, to laugh, to tell me I’m dramatic. He’s not here to keep me in line or tell me to fuck off when I’ve gone too far. He’s not anywhere, and yet every time I blink, I see the disappointment in his eyes before he walks away. I don’t want to be an angry, selfish prick, but I am. I’m fucking pissed that he got behind the wheel. I’m fucking pissed that I didn’t stop him. I’m fucking pissed that he died, and most of all, I’m fucking pissed that it all stems from Haven.

Fuck, I hate him for that. And…I miss him just as much. I wish I could punch him square in the face and hug him at the same time.

My throat burns, and tears sting my eyes. I drag both hands through my hair until I want to rip it out.

“Fuck!”

The room spins, and I gasp. My chest is too tight. I grip my T-shirt over my heart. My skin is crawling. Every cell is screaming for a fix to the constant ache. Just one shot, one line, one drink, one dance, one fuck. And I hate myself for needing anything.

I stumble to my desk and throw the first thing I touch. A book smacks against the wall. A glass follows, and the shards scatter across the carpet like little daggers waiting for me to walk across them.

“Jesus Christ…what the hell is happening in here?”

Her voice slices through the mania. I spin around, panting, and there she is in the doorway. Haven. Red hair wild from sleep, green eyes sharp in the lamplight. She’s wearing boxers with red butterflies and a cropped tank that rides up, revealing her stomach.

I lick my lips, my pulse spiking for an entirely different reason.

“Get the fuck out,” I growl. My voice is as raw as how my soul feels.