West lunges for the camera and the remaining few seconds of video are a blur of fists and glass and wood.
I watch it again. And again. And again. Every viewing nauseates me more.
When I can’t handle any more, I check the view count. It’s already in the hundreds of thousands in the five or so hours it’s been up.
Holy. Shit.
I drop my phone and put my hands over my face. West, what the fuck have you done?
“What do we know?” I ask as soon as I march into Jason’s office just after seven.
He stops typing and closes his laptop, gesturing for me to take a seat. As I do, he gets up and closes his door, then returns to his chair.
He folds his hands on his desk and gives me a serious look.
“They arrested West last night for assaulting the kid making the video. West’s manager is bailing him out as we speak. That’s all I know right now, but I expect a number of things to happen today.”
I nod, feeling sick at his words, even though I’d assumed as much.
“Let me guess,” I hazard. “The video will continue to go viral. They’ll call off the tour. They’ll hold press conferences disavowing all knowledge that West’s apologies weren’t truthful.”
Jason nods grimly. “At the very least. They’re trying to get it taken down, as it’s technically evidence in an active police case,” he replies. “But it’s a video of a major rock star breaking his sobriety, assaulting someone, and admitting he duped his fans. Now that it’s out there, it’s going to be practically impossible to stop.”
I close my eyes for a moment, trying not to think about what this will mean. Determined to keep it together, I open them again and look back at Jason, whose face is filled with concern. Despite not knowing of my brief lapse in judgment in the sleeping-with-West department, he clearly understands that this will be tough for me. Because, oh yeah, my career and the magazine’s reputation are on the line too. Goddamn West.
“What do you need from me?” I ask.
“I’ve already got PR working on a press release to go out this afternoon. They’re going to want your input. And start working on an article detailing our involvement in the apology project to make it clear that we were explicit in participating only under the condition that this was a genuine endeavor. We were assured it was, and thus we had no knowledge to the contrary. Use examples from the tour — the sister would be a good one — that show you truly believed him to be sincere.” He hesitates, then looks at me warily. “You didn’t know he was faking it, did you?”
My chest tightens with anxiety. Because even though West lied to me, fell off the wagon, and utterly destroyed everything we worked for … I can’t find it in me to betray him. Even if he’s betrayed himself.
“I had suspicions at first, which West denied. So no, while we were filming I was under the impression that he wasn’t faking it,” I reply truthfully.
Jason examines my face for a few moments. And I know he’s not stupid. He can clearly read between the lines. But I know he’s also smart enough to realize there’s no point in pushing the issue.
So he lets me go, finally free to be alone with my thoughts while I try to figure out how on earth I’m going to write this article.
I haven’t gotten far when I receive word that the tour has officially been cancelled. And Violent Mood Swings has been dropped by their label. The band, save West, has scheduled a press conference for early this afternoon that, thankfully, Alexsis will cover while I try to gather my thoughts on all of this.
I spend the day trying to distill a dangerous mix of emotions and facts into something that can salvage the magazine’s reputation. While I manage it adequately, it’s not without constant flipping between revisiting my anger at West’s charade of an apology tour and concern knowing how devastated he must be. Because now he’s truly lost everything.
It’s underscored when Alexsis returns from the band’s press conference. She tells me that every single one of them more or less threw West under the bus by blaming him and only him for the lies. I suspect they think they’re doing it for his own good, trying to help him learn the lesson I also want him to learn: that at some point he needs to stop half-assing it and really fix things. But I know he’ll only see it as a betrayal, a loss. And it is both of those things.
But the loss of his band, his friends, the fans, the tour, his record contract … and I guess you can toss me on that list too. Oh god, and his family. Now that this is out there they’ll know he was lying. It’s so much all at once.
It’s going to crush West. And he’s already slipped, as evidenced by his drunken toppling of everything left that he held dear.
My deepest fear is that this is going to achieve the exact opposite of showing him how much harder he needs to try. I’m terrified that it’s only going to send him spiraling farther down, back into the abyss he only just climbed out of. Possibly even deeper.
Despite everything he’s done to me, I don’t want that for him. And it’s with that thought I realize that I’d never stopped having feelings for Kristoffer Westberg. Not through any of this. Not since the very beginning. Even the negative feelings were fueled by knowing I still cared.
As much as I hurt for West, I don’t even consider contacting him. He needs to feel this pain. To live with the weight of it. Because there’s a slim chance that I’m wrong, that it will be exactly the wakeup call he needs to get his life back together, for real this time.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping for. And you know what they say: Hope dies last.
20
Hurt by Johnny Cash
* * *
West
One minute, I’m floating. The next, a sharp jab in the ribs snaps me out of a light, drug-induced sleep.
It takes me a while to come to. Minutes? Hours? Who knows. Time has lost all meaning. Everything has lost all meaning. A pressing need to take a piss forces me to wake up enough so I can stumble to the bathroom sooner rather than later.
But opening my eyes, I’m not where I thought I’d be. Thankfully, I’m not in a jail cell this time, but being in a bed I don’t recognize isn’t exactly great either.
I lift my head and peer through the dim early morning light to find Sadie passed out next to me, her elbow lodged in my side.
Fucking awesome. I check myself over only to find I’m still fully dressed, though that could mean I’d gotten dressed afterward with the intention of leaving and just passed out before I could. The odds of being in Sadie’s bed and not having fucked her are pretty low, unfortunately. At least, if our history is anything to go by.
As I climb out of bed and find her bathroom, I try to bring back my memories from last night. But all I can remember is yesterday morning, waking up in jail. Everything after that is gone. The kind of gone alcohol alone can’t account for.
Given my still-detached senses and general calmness, I’m going with heroin, and not a small amount of it. A sniff of my shirt as I use the bathroom tells me there was also plenty of booze. And Sadie’s signature jasmine scent clings to me.
I know I’m sobering up though, because I start feeling disgusted with myself on every level. I have no doubt I crawled back into Sadie’s good graces just by having drugs. It doesn’t matter how pissed she is, if I’ve got what she wants, she always takes me back. That’s probably why I went to her; I know what a doormat she is. And some habits are hard to break. Many habits, apparently.
I head back to the bedroom but hesitate on the threshold. Just the sight of her sleeping there throws me back. It’s my life before rehab all over again.
Except worse.
I start to remember everything that preceded this little bender, and I turn around, headed for the living room. I can’t lose it within earshot of that crazy bitch. So instead, I swipe my cellphone, a pack of smokes, and a lighter from the bedroom and head for the door, intending to smoke outside before going back to find the wallet and keys I was unable to locate right away.
But o
n the way past the dining room, I spot a glass door that leads to a small balcony. That’ll do.
I slip out, the cool morning air waking me quickly. I light up a cigarette, something else I haven’t done in years. Christ, I really am on a roll, aren’t I?
Well, if I’m going to completely blow my second chance, might as well do it properly. I take a deep drag and practically groan in relief at how fast the nicotine buzz hits.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, distracting me. I pull it out and see a text from Ward, among other notifications.
Seriously? Drunk dialing me? After everything you’ve lost in the last 24 hours because of drinking? DO BETTER.
I swallow hard as tears spring to my eyes. As the memories of yesterday land. Of finding out I’d been arrested for assault. Also known as punching some kid who made a video of me admitting the whole apology tour was a sham. And then said video exploding, outing my lapse in sobriety and the calculated duping of my fans. Which unsurprisingly led to the tour being cancelled and losing our record contract.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, my band then completely turned on me for absolutely no reason. They didn’t even have anything to gain from pointing the finger solely at me; we’d already lost everything. No, they just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to kick me while I was down.
As I process Ward’s text, it suddenly occurs to me that he may not be the only one I drunk-dialed. My stomach drops as I scramble to go through my calls and missed notifications.
Yep. I called Maxi. And she texted me back. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I open her text and my breath leaves me.
If you care about me at all, you’ll leave me alone and focus on yourself. Figure out what forgiveness really means and then maybe you can stop faking it. All of it.
I stare down at the phone, heart ripped in two. Wet spots appear on the glass and I realize I’m crying.
I’ve lost the band. I’ve lost my oldest friends in the world. I’ve lost Maxi. My family has probably seen the video. I couldn’t give two fucks about my brother and father, but god, if Annika sees it … I close my eyes and fat tears slip under my lids and down my cheeks.
My world has been burned to the ground. And here I stand on the balcony of the succubus bitch who rode me for fame and drugs. Who would gladly continue to suck the life out of me.
I sink onto the concrete base of the balcony, pressing my head against the metal bars.
Figure out what forgiveness really means.
That’s what Maxi said. But that’s the rub — I have no idea what forgiveness means. I am sure of one thing though: This time I’m beyond forgiveness. I’m not going to get a third chance at this life.
I put out the cigarette butt and rise, leaning over the balcony. And if I thought I was crying before, it’s nothing to the tears that fall stories and stories down to the pavement below.
Maybe I should just … lean farther. Let myself go. Stop fighting so fucking hard for a life that doesn’t want me. The thought makes the tears fall faster, and a sob rips out of my chest. The metal rail cuts into my abdomen.
The pain snaps me out of it a little. That I can feel pain. That I’m alive. And knowing my fuck-up self, if I tried to jump, I probably wouldn’t die. I’d probably end up paralyzed or in a coma or something, trapped in a body that no longer obeys me, just like my life doesn’t.
For some reason the thought makes me laugh. I’ve really lost it now, and I should probably get my shit together and go home. At least fall apart in private. With a sad shake of my head, I go back inside.
21
Darkest Days by Stabbing Westward
* * *
West
“You better not have finished my smokes,” Sadie greets me from the kitchen as I step back inside the dingy little apartment.
I roll my eyes and chuck the pack at her. “I only had one, keep your panties on,” I grumble. My eyes scan the kitchen and dining room, not finding what I’m looking for. “Where’s my wallet and keys?”
She laughs. “Oh don’t worry, my panties were firmly on all night, no thanks to your limp dick,” she shoots back venomously, then points toward the front door. “Your shit’s on the floor over there.”
Insanely relieved that I did not, in fact, fuck Sadie, I stride over to the door and find my things exactly where she said, just inside on the floor. Clearly carelessly dropped there as we came in.
I snatch the items up and tuck them into my pockets.
“Well, it’s been real,” I call to her. “Have a nice life.”
She snorts as she pours herself a cup of coffee. I mean, don’t bother offering me any, bitch.
“Yeah, sure,” she says dismissively. “Next time you come back, at least bring some vitamin V with you. It’s a waste of heroin not to get a good fuck with it.”
“I’m not coming back,” I assure her. And I’m definitely not touching you ever again, I think to myself.
She leans against the counter, sipping her coffee. “If that’s what you want to believe,” she mutters.
“That’s reality, Sadie. Last night was a huge mistake.”
“So you’re not going to get high again? Really?” she taunts.
I run a hand through my hair, agitated. I hadn’t actually thought that far. Do I want to? Yes. And no. But she has a point — now that I’ve slipped, there’s a very real chance I could slip again. And again. Until it’s not slipping anymore. Until it’s just my life.
Feelings stir in my chest. Fear. Guilt. Despair. And I realize … I don’t want that. This time I really, truly don’t. Yesterday was … well, one of the worst days of my life. I was in a bad place. One I don’t want to be in again.
“No,” I reply resolutely. “I’m not.”
She snorts. “Okay then. But when you do, we both know you’re coming back for some ass,” she says with a shrug, taking another drink.
I shake my head. “Don’t you get tired of living like this, Sadie?”
“Don’t you?” she shoots back caustically.
“I am sick of it. I fucked up last night.”
She sets her mug down, coming around the counter between us and stopping in front of me.
“You did fuck up last night. But I know how you can make it up to me,” she says sultrily, staring up at me from under her eyelashes.
I look down at her. Her makeup is smeared. And even though she’s only twenty-six, the bags under her eyes, the sag of her skin from drugs, partying, and god knows what else, make her look twice her age.
With a feline grin, she presses against me, rubbing her hand over my cock.
A couple of years ago, I would’ve instantly grabbed her and fucked her up against the door. Now? Junior doesn’t even stir. Not even a twitch. I’m well and truly repulsed by the situation.
How was I ever attracted to her? To this lifestyle?
I wasn’t, is the answer.
So why did I let it consume me? That’s the real question.
“Damn, West, there’s something really wrong with you,” she says, dropping her hand after getting no reaction. “I’ve fucked sixty-year-olds with harder dicks than yours.”
I step back in disgust. This is all wrong. All of it.
“Well, then I’ll leave you to go find a sixty-year-old to fuck,” I tell her. “Bye, Sadie.”
I walk out the door and down the stairs, stopping in front of her apartment building to text my driver for a ride home.
It doesn’t take him long, and he doesn’t ask questions. And I’m glad for it, because I already feel shitty enough.
As soon as I get home, I don’t even shower. I head into my music room and grab my first guitar. I could have grabbed any of the dozen I own, but that one called to me.
As I settle onto my balcony, the late-morning May air finally starting to warm, everything still feels wrong. I know it shouldn’t feel right, given how epically awful the last couple of days have been.
But this is the place I go so all of that can fade away. So I ca
n let the music, the waves, the fresh air take it all away. Except it doesn’t. I strum mindlessly, trying to find a song, any song, that will help me connect with what I’m feeling.
Problem is, I’m feeling way too damn much. Anger. Sadness. Defeat. Helplessness. No … I don’t feel helpless, I decide after a few moments of turning the word over on my tongue.
I feel powerless.
I have no idea how to fix any of this. How to fix myself.
The last time I felt this wasn’t before rehab. No, rehab was a court-ordered solution. It wasn’t something I sought, though eventually it turned into something I chose to continue. No, the last time I was this low, I was sixteen and seemingly trapped in the hell that was my life. I was never smart like Erik. My music wasn’t good enough for my pedophile father. Even I was almost too old for him to abuse anymore. But Annika … I can’t even think of what he did to us. And when I’d try to use music to escape, he’d try to take that away too.
There was nothing right about my life. Everything felt wrong, was wrong. But I had no clue where to begin to make it right. Fuck, I was just a kid. What did I know about anything?
So I ran. Like a coward, though not before making Erik promise to take care of Annika. Since he was so adept at avoiding Dad, I thought he could help her. And I couldn’t take it anymore. It was too heavy a burden to carry.
So I vanished and did my best to forget about it all. I lived on the streets for two years, playing my beat-up guitar for change and picking through garbage cans for food. Fighting with other runaways for territory. Stealing to survive. And when the opportunity presented itself, doing drugs to feel something besides the well of pain inside. In some ways it was better. But I never really forgot.
It wasn’t until a month after my eighteenth birthday that I met Ward in front of a bulletin board outside of Guitar Center. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Finding His Redemption Page 14
