by Anna Bloom
Theirs to Risk
Anna Bloom
For Twink.
Contents
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteeen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Eight
28. Chapter Twenty-Nine
29. Chapter Thirty
30. Chapter Thirty-One
31. Chapter Thirty-Two
32. Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Untitled
A note from Anna
Also by Anna Bloom
Prologue
Three months before. Sophia
Los Angeles
"Sophia. Come here, gorgeous."
I blinked at the voice calling my name. Everyone called my name; it was a given.
That wasn’t me being up my own A-hole, or a look at her she’s so full of herself self-absorbed diva. It was the truth of the matter. Everywhere I went ‘Sophia’ was whispered, in shrill loud voices I wasn’t supposed to hear. When I left the gym, when I was shoving sushi in my face, when I was falling out of a club and flashing my knickers. Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.
I squinted into the crowd, recognising the voice calling my name and waved; a moronic grin smeared across my face. This party, which was as enjoyable as a wake, was about to get better—a hell of a lot better.
"Hey, Johnny." Tripping on my heels I made my way towards Johnny Fairweather. Johnny was appealingly hot. The entire world, irrelevant of sexual orientation hankered to screw him. With his chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that screamed just-got-out-of-bed-from-a-fuck-session, he made for scorching hot, front cover fodder. Together we were sublime perfection, with our matching skin and eye tones and sizzling on-screen chemistry. We’d used it to our advantage starring in a blockbuster franchise of films together and over the last five years they had made us very, very rich.
He was my boyfriend. I snorted at the thought. He was nowhere near that close to a defined role, but that was what all the teenyboppers believed after we’d been giving them red carpet gold for the last five years.
First it was his hand lingering on the small of my back. That set Twitter on fire. Then the whispered conversations in view of the camera, his lips millimetres from the skin of my throat. People wanted to know what we were whispering. It made it to the late-night showbiz news. Finally, we hit the hand holding and glanced kisses.
Hand holding is front page news and brings about an equal measure of loving and hating worldwide. Go figure.
He caught my arms as I stumbled into his space, and I snickered against his chest. That chiselled jaw, that looked better from the left angle (I don’t know why, it just did) tilted down in my direction.
The coke buzzed in my veins. Every movement heightened and electric. Even straightening from my tumble was like being yanked from the sea.
"Are you high again, Fee?" he asked, reproachfully. Tipping my chin, Johnny called me the nickname he'd given me through filming five years before. His eyes scanned my face as he scrutinised my features. I didn’t know why he was being so grouchy, he loved it when I was high. High made me free, brave, usable.
Shaking my head, I attempted my most staid expression. "Nope. There is no high to be had here." I was beyond high. Parties were only survivable if I’d sky rocketed into the stratosphere of oblivion.
Johnny groaned, and I thought he was going to bring me down—honestly, if I wanted a downer I’d just locate my mother, she was about somewhere, schmoozing and air kissing—but from under the depths of Johnny’s admonishing note was a trace of anticipation. "Come on." He wrapped tight arms around my waist. "Let's get you out of here before you are spotted and papped."
I smacked my hand against his taut chest and rocked on my heels. "No, no, I'm just starting to have fun. This party is so dull, Johnny. Why do they keep making me come to them?" I flung my arms around his neck, burying my face into his warm flesh. He smelled of Armani. I think he had it coming out of his ears—it was what happened when you were the face of the brand. He told me once he poured a bath full of the stuff just to see how many bottles he could get through.
What was that number again? Two hundred and fifty? No that’s not enough, surely? How many bottles of Armani would it take to fill a bath...?
"Fee, wake up." He lifted me away from his chest, lowering his head to inspect me better. His lips grazed a sensitive spot under my ear and with a weak hand I clipped him away. "We can have fun at mine," his hand wrapped around my wrist and jerked hard, "whatever, you need to be away from the crowds." He didn’t wait for my answer; hooking determined fingers around my elbow he guided me towards the back exit of the club. The lights were low, and I stumbled numerous times, with Johnny catching me when I nearly crashed onto the sticky floor.
"Blake, wait. What sort of fun do you have at yours?" I yanked on his hand, trying to stop his path. Blake. Blake. Blake. I frowned and my brain scrambled to engage and catch up with what was happening.
Johnny frowned. "I’m not Blake, sugar pops. Remember, he left you because he was psychotic. Now, are you coming to mine or not? I’ve got all sorts of fun."
Rooting my feet firmly anchored into the ground, I refused to move. He wasn’t Blake. I knew that. I didn’t even know why I said his stupid name, anyway. It’s because he’s the only person you ever listened to, said the jacked-up voice in my head.
My head spun, and all I wanted was to lie down. Was that too much to ask? I was just so damn tired.
"Johnny, Johnny Fairweather, you are not the boss of me." I wagged my finger, watching it track back and forth slowly in my vision. My finger wanted to lie down too, it was telling me.
Johnny’s smile transformed into a wolfish smirk. "I could be. I could spank that pert arse of yours until it's black and blue."
This was our game; we pushed, and we pushed. Two children caught in childish endeavours. "You aren’t brave enough." I folded my arms across my chest, the game initiated.
His lips lifted another inch, and I placed my hands on my hips, watching with fascination as his eyes roved over my body, darkening with a feral desire.
He leant closer, his body crushing into my space, his hot breath rushing against my cheek as he nuzzled my jaw, his stubble grazing my skin. "Let's see just what you will do for a high."
I burned with his words. The need for my next buzz igniting a deep ache within me. I knew I'd do anything for my next high because my next high was all I had. My need for sleep evaporated in a cloud of forgetful mist. High was better than sleep.
I let him lead me to a dark man in a suit who wore an ear-piece cord running from his ear into the neck of his suit jacket. A distant memory threatened to rear its ugly head. A man in a dark suit who once used to stand and wait for me. I blocked
it as quick as it came refusing to allow the hazy recollection to take hold.
I could always forget.
No. I could always make myself forget.
Forget the fact I couldn’t be saved.
Chapter One
Sophia
"It's as if when he left, he opened the door to hell straight into my heart."
The beat of the broken heart flutters in my chest, a pathetic thrumming of fragile, tattered wings as it attempts to take to flight before realising it can't and falls to the ground, its wings broken beyond repair.
I drag a nervous swallow of air and dash shaking fingers through my fair hair. The ends are frazzled and normally doing these sessions I'd twist the thin strands and pick off the split ends. Today I'm not, though. Today, I'm speaking out loud and shaking.
The shakes aren't caused by nerves.
You see, the problem with sober is everything is so real. And when I say real, I mean blinding, piercing, painfully fucking real. Everything laid out to see and all the time to stop and gawk at your mistakes. It frickin sucks.
Fifteen people gaze at me as I fluster and jabber, my hands fidgeting like an old grandma missing her knitting needles. I'm sweating more than I had the night I picked up the Academy Award for Best Actress—which changed my career—and garbled my way through a terrible speech under the spotlight.
Some of the people sitting in the circle with me nod sympathetically, others are lost in their thoughts, exercising their own demons. Everyone gets it though. Together we are the winners of the losers if there is such a thing.
I made a promise to myself (and to my counsellor, although the least said about that coercion the better). They said something along the lines of 'look at all the good you could do, blah blah blah', so I agreed if I made it to the ninety days sober, I would speak. I would open my mouth and let the iniquitous truths I keep locked inside me tumble out for the world to hear. Well, the small world of the rehab facility. My world for the last three months.
And, well, hell if I'm not giving them everything. I mean, even I want to shove a sock in my mouth to shut me up, yet here it is still gushing out, like a torrent of pathetic despair. What is supposed to be a sharing insight into my substance abuse issues has turned into a lifelong public therapy session.
To my own ears, I sound like a bad-tempered, sulky teenager as I try to explain how it all started. I've messed up, not just my life, but that of many other people, yet I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to be everything for everyone.
We've been over this a lot during personal therapy. I'm a grown woman, I can make my own decisions. Do I? Can I?
I repulse myself on a fundamental level. It's not a good place to be. It's no wonder he left and never came back. If I'm repulsed then what must he have thought? I've had a lot of time to think about Blake Henderson in the last three months. Too long. Sober, I haven't been able to block the bastard from worming his memories up from the deep dark depths of my never-open-for-the-sake-of-my-sanity memory box, and for the first few weeks he's lived in all my waking thoughts.
Blake.
A derelict emptiness pulses around that one name and it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself to ignore it. I can't. It hurts.
The counsellor leans forward, and I drag myself back from my latest Blake runaway thought train. An empathising smile spreads across her face as she nods with deliberate compassion. I can read her next suggestion in her eyes. It's in the way she tilts her head, the way she inclines her body forward a little, as if she wants to sooth an injured puppy. Don't say it... please don't say it... she's going to say it... here it comes...
"Do you think maybe you were placing a father label on this man? You must have known it could never amount to anything." She flourishes her hands almost in apology as my cheeks flame an astounding puce pink. "That it was wrong. What you were asking him was wrong, Sophia. Weren't you perhaps just searching for someone to fill the role your father left?"
I blow air through my mouth and sigh, settling back in my seat, riding out the embarrassing sting on my cheeks. "Listen, lady," I jab my finger with ferocity at the woman in the white polo shirt with a clipboard balancing on her knee. "I know I'm pretty fucked up, but I did not want to do that to my daddy."
Never mind the fact I have no idea where my daddy is.
There's a snort beside me and Sarah's shoulders begin to shake. Jacked-Up Jimmy is also biting down on a smile, his cheeks bunching into rounded domes as he keeps a strained grip on his laughter. I cast my eyes around the small gathering, a ballooning bubble of mirth rocking my own shoulders. At least I can still entertain. My career may be on tenterhooks, but hey, I still possess the skills.
My career.
Put my head in the oven and get it over and done with.
I'm signed for one more movie—one more blasted instalment in the saga still making me act like a teenager despite the fact I'm twenty-two.
I can't even think about it. It's a never-ending script of hell.
The counsellor, Teresa, gives me an 'I've got your number, missy' stare and my ribs ache with repressed laughter. It's Sarah's fault, once she starts I'm always the one who can't stop.
Teresa knows she’s lost me, and the session itself, so wraps things up pretty quick. “I think that will do for today.” She narrows her gaze in my direction and I take the time to flash her a sickly smile. I told her not to let me speak out loud, it’s not like I didn’t give her fair warning.
"Let's sneak off." I lean over and whisper into Sarah's ear. I can't believe it's the last time I'll be able to do it. A flare of panic quivers my stomach at how this day is going to progress. Sarah rolls her eyes in a well, duh manner. She never turns down the chance to cast her face to the sunshine and feed her lungs with poison.
"That was epic." Sarah clutches her sides and doubles over, clinging onto the red brick wall as we make our way outside. "Listen, lady." She hoots another spout of laughter. "I can't believe you told her to listen, lady." Sarah wipes streaks of teary laughter across her face. Honestly, if she can laugh so much when sober, I hate to think what she's like when high. She must rupture stomach muscles.
Breathing over-the-top deep breaths like she's having some form of a fit, Sarah watches me through her dark lashes. She's all dark angles and fine jet hair. Finding her on the first day of my treatment was like stumbling on an unmined mountain of gold in the most unexpected place. She gets me, in ways not many others do. She sees through everything until she's staring at the very simplest, most basic version of me. "So, Superstar, you all ready to hit the road?"
I shake my head, my words fizzling before I can open my mouth to force them out, and the pinch of nerves in the pit of my stomach transforms until it's rumbling and grumbling like a demon of fear.
She smiles for a second, cocking her head to one side, her fringe dropping over her right eye. "You'll be fine. You never belonged here anyway, you are too good for this shit." She flings a track lined arm around my shoulders and gives me a tight squeeze. Along my chest the jar of her ribs bash against mine.
Inhaling a bottomless drag on my smoke, I delve deep for suitable words, and stretch my lips into a smile. "Thank you, Sarah, for being my friend."
She cracks me one of her twisted grins, her gaunt cheek lifting. "Superstar, we are always going to be friends. Haven't you heard the phrase, get clean together, die together?"
Smiling, I roll my eyes. "You should be the famous actress, not me."
Sarah laughs, and its infectious sound makes my ears ring, but her eyes blaze ominously with dark thoughts. "I still would have ended up here, anyway. They always had a door with my name on it."
Frowning, I reach for her arm, fastening it tightly in my grip, my fingers slipping effortlessly around the circumference of her limb. "That's not true."
"Sure thing, Superstar."
She does this. Lurches off into dark thoughts where no one can reach her. Her addiction is different to mine. My dark thoughts only strike when I
'm high, edging me on, making me do things the sober me would baulk at. Sarah? Well her dark thoughts seem to exist inside of her every waking moment.
Last week they'd had to sedate her because she went loco during a session. It's pushed back her dry time and delayed her stay in rehab no matter how much she tells them she's fine.
"Anyway, you're the Hollywood darling." Her eyes twinkle with a spark of amusement. "You can't do any wrong, even when you overdose."
I burn a pale pink and worry my lips between my teeth. "Well, I don't think I'm their darling anymore." I jab my elbow towards her although she dodges it with ease. "And anyway, I was just lucky, in the right place at the right time." I'm not convinced starring in the transatlantic TV show which went giant stateside was lucky, but I know others would disagree. Countless others would sell their grandmother, or even their soul for the chance I'd been given.
Her gaze locks onto my face. "Do you think you will stay dry?" she asks, and I groan. It's the question all the 'inmates' at the facility ask. The closer it gets to your ninety days, the more the world outside looks like it's created of vodka jello shots and towering mounds of cut cocaine. Right now, I can visualise the highway as a slick of champagne—like a tanker of the good stuff has turned over and is leaking the finest French bubbles all over the tarmac. My mouth waters but I shut it down. No.
I flick my cigarette stub onto the immaculately trimmed grass, watching it land right next to the No Smoking sign, and nudge my hands into the pockets of my skinnies. "I don't think I will touch the hard stuff again, but then I don't really think I am an addict, not really."
