Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Having said that, I had, indeed, been pretty fucking out of my mind when I’d decided to turn around in the middle of a gig, walk over to Lucas’s drum kit, and smash my silver boot right into the bass. It had collapsed right into Lucas’ spread thighs, and he widened his eyes, his arms still mid-air holding the sticks, watching me like this came as a great surprise. It shouldn’t have. Fucker could have seen it from three countries over, and he’d kept pushing and pushing until I had no choice but to shove him out of my life.
But I digress.
It had started half an hour before the show. I’d already been on edge because Blake had locked us both in my dressing room and launched into one of his self-righteous monologues that served to stroke his own ego. It had taken me a few minutes to understand what, exactly, he was yelling and sweating about.
The champagne.
He’d sifted through my shit and found it. Which was quite ironic, because the past few days were the first in a very long time where I hadn’t wanted to drown my sorrow in alcohol.
“When I find the cunt who keeps sending them to you, I’ll kill them. But in the meantime—why play into their hands? Why, Alex? You have so much going for you. You have everything going for you. You’re rich and young and talented and adored. You’re a religion, for fuck’s sake. You’re writing what might be your best album yet. All you have to do is not fuck it up. Is it really that hard?”
Was he kidding? Of course it was that hard. Did he think the entire zip code of Hollywood wanted to be addicted to painkillers, alcohol, cocaine, and plastic surgery? Did he reckon I was just so bored with my perfect, wholesome life? Finding happiness as an intelligent person was like finding a real-life unicorn. Blake was pacing the room and throwing his arms in the air, exasperated.
“I’m trying. I really am. Trying to make you and Jenna happy, even though you both give me very different instructions on how to make it happen. I’m trying to respect your wishes not wanting to take Hudson along because you hate big entourages and still make sure that you’re sober. But it’s so difficult. You’re so difficult, Alex. Most of the time, I think the only reason you’re sober is because we’re watching over you all day.”
“It is,” I said from my place on the couch, lighting up a fag. Now that Blake was riding my arse about it, of course I needed a fucking drink. Oh, Irony, you and your twisted sense of humor.
Blake stopped in front of me, hands on his waist, eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not good enough. You need to make more of an effort to change. That means taking better care of yourself. Eating better. Actively trying to get over your addiction. And, yes, talking to your parents. You’ll have to see them soon, so I’m not sure why you keep postponing that conversation.”
He was right. My entire staff—all fifty roadies or so plus my band and my manager/babysitter—were sober because of me, and I hadn’t even made the smallest effort by throwing the champagne in the trash. I’d kept it because I was still an addict. I still thought about alcohol and cocaine every single fucking day. I missed it. I didn’t resent it. I was like a rich, spoiled sonovobitch who got caught doing something bad and had his parents buy his way out. Just because I was physically clean didn’t mean I’d learned my lesson. My only drawback from drinking the champagne was: A) I was never alone, and B) I was momentarily occupied with getting into my hanny’s knickers and was so close to my goal, cocking it up was out of the question.
I needed to grow up, but growing up meant letting go of who I’d been for the past seven years. The last time I was sober was when I was twenty. I didn’t know myself anymore. Not without the drugs. There was a stranger in my house, and that stranger was me.
The only thing I didn’t agree with him about was my parents. I didn’t need to talk to my family. My family did enough talking about me. To the press. Often. Twats.
If Blake thought it was some kind of a pivotal moment where I snapped out of it and finally understood how low I’d stooped, he obviously gave me too much credit. I knew I was in deep trouble, and that I was a piece of shit, but I still had a few more inches of abyss before I really hit rock bottom. Blake dragged the coffee table between us aside and squatted down between my legs. It felt intimate and weird, and I groaned with annoyance. He plastered his hands on my knees.