Page 187 of The Comedown

She looks back down, shaking her head. “I don’t think—”

“Just tell me. I need to know.”

She blows out a breath. “He’s in a hotel room.”

I sit with that for a minute, wondering how much I do need to know.

Considering I’m Julian’s girlfriend, I need to know all of it.

Bracing myself, I ask, “By himself?”

“Axel said it’s a party. His party.” His…Julian’s. He’s back to his old ways, ran straight to them with open arms and an open wallet, I’m guessing.

It’s not even all that surprising. Julian hates being alone. He hops from one distraction to the next, never stopping long enough to figure out what it is he really wants. What he needs.

He needs someone to care about him, truly care about him. Not for him. That’s enabling, and he’s been enabled long enough.

“Will you stay here with Holter and Mary until I get back?” I ask her, standing slowly. Mary went to bed a couple hours ago, and Holter fell asleep on the couch, watching a movie. We had a long talk when I finally made it out of The Mousai madness. He didn’t ask as many questions as I thought he would, maybe because…he already knows. In his heart, he knows what kind of person Bodee is. The publicity father-son meetups undoubtedly clued him in, along with just being his usual observant self while around his father. He wasn’t shocked that Bodee and I don’t actually get along, but he was hurt I hid my true feelings, among other things.

I let a lot of people down with the choices I made regarding Bodee Keys, including myself. I’m disappointed in me, and it’s going to take some time to forgive myself for all the damage my silence caused.

“Of course, but…” Irelynn follows me to the door, frowning at my obvious limp. “What about your ankle? Should you even be walking on it?”

“I…don’t know.” The amount of effort it takes just to hobble around worries me. The excruciating pain shooting up my calf with every step I take worries me. I have to be able to stand, to dance, to perform. “We’ll make some calls when I get back,” I tell her. I didn’t want to seek medical treatment until Julian was free. Him being out of harm’s way means more than my ankle. He means more to me than that, period.

Yet another thing I stayed silent on but shouldn’t have.

Staring at the ajar door, I pause, inhaling until my lungs hurt worse than my ankle, then I push through smoke as thick as wool to enter the hotel suite.

Carefully leaning against the nearest wall for support, I cross my arms over my chest, purposely avoiding inspection of the needles on the table next to me.

Instead, I focus on Julian. He’s lounging wide-legged on a loveseat in the middle of the sitting room, a pair of women beside him as a third stands between his legs pouring a long stream of tequila into his mouth.

“Celebrating?” I say loud enough to get his attention.

Almost immediately, he wrenches his face away, causing the dark amber liquid to spill down his cheek, over the many cuts he accumulated from earlier, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“I came to collect you,” I answer honestly, and he laughs, trailing off as a lit blunt’s handed to him. His bottom lip is swollen and both eyes have dark circles turning into deep bruises already. All I want is to go over and kiss him. Kiss away his pain. Kiss away tonight.

And maybe kick him because what is he doing? What the hell is this?

Head low, Axel strolls over to me, saying, “Hey, Collette,” softly. Apologetically.

I give him a grateful nod, telling him, “Hey,” along with, “Thank you,” since he is the one that found Julian.

Julez. He found Julez.

“Ayo, don’t—”

“Shut up!” Axel yells at Julian like an older brother losing his patience with his younger sibling even though I know Axel’s younger by a couple years. “Shut the fuck up. I’m just talking to her, okay? If it really bothers you that much, get off your fucking ass and do something about it.”

Julian remains where he is but continues to glare at Axel as he tokes off the blunt.

Facing me again, Axel runs a hand through his hair, saying, “Fuck.” He points at the foot currently resting on top of my other to ask, “How’s the ankle?”

“Sprained.” Or worse.