It didn’t matter if I was off-my-face high. If I were still the least bit coherent, seeing her asleep, alone, always got to me. Enough that I’d whisper that promise again. Tomorrow. . .
I slipped into the bed with my clothes still on and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I love you,” I whispered into her soft hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Because I was.
So unbelievably sorry for what I’d done to us.
Any idiot knew it was a death sentence when the fighting stopped. And earlier that night, when she had tossed the bag of cocaine onto West Santa Monica Boulevard, she hadn’t uttered a word.
A loud bang woke me to cloudless, blue skies, and the high, bright sun scorched my skin.
The taste of cooper sat at the back of my throat. A trail of dried blood on the white lounge cover caught my attention when I glanced at the sprinkling of cocaine left on the patio table. Shit. I must have come back outside for one more go and overdone it.
Footfalls echoed over the pool deck, prompting me to scrub at the dried blood I suspected was below my nose.
“Seriously?” Georgia Anne’s shadow fell over the end of the lounge before she stepped into my line of vision. The black, lace thong she had on peeked out from the hem of her Ramones t-shirt. Her brows scrunched when her gaze locked on the blood-stained chair. Her cheeks went pissed-as-hell red while she pointed at the white dust. “I threw it out last night. Before and after the party. How much did Jag give you?”
Swiping a hand through my hair, I shrugged. “I had some spare in the studio.”
Silence. As bad as it sounded, part of me wanted to fight because it meant we still mattered.
“I can’t keep doing this, Spence.” She ran a hand through her long, ink-black hair. Her teeth worked over her lip, pulling at the supple skin. “I can’t.”
God, she was beautiful even when she was mad.
I pushed up on the lounge, and a jolt of pain shot through my head. “It’s just a little blow. That’s all of it.” I nodded toward the table, sincere as I could be, even though I was lying. A bag of pills was hidden in the studio behind my amp. Some cocaine taped underneath the sink in the guest bathroom, a mixed bag in my sock drawer, some blow in a box of Little Debbie Cakes in the pantry. . .
“There’s no such thing as a little, Spencer.”
“Nash and the other guys—”
“I don’t care about anyone except you!”
Her voice echoed from the walls surrounding the property. The only noise was the water lapping at the sides of the pool. Georgia’s nostrils flared. Tears welled in her eyes, and an internal war broke out inside me, full of gunfire and canons and screams of: to the death.
“I’m not freebasing crack for Christ’s sake!”
A disbelieving laugh slipped through her lips while her arms crossed her chest. “Are you really trying to justify it?”
I was. I had to, or the guilt would eat away at me like acid and disintegrate me from the inside out, although, in my defense, it was true. It could have been worse. Things can always be worse.
When I had first met Georgia Anne, I was the responsible one. I had taken her out of an abusive home, tutored her in calculus and made sure she graduated high school. I had taken care of her and, in return, she had loved me in a way I never deserved. Now, she was the only responsible one in this party of two. It made me angry at myself. Unfortunately, Georgia Anne was a salvation for my heart and an enemy to my addiction—which, much to my dismay, was the shitty best friend I couldn’t seem to rid myself of.
While I knew she wasn’t acting self-righteous—the drugs still cycling in my system didn’t.
My jaw set. I pushed up from the chair. “Look, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” I shrugged when I went to move past her, knowing damn well I was headed straight for the grab-bag in my sock drawer because judging by the position of the sun, there were still a good twelve hours left in the day. “I’ll get sober tomorrow,” I mumbled.
I should have kept that thought to myself. She grabbed the sleeve of my shirt and yanked me back. “Everything else means more than us.”
That jab went soul deep, forcing my eyes closed on a hard breath. “That’s not true.”
“Whether you realize it or not, it’s all more important.” By that point, tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks. “The music. The fans. The drugs.” She sucked in a staggered breath. “Those whores that follow you around with their skirts hiked up.”
I tossed my head back on a groan. Those women weren’t mine, and per the label’s contract, I had to, at the very least, flirt with some of the fans. Every breath I took was scrutinized by the record company, the media—by her. I lived under a magnifying glass, and sometimes I wished to God that the sun would just set me on fire. “Fucking whores?” I dragged a hand over my face. “My God. . .Just stop, Georgia.” My voice boomed over the pool deck, and a group of seagulls perched on the fence took flight.
Her chin dropped to her chest on a subtle shake of her head. “This wasn’t the life I wanted.”
“Which part of it, huh?” I jutted my chin toward our over-the-top house. “The mansion? The expensive cars? That five-grand, red Dior dress you wanted because it hugged your curves just right? What part of it didn’t you want, Georgia Anne?”
Her desolate gaze met mine. “The person you’ve turned in to.”
And there was the poisoned-laced arrow straight through my heart.
My pulse slowly picked up. The truth was, that guy she had fallen in love with years ago was long gone and, as far as I could tell, he hadn’t left a return address. Deep down inside, I knew she deserved better; hell, I wanted better for her. I loved her in a way that had seeped into my marrow. There was no me without her, and as selfish as it made me, I just couldn’t let her go. I just couldn’t seem to stay better.
What I should have done was tell her I’d try harder, even if I knew it would all go to shit come three a.m. tomorrow morning. Instead, the drugs said, “Maybe you should rethink if you want to be married to a rock star then. Babe.” And then I walked away.
I was nearly to the house.
“I can’t do this.” Her voice snagged on a sob.
At one time, those words gave me pause. Unfortunately, over the past year, that declaration had been claimed over and over. Hell, I’d sworn I couldn’t do it so many times I had lost count, but like the boy who cried wolf, those threats had lost all meaning.
“I mean it, Spence. As much as I love you, I can’t keep enabling you by staying with you.” Guilt oozed from her tone.
I stopped with my hand on the door. “The way I see it,” I said with my back to her, “love doesn’t give ultimatums.” When I opened the sliding glass door to our bedroom, she screamed.
Metal scrapped over concrete.
I hesitated, watching in the window as she picked up the cocaine-covered patio table and hurled it into the pool. Water shot up in a massive splash.
I would have died for that girl. Over the years, I’d fought for her; I’d worked my fingers to the bones. I’d torn down the walls that had kept my heart safe so I could love her the way she deserved.
It should have been so simple. . .
3
Georgia
Water sloshed over the edge of the pool. The table sank, clanking on the concrete bottom like a weather-beaten battleship. I was angry and hurt and tired. Exhausted from the constant cycle of arguing and crying.
I had no idea how to help Spencer or how to help myself, and feeling powerless was not something I handled well.
Exhaling, I dragged my hands down my face. The therapist I’d been seeing told me I had to view Spencer and his addiction as two separate entities. But separating the two when they seemed so intertwined was something I’d yet to understand.
I crossed the patio to the French doors that led into our living room and went straight to the kitchen for a bottle of water. The refrigerator closed. When I turned around, Spencer stood behind me with a frown of regret
etched on his face. “I’m sorry.”
The cold water ran down my throat, and I nodded. His apology was sincere, but then again, they always were.
He closed the space between us and gently placed his palm on my cheek. I leaned into his touch, rubbing against his calloused hands, and a familiar war bloomed between my heart and my head. Part of my soul lived and breathed for Spencer—for his touch—but there was a piece of me that resented him for picking up a handful of pills, a bag of coke. I loved him, but I hated him for putting us through this.
We used to have something perfect even though it looked like nothing, and now we looked perfect while we hardly had anything of true worth.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I promise. I’ll do better. For you.” His warm mouth pressed to mine, his tongue teased the seam of my lips, and I caved like always.
He scooped me into his arms and sat me on the counter. The cold granite against my bare thighs sent a chill over me.
“I promise you,” he mumbled against my throat while his fingers tangled in my hair. “Just forgive me.” His lips pressed at the corner of my mouth then moved to my jaw, my cheek. “I’ll do anything for you.”
I swallowed, choking on tears I wouldn’t allow to fall. “Okay.”
Warm fingers brushed underneath the hem of my shirt before it lifted over my head, then his hands caressed my arms, my shoulders, my back down to my hips. His thick tongue pressed against my throat while his fingertips teased the edge of my thong, almost dipping inside me. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And that was how we worked, like a volatile storm, churning and destroying everything around it while leaving behind tranquil skies with the promise of a better tomorrow in its wake.
Spencer groaned when his finger slipped inside me. My muscles tensed. My head rolled to the side like it was on a broken hinge when he hit the spot even I couldn’t find.
I reached between us to unfasten his fly. “I don’t want to lose you.” I breathed when I shoved his jeans over his hips and gripped his hard length in my hand.
His mouth found mine again, kissing deep and hard, messy. “You won’t.”
He stepped between my thighs and nudged against me. My hips lifted on instinct in a bid to take him in. But he moved slow and steady, dragging out my need to feel him buried deep. Pressure faded into bliss, and I hooked my legs around his hips to draw him closer. Spencer played me like the strings of his guitar, coaxing chords and melodies from every fiber of my being. The clap of his thighs against the cabinets the percussion.
He was the only man I’d ever had sex with, yet I somehow knew there was nothing better. Making love to him was a taste of heaven and hell, something that brought me to the brink of ecstasy and torture.
His lips found my nipple. He pulled it between his teeth while his other hand gripped my shoulder for leverage so he could go deeper, harder. My breaths came in short pants while fire built beneath my skin, tension mounting like a dormant volcano begging to erupt. My arms went around his neck when he dragged me from the counter, and the grip of my legs tightened. Warm breaths fanned my ear while my breasts slid over his sweat-slicked chest. I thrusted over him while he fisted my hair with a hard tug. In moments like this, it felt like I was all that mattered to him.
The tingle crackling through my veins caused me to move over him with more intent, and he stumbled a step, his back crashing against the pantry. And then the weightless feeling rolled through me like a rogue wave, sucking me beneath its currents until I gasped for air until the only things holding me up were Spencer’s arms.
His chest rose in ragged swells before his lips pressed to my neck. “Nothing is better than this,” he said on a groan.
And I believed him. After all, he didn’t know that was a lie, which made it easier for us both to believe.
Spencer’s candied-apple red Maserati pulled down the drive, and the wrought iron gate swung open. The car’s engine revved, and he peeled out, smoke spinning up from the tires. The second the gate closed, I moved away from the window and headed straight to the studio at the back of the house and grabbed the bag of coke hidden behind the amp. Next, I snatched the Ziploc bag from the box of snack cakes in the pantry.
Within thirty minutes, every hiding place I knew of had been ransacked and all the drugs dumped into the toilet. Clumps of powder and a plethora of pills swirled around the drain, and I shook my head.
On my way through the bathroom, I picked up a damp towel and hung it over the shower door, then made my way into our closet to change. A pair of jeans. A faded T-shirt and my Converse. I went to grab an LA Lakers ball cap—the bane of my existence but a necessary evil to keep my face out of the media. When I reached for it, my fingers brushed the crumpled sides of an Adidas box. I needed a reminder of who he could be, so I grabbed the box, sat on the floor, and dumped it out. Pictures and about a hundred gum wrapper love notes tumbled onto the carpet. A bent strip of black and white images from the mall photo booth landed face-up on the top of the mound. We looked like kids. Well, we were kids. Seventeen and eighteen. Young and oh-so- in love. The first picture resembled a mugshot, but I had insisted we be serious. The next was a snapshot of Spencer’s tattooed arms wrapped around me for the obligatory photo-booth-kiss pose. The third frame was a blur of me shoving Spencer away after he’d pressed his thick tongue to my cheek. When these had been taken, I would have believed it if someone had told me Spencer’s band would make it. What I wouldn’t have believed was that I’d be married to an addict.
Life was evidently full of surprises and shit.
Midnite Kills tour started in a week. Seven days. Even if Spencer stayed clean until then, he’d fall right back into it on the road. The industry made it hard for anyone to stay sober. Leo, the bassist of Midnite Kills, was just as bad as Spencer, if not worse. Nash, the drummer, could go on a binge for a month straight, then walk away from it all like he’d never touched it. Some people were lucky like that. I rolled my eyes just thinking about the money-hungry assholes at Devil’s Side Records. If anything, they encouraged the use of uppers and downers to enhance performance. Courtney Love had been onto something when she said: dead rock stars made the most money for the industry.
Those guys were nothing but dollar signs to most people. Rockstars: Wanted dead or alive.
Exhaling, I raked the memories back into the box and placed it on the shelf. I had a lot of thinking to do. While he had promised me he would stay sober, only a fool believes an addict. And I hated that I couldn’t believe my husband.
Santa Monica Beach had been my haven of thought since I was six years old. The days my mom would get drunk and hit me, the day one of her on-again-off-again boyfriends got too handsy with me, I’d ride my bike down to the beach and trudge through the gritty sand to the shore. And just stare. I’d imagine my thoughts were on the waves, drifting and crashing. It was the only place—until I met Spencer—that I found peace. And I needed that solace right now. God, I needed it.
The sun sat behind thick, gray clouds, and the air was charged with the electricity of an impending storm while a low groan of thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky could have split open at any moment, but I remained with my Chucks in the sand and my knees bent to my chest. Surfers dotted the murky ocean, paddling and catching waves before the water rushed to the shore in a roar.
The wind kicked up. Fragments of sunlight crept out from behind the clouds. I wrote my name in the sand, and the ridiculous diamond on my ring finger glinted, mocking me. Spencer had bought that ring four months ago. He said the one-hundred-dollar pawn shop find he had given me all those years ago wasn’t good enough. But I liked it more than the monstrosity that now sat on my finger simply for show.
Everything was different, but maybe that was how life went. After all, change is a part of life. But this change. . . I hated fighting with him. I hated that most days I felt more like a mother to him than a wife. I despised that everything orbited around him and his career and his
image, and how our marriage currently unraveled inch by inch.
But no one knew.
Our relationship was private, and for that I was thankful, but in some ways, it made me feel even more alone. To Spencer’s millions of followers on social media, he was all smiles and leather pants. They were handfed sneak peeks of backstage. Pictures of him and the guys in the studio. But what they didn’t see was the way that reckless, bad-boy persona spilled into his personal life.
When Spencer had overdosed the first time, the media gave just enough information to garner sympathy. And with every post, with every piece of fan mail sent from a Jenny or a Meghan, Kristy, or Dave, all claiming his overdose had scared them because they didn’t want to lose him. . . I grew angry and jealous. While these people had been spared the gruesome details of how I had found him unconscious in our marble tub overflowing with bloodied water, that image had been forever etched into my memory.
It affected us. It affected me. Not them.
This was our life—I wanted it to be our life, but with fame, there is no such thing as yours. Spencer was a commodity intended to be distributed, consumed, gobbled down.
The fame and drugs had changed him, and like an infectious disease, the effects were spreading and beginning to eat away at me like battery acid. But I still loved him.
A spider web of lightning streaked across the sky followed by a boom that shook the ground. Raindrops splattered the sand, and I pushed to my feet, no closer to peace than I was when I arrived. I spent the thirty-minute drive home listening to the radio, watching people at red lights sing along to their favorite song and wondering what their lives were like.
When I pulled through our gate, a cloud of dread fell over me. The garage door slowly lifted. Spencer’s car was still gone. If he came back from that shoot high, what was I going to do? Threaten to leave again? Plead and beg, then fuck him mercilessly when he told me he was sorry. We were a broken record on repeat, and the song was driving me insane.
Over You Page 2
