Page 127 of The Comedown

I give him a long, hard stare, everybody around us falling into a strange silence, too. It’s never quiet on here. Because I ensure it’s not.

“The fuck are you doing?” I’ve been in plenty of threesomes, that’s common knowledge, but the way he’s saying it, it’s like he’s goading me, trying to entice me into another. What’s in it for him if I sleep with these girls?

If it’s about the money he spent, maybe he should fuck them.

“Nothing.” His smile vanishes completely, and waving a hand at the twins, he says, “You should be celebrating today, not working.”

“It’s not work when it’s with—”

“Collette?” Slade snorts loud enough to cover the growl building in my chest at hearing her name on his tongue. “You said she wasn’t even going with you. Just leaving you on your own for your twenty-eighth birthday. Your people would never do that.”

I’m already scoffing because who are my people? Him? The rest of these motherfuckers? I’d love to fucking know how they’re mine. Because I pay for every fucking piece of food they stick in their mouths? Because they take everything from me, even my seat, even my bed, without ever even considering giving me anything in return? The people filling this bus are here to celebrate all right…every fucking minute of every fucking day, whether I’m here or not.

I didn’t even think I’d make it to my twenty-eighth birthday—hoped I wouldn’t—and honestly? I doubt any of these motherfuckers would’ve noticed if I hadn’t. As long as the booze and the drugs are still here, they’re good.

These aren’t my people. They’ve never been my people. I just bought their presence so I could avoid my own.

“Don’t let that piece of—”

I’m out of my seat, seizing Slade by the throat before he can make the worst mistake of his life by finishing that statement. Hell, it’ll be the last mistake of his life because I’m ready to fucking end it here and now. Collette ain’t a piece of anything.

“Shit, man!” somebody shouts while another person screams. Fucking dramatic-ass bullshit. I’m so tired of it. All of it.

I give Slade’s windpipe a firm squeeze before releasing him and shoving him away from me.

“Lemme know when we’re there.” And with that, I pivot around to head to my bedroom, barking for everyone inside to get the fuck out before slamming the door shut and falling on to my bed—my wet bed.

I’m sorry, “my people” would never do what?

Dirty fucking fucks.

“Happy birthday, Julez!” several people yell at me as I walk up to the front door, stopping to pose for a few pictures taken by the paps stationed outside on the sidewalk. In order to get the entire club for my birthday, the owners want a certain amount of photos circulating online before I even set foot inside. Pretty fucking corny considering they’re the ones that offered to host the event in the first place.

This is how I got that McLaren for a few days without paying a dime, too. Everything and everyone has a price, and public photos are the most sought-after commodity because they can produce clout the fastest, and everybody wants clout because clout opens more doors than talent. Artists are no longer praised for their art, not when celebrities are the art.

Brains are all but irrelevant, and fuck what you sound like. For real. Voice editing is the music industry’s version of photo editing—it’s recklessly used everywhere on everyone, and nobody’s held accountable for the deception it creates.

There is no standard for truth because the truth can be ugly and ugly doesn’t sell. Beauty’s an all-encompassing illusion, yet if something—or someone—doesn’t look good, it’s—they’re—basically as disposable as shit-stained underwear.

“Thanks. Have a good night,” I tell everyone after standing in my usual pose of my hand shaped like a gun cradling my chin for some selfies with fans, then finally head inside. The dark hallway leading to the main area flashes from a strobe light, and I pause a moment, scrolling through my four thousand seven hundred thirty nine new messages, searching for one name in particular. I turned my phone on airplane mode as soon as I got to the studio, so it’s been hours since I’ve talked to anyone other than DJ Arique. The last I heard from Collette was this morning when she gave me the fucking boot off her bus.

There’re no texts from her though, not even a call or an email. Does she have my email? I should give her my email.

I should give her everything.

I freeze, my eyes hazing out at the thought—me giving Collette everything. Me marrying Collette. Even me filling her with my babies…if I could.

Could I?

My internet browser’s open the next instant, my eyes touching on every part of the screen as I type, then scroll.

Vasectomy reversal. I vaguely remember hearing something about that when I went in for my vasectomy. It’s real and I could actually do it. I could knock Collette up and give her more kids.

Holy shit, talk about a birthday present.

After sending out an email to the doctor that snipped me, I click on AirDrop, my chest swelling even more when Collette’s name comes up.

Straightening, I pocket my phone, dragging my feet slowly as I stroll from the hall.