Page 7 of Dark Notes, Volume Two

Hanging her head down, her gaze locked on the floor, she whispers softly.

“I don’t want to go. I can’t-”

Her voice drops as she finishes her thought.

“They can’t see me like this. Paparazzi will photograph me.”

She makes air quotes as she continues, the pain in her eyes visible and fucking heartbreaking.

“Mia Montgomery—Pregnant or Fat?”

I’ve seen the clickbait too, and I hate that she’s letting these fucking trolls get to her.

I don’t know what she weighed before, but she was too thin. These new curves are tantalizing. I haven’t seen her naked, but I know if I did, she’d bring me to my goddamn knees. I don’t bow to anyone but this woman—I’d fucking crawl to her. Beg for her. I will walk through fucking fire for one single taste.

Stepping in front of her, I take her chin in my hand and lift her head until those stunning blue eyes are on my dark ones.

“Angel, whatever you’re going through, I’m sorry, but this isn’t about you. You’re breaking your best friend's heart by not being there on her wedding day. She has no one. Has she not been through enough?”

Jagger isn’t just the lead singer of the band I’m in. He’s my best friend, and his girl has been through hell and back. After spending her life being abused, things are finally good. Abuse is something I understand more than I’d like to. Maybe if I didn’t know firsthand what that’s like, I wouldn’t be so insistent, but I do. Besides, fourteen hours on a plane, alone with the girl of my fucking dreams, sounds pretty good to me.

She is stunning, of course, but it’s more than that, even if I don’t know what it is. There’s something about Mia that draws you in immediately, and you never want to let her go. Being in her presence is a blessing and a curse. Her beauty, alluring. Her refusal, agony. She has turned me down more times than I can count, but I’ll never give up.

“I’ll go pack,” she says with profound sadness.

If I had a fucking heart, it might make me feel bad, but I don’t.

As I tie off my arm and hold the syringe in my hand, Mia walks back into the room with a narrowed gaze and arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Jett?”

Ignoring her, I inject the drugs into my arm before placing it in a small receptacle so I can dispose of it safely.

“Ready?” I ask her while she stares at me with an expression of shock.

“I’m not going anywhere with someone that’s high.”

Dragging my thumb over her bottom lip, I tell her the truth, my voice displaying the anguish I’ve put myself through.

“Angel, I haven’t been high in years.”

Mia immediately tells me she thinks I’m a fucking liar.

“I just saw you use drugs, Jett. I’m not stupid enough to believe you aren’t high.”

Everyone knows I’m a drug addict. My friends, the media, the fans. It’s the worst-kept secret in the industry, but it’s also not something I talk about. I know they judge me, but I don’t want to hear it. Jagger has found out the hard way that going on about rehabs only makes me use more.

“Heroin is different from most drugs, Mia. The first time it’s a beautiful high. You don’t get that euphoric feeling ever again, yet you chase it anyway. Until one day, there’s nothing. Not even a faint buzz. Then you’re using it to prevent the ‘dope sick’ from setting in. That’s where I am, Angel. If I don’t inject this shit into my veins, I’d be too sick to stand. I’ll spare you the rest of the revolting details, but I promise you, I’m not high. I won’t do anything I wouldn’t do without heroin.”

She stares at me, her eyes filling with unshed tears, as if she feels bad for me but she shouldn’t. I did this to myself. It took years to be able to admit it but it’s my truth. A year ago, Rolling Stone did an article on me called, Self Destruction—Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll.

While it felt like an invasion of privacy, it was true. The spiral I find myself in was created by no one other than me.

Mia is right to attempt to keep her distance from me.

If pain had a poster child, it’d be me.

I won’t want to hurt her, but I will. It’s what I do.