STONED (Wrecked Book 1)

by Mandi Beck

  “What?” I ask, fidgeting slightly under his gaze.

  “You’re wonderful with them. Very patient. I can see that this means a lot to you. That they do.” He says it softly. Probably so he doesn’t wake Lyric.

  My shoulders relax and I smile. “Thank you. It is. They do. I love to see how music can transform their sullen little faces into smiles and wonderment.”

  “I didn’t even know music therapy was a thing,” Joaquin concedes. “Makes sense though. Music makes everything better.”

  Looking first at Lyric, and then back at him, “It absolutely does,” I murmur softly.

  Stone

  DAY SEVENTY-SIX IN PARADISE AND I’ve finally found a little bit of peace and a whole lot of clarity. I think it’s having my guitar that has helped so much. It’s always been an extension of me. I can’t remember a time that I’ve gone without it, let alone for months. Sitting on my lanai, cigarette stuck in between my lips, I lean over to jot down the last line “Don’t you know I need you, to be me.” The song I’ve been working on—Willow’s Song. There’ll be a knock at the door any minute reminding me to get my ass to group therapy. I’m hoping they forget because today is when everyone’s friends and family are going to be here to listen to them read the letters. I could have invited Law or Judge. Any of the guys really. God knows I owe them all an apology, but the only person I would have sit in that chair is Willow. And she’s not here.

  Taking another pull on my cigarette, I snub it out just as the knock comes. I’ve been dreading this meeting all week. For me it should be just like every other meeting, but hearing them pour their hearts out and beg forgiveness makes me feel . . . ashamed. For them. For me. Sad as fucking hell for all of us.

  I’ve sat through eight of the ten people here today and although not one of them is Willow, every one of them is Willow. I see her pain and disappointment in every one of their faces. The desperation and tears they are fighting. All Willow. Doesn’t matter that they aren’t looking at me or that it isn’t me apologizing, I feel their anger and despair as if it’s directed at me. Trying to block out the sounds of the crying and the words that can never be enough, I pull out my notebook.

  Birdie,

  Every single day that I’m in here, I gain more clarity. I see exactly what I did to you, to us, to me. I sit in these groups and we talk about our addiction and what it did to those around us. It hurts the fuck out of me. Today families and friends came in. They’re sitting face to face with their addict and they have to listen to them and their weak ass apologies and then talk about how loving an addict affects them. How as much as we love to be high they hate it. And they’re all you. I see your face, hear your pain. And I hate myself. And then I get mad at you. I get so fucking mad at you for letting me do that to you. Not to myself because nobody is to blame for me being a fuck-up. But for loving me so much you let me hurt you over and over. I get mad at you for loving me. How fucking crazy is that? I’m pissed because you loved me more than anyone in my life ever could or did. I’m all fucked up, Birdie. But I’m clean, and clean is good. Clean means I can work on me being a better man, your man. That’s all I want to be, Wills. Your man, because you’ll always be my Birdie.

  I love you.

  Love,

  Stone

  Day eighty-four of rehab and I almost can’t remember what the hell it’s like to not be here. I only have six more days to go and I’m out. The thought leaves me excited as hell but also so fucking nervous. What if I fuck up? I can’t do this shit again. I won’t. Rehab is no fucking joke. They talk about taking shit one day at a time because statistics show that fifty to ninety percent of people relapse and have to come back to rehab. That’s a huge fucking number. I refuse to be a statistic.

  Jogging down the little stretch of private beach, my workout partner slash sobriety coach, Koa, right along with me, I let the sound of the surf and the bright sun wash over me and warm my shoulders. I spend a lot of time alone here as do many of the others. It’s a rehab facility for the rich and famous—nobody is making any lasting friendships in here. Just walking around with their big damn sunglasses, hats, and wigs trying to get clean. I’m kinda hard to disguise, so I don’t bother. Just keep to myself. Koa is the only person I’m friendly with, and that’s because we’ve hired him to come with me when I leave. It was either a sobriety coach or a clean living facility, and I’m done with being a prisoner. He can live with me for the rest of my life if need be. If that’s what it fucking takes. Big Hawaiian fucker. He doesn’t care who I am. Thinks my music is shit. Just wants me to stay clean. He’s perfect.

  “Yo, haole, slow down. You’re too fast for me, brah.”

  I slow because he really isn’t made for speed. He’s all muscle. That shit’s gotta be heavy to carry around. “Sorry, man, I was in my head. Let’s go back. I want to get Willow’s letter out with today’s mail.” He nods and we turn back the way we came. Koa is the only person I talk to about Wills for the most part. Him and my counselor, because with them it’s full disclosure. As soon as we’re in front of the sprawling facility, he dives into the water to cool down.

  “Hey, shark bait! I’m going to take a shower in my room.” He waves, acknowledging that he heard me, and I hit the outside showers and rinse off before going inside. From the outside, anyone who saw us would think that we were on vacation. Soaking up the rays, catching some waves. Couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on my hips, I go out to the lanai to write Willow’s letter. It’s the only place I smoke, so I practically live out here. Collapsing onto the chair, I light a cigarette and hunch over my notebook.

  Birdie,

  It feels like forever since I’ve called you that. I never used to call you by anything else, so I’m not sure when it stopped, just that it did. You always were my little birdie though. Singing so pretty just for me. I’m ready to be out of here so I can hear you sing to me again. Climb me like a tree and whisper songs in my ear like you used to. Speaking of songs, I told you I’ve been writing a lot in here. I’ve been working on one called Willow’s Song. I think it’s going to be the first single to drop. I can’t wait to work on this album. I miss being in the studio so fucking bad. Add it to the list of things I miss, right? None of them compares to how much I miss you though, Birdie. I know I tell you all the time, but I need you to know that it’s true. Come home so I can show you how much.

  I love you.

  Yours,

  Stone

  Day motherfucking ninety. This is it. I’m getting the fuck out of Paradise and I’m never coming back. It doesn’t take me long to pack. You’re not allowed a whole lot. Tucking my notebooks into my duffel, I sling it over my shoulder, pop a lolli in my mouth, then grab my guitar case and go downstairs. I have one final meeting with my counselor, Dan, and Koa, and I’m sprung. My feet hit the marble floors of the foyer where people are milling around doing their thing, and I have to laugh. If this were a movie there would be some kind of farewell party happening for me. Hugs and well wishes and shit but not here. Thank fuck.

  The door to Dan’s office is open, the two of them sitting on his lanai. I’m telling you, that’s where life happens in this place. I drop my duffel and join them.

  “Aloha, Stone,” Dan greets cheerfully. “Sit down, let’s have a talk before you bust ass out of here.” Dan doesn’t talk to me like some uptight asshole. He’s real and that’s why I don’t hate him anymore. When I first got here I would’ve gladly beat the hell out of him at every meeting just because, but now that I’m clean and not nearly as angry, I like him.

  “Howzit, bruddah?” Koa asks with his pidgin bullshit that’s like another fucking language.

  “I’m good,” I tell them after I’ve removed the sucker and tossed the stick. I take the chair next to Koa. Dan’s lanai is a shit ton bigger than mine.

  “You’re all packed and ready to go then?” Dan asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Koa said you guys are going to
stay on the island for a week or two before you head back to Austin. That right?”

  “Yeah. I think the label is worried I’m gonna get out of here and go balls to the wall the minute I get some freedom so they want to keep me close. No faith but they gotta protect their investment, ya know?” I say sardonically.

  “Do you feel like that’s what you’re going to do?” he asks patiently. Him and Koa both watching me.

  “No. I honestly don’t. I think if I did I wouldn’t leave. I mean, I would love to be high right now. But the fallout isn’t worth it.” I shrug. “Is an addict ever really not an addict? I’ll probably always crave the shit, but I want to be strong enough to say no to it.” I look over at Koa and then back at Dan “I feel that I am. And I have insurance. This big fucker won’t let me fail.” We all laugh at that.

  “Well then, you’re free to get the hell out of here.” He stands and offers his hand. I stand and take it. “I hope to never see you again but know that you can always call me.” We shake and the moment is a little more emotional than I thought it would be. He’s proud of me, and there haven’t been many people in my life who have been. I’ve not given them a reason to be. Before it gets awkward, I drop his hand.

  “Let’s go, big kahuna, before he wants me to hug it out or some shit.” They fist bump and we’re out of there.

  At the door, I place the last letter I’ll ever write to Willow from this place in the box.

  Willow

  “HEY WILLOW, YOU MIGHT WANT to come and see this,” Perry calls from the family room, the TV blaring in the background. She’s here for the next week while they remodel her kitchen. She’s watching Lyric for me so I don’t have to wake her.

  “What is it?” I ask, shuffling into the room, trying to get my long hair tamed as I do. “I’m running late.” I come to an abrupt halt when I see him. The gray eyes staring back at me, reaching into my soul and snatching my breath with only a look. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He looks good. Healthy. Not like the last time I saw him. It pains me a little to think that my leaving was good for him, when being there and supporting him, dealing with his constant shit wasn’t. It’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Not after all I went through.

  “OH. MY. GOD. Willow. Did you hear that?” my friend asks, rewinding it without waiting for me to answer and then turning the volume up so there’s no chance I can miss it.

  “Stone, there was some talk about a stint in rehab,” the interviewer says. “Sex addiction?” He chuckles at his own attempt at humor. I snort indelicately, not far from the truth. You name it and Stone had been addicted. Drugs, women, alcohol. If he could get high off it, he would.

  “Nope, drugs and alcohol. Took my girl walking out on me to clean up my act. I’ve been clean for a few months now though and I’ve never felt better.” Stone smiles, not embarrassed by the line of questioning. It always did take a lot to fluster him.

  “So you’re off the hard stuff, the band is gearing up for another tour, a new album, and you’re single? Does life get any better?” He’s asked in admiration and envy.

  “My life? None of it matters at the moment.” Stone shrugs and gives a sheepish smile, the first I’ve ever seen. “It’s all a little . . . unimportant without someone to share it with.”

  The reporter smirks, “So are you taking applications to fill the ‘someone to share with’ position?”

  “Not even close. I’m on a mission to find the one who got away.” Confidence, determination lacing every word. Every syllable of every word, actually, making me nervous.

  Rubbing my temples, I startle when Perry says, “Holy fuck, Wills. What are you gonna do?”

  “Don’t call me that,” I murmur distracted, still swirling my hand over my suddenly aching head, pulling some calm from the motion. A calm I am far from feeling. Closing my eyes, I can see him, standing there where I left him. Even through the haze of everything that has happened since that day, the picture is vivid in my mind. The sunken eyes, the dark hair plastered to his face, that stormy gray gaze. He looked like a stranger, yet not. The man I had loved so much, so blindly, had slowly slipped away, replaced with this shell of him. A shadow of the guy who stole my heart with a song, more concerned now with his next high than he was about me.

  “Did you hear what he’s calling the next album?” Her face is scrunched up in worry, though I can see that she’s dying to tell me. Perry may be my best friend, but she isn’t aware of the whole story. As far as she’s concerned, as far as anyone other than Cora and Bear is concerned, I had enough and just left and didn’t want to be found. Partly true. “Willow. The new album is called Willow,” she says in quiet reverence. “The hottest rock star walking the planet right now names his album after you, and here you stand, with his baby, hiding from him.” Eyes wide and incredulous she shakes her head. “What the fuckity fuck is the world coming to?”

  I just shake my head at her and turn back to the TV, almost as if in a trance. Stone sits with his legs spread wide, tee shirt stretched across his chest, his hair falling into his face and covering his eye, teasing the corner of his mouth. He has on the leather cuff I gave him for our one-year anniversary. The band is worn now, but if you look, you'll still see our names etched there. I watch as his hands run up and down the denim covering his legs, at his lips wrapped around a lollipop stick. Always the damn lollies.

  “Stone, there's a lot of talk about your personal life and the battles you've been fighting lately. You’ve lost some fans over it, probably gained some too. Can we talk about that some more?” the interviewer asks hopefully.

  “Sure. I've got nothing to hide anymore. No image I'm trying to uphold.” He chuckles a bit. “The thing about people is they want to hear these tragic songs. These sad fu—damn songs,” he corrects. “But they don’t want the man singing them to have faced any of the hell he’s singing about. They don’t want the cheating and drugs to be a real thing. They just want us to show them a little bit of that wild side. Let them touch it without it ever touching them.” Stone pauses, twisting the stick of the sucker around and around between his thumb and index finger, watching the little pink ball turn this way and that. “Truth is though, if we don’t live some of these things we’re singing about, they wouldn’t love the song so damn much. I pour my heart into every one of those songs because it’s a release for me, an escape, an apology, a love letter. I can’t change that. Because then I change my music.”

  My hand resting against my throat, I try to look away . . . but I can’t. This is the Stone I always loved. The Stone who made music with me, not only with his mouth but with his entire being. We lived and breathed music for so long and then even that changed. Pretty soon it was just me writing the songs and giving them to Lawson to sort through and bring to the rest of the band to decide on. The day Stone stopped making music with me was the day I died a little inside. I knew it was over then, but still I hung on. Tearing my eyes away from the TV, I scoop up my keys and jacket.

  “I’m gonna be late for class. I’ll see you later, Perry,” I call as I walk to the front door, pushing through it before she can reply. She can’t understand my need to stay hidden from him and I can’t bring myself to admit the truth. He’s not the only thing I’m hiding from.

  It’s been a month since Joaquin showed up at school. He left a message at the studio for me that he has a mini European tour, fifteen shows in twenty days. I don’t miss that craziness. Why he felt the need to inform me of his whereabouts is beyond me. Persistent bastard. So I’m more than surprised when he walks into the Dirty Bird that night as I’m packing up my guitar after my set. He has on a beanie and glasses. I almost don’t recognize him, which I’m sure is the point. He sees me and waves, pointing at the bar. I nod and gather my stuff. The butterflies in my stomach at just the sight of him throwing me off balance. When I make it to the bar a couple minutes later after stopping to chat with a few people, I see that he’s saved me a seat.

  “Great set, Willow,” Bear
says, taking my case over the bar to stash it while I sit.

  “I didn’t realize you played here regularly. I would have come to see you.” Joaquin leans in and kisses both of my cheeks, leaving me a little breathless at his proximity. In so many ways, Bear has been the only man I’ve let close to me. That Joaquin does things to put himself in my personal space so naturally has those damn butterflies taking flight again. “Hi, chèrie. Did you miss me?” His teeth are a perfect flash of white against his dark beard.

  “Oh, were you gone?” I feign surprise, trying to hide my smile.

  Joaquin laughs at my attempt. “You’re a shit liar, Willow.”

  “I always have been,” I confess. “What are you doing back in town?”

  “I was going to have a pint, but now I’m taking you for coffee. It’s too loud in here tonight to talk,” he informs me nonchalantly.

  “I can’t. I have to go and get Lyric from Cora’s place,” I tell him, a hint of disappointment in my words.

  “We can take her with. It’s still a respectable time to have a bébé out, isn’t it?” Pushing his sweater back, he looks at his wrist, wincing. “Okay, maybe not.”

  It’s then that Bear speaks up. “Cora called while you were on. Perry’s at your house with Lyric. She can’t stay at her place, something about a dishwasher leaking and dumb ass contractors not knowing shit.” He shrugs. “She popped by the house to get the keys from Cora and took Lyric home.” I cock my head to the side trying to figure out if he’s full of shit or not. It’s not unheard of. It just seems too convenient.

  “You’re sure?” I ask even as I’m taking out my phone to call. I don’t have to though—there are three texts from Perry and one from Cora, all saying the same thing Bear just did, only a little more colorfully.