Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
He’s known me for the better part of a decade. He should’ve known better.
I miss the man. He’d been a fixture in my daily life for a very long time, but I could never be who he needed. Cutting him loose completely was the humane thing to do. I just never imagined the fallout would bleed over into every part of my life.
He wanted more, and I couldn’t give that to him. He looked utterly shattered when he gave me an ultimatum—tell the world about us or it all ends.
I don’t think he considered for a single second that I would pick the latter.
Ironically, the pictures of us hit the tabloids mere hours after he walked out of my house.
Hell, I wouldn’t put it past the man to have leaked the photos himself in retaliation, and that makes him as big of a dick as I was when I read that damn prepared statement my manager handed me.
What does it say about society that someone’s first response when faced with the truth many people won’t like is to lie?
I’m no stranger to lies. Growing up the way I did, lying was part of my daily life.
Lying kept me from having bruises on my face when Dad came home drunk.
It was learned very early in life to keep me safe and the people around me happy.
How fucked is that I’d rather tell people I was addicted to cocaine and booze than the truth?
Why does it even matter that I like a little stubble burn on my inner thighs after getting a hearty blowjob? That I like the masculine groan from a man when I slide inside of him?
It shouldn’t be an issue, but apparently, it’s a huge one.
My life is completely fucked because people have opinions of how I should spend my time, but I guess that’s just one more thing I have to deal with since my entire life is in the damn spotlight.
It doesn’t help my current predicament, being sleep deprived and undercaffeinated.
I’m not completely out of touch. I know I created this whole fucking mess. I lied, hurt my bandmate, and brought on a slew of bad press for saying what I did.
Fear makes people do stupid things, but I should’ve at least had my life in order before I blew the damn thing up.
I realized almost immediately that I was seriously out of touch with the real world. I let stardom go to my head. I took advantage of being able to pay people to keep my life together, and not being able to operate the fucking espresso machine is just one more shining example of being helpless.
Instead of breaking my phone, I pull up my contacts and call my closest friend. Fuck, he may be my only friend these days.
“Miss me already?” Davien asks when the call connects.
“You know it,” I say, trying for cheery.
Manifestation is a thing, right?
Other than my bandmates, Davien Hartman is the only person in my life the last five years that hasn’t been paid to be there, although I guess technically, my bandmates were on the payroll. My bassist, Adam Owens, was never a big fan of mine, and I’m sure if Lucid Unrest was less popular, he would’ve bolted years ago. Success and money tend to keep people around even when they aren’t happy, something I’ve discovered a little too much of recently.
“I’m all alone,” I mutter, letting pity settle inside of me.
“I have to work,” he says, sounding more than a little distracted.
“Everyone has left because of the rumors of the band breaking up.”
Fletcher has refused to work another day with me, and I don’t blame him. Well, I mostly don’t blame him. Taking the weight of what I’ve done on my shoulders has been a struggle when it’s always been easy to blame those around me for the misfortunes.
The album didn’t do well? Blame the songwriter.
The venue didn’t sell out? Blame the events coordinator.
The lead singer is caught with his mouth on a man’s cock? Blame drugs and alcohol.
“Things will even out, Arch. It’s only been a few days.”
“I called Fletch to apologize. He blocked my number.”
“As he should,” Davien says.
His response doesn’t surprise me. The man has been very vocal in his opinions of what I’ve done. He’s not happy with me, but at least he hasn’t abandoned me… yet.
“No one else in the band will take my calls, either.”
“You just blew up their future. What do you expect?”
“A little fucking compassion,” I snap, my anger from nothing in my life going right spilling over.
“Compassion?” he scoffs. “Honey, you told the world that you only messed around with one of your closest friends because you were drunk and high. That’s insulting not only to the queer community but also to anyone struggling with addiction. They’re excuses.”
“I’m trying to fix it,” I remind him. We had this very same damn conversation last night before he left for Los Angeles for work.