Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
What the fuck was I supposed to do? Crawl into one of those sober houses and hide? Cancel the tour dates? Fuck up Jonas and Quinn’s lives more than I already had simply because I couldn’t get my shit together?
I couldn’t sleep, but I’d made my peace with that years ago—couldn’t silence his voice in my head and couldn’t black out to keep from hearing hers. But I also couldn’t stay up here forever. Eventually, I was going to have to handle civilization.
Fuck, I wanted a drink. I wanted ten. I wanted to walk out of this building and straight into the bar across the street. It wasn’t just the taste—oh no. I craved the oblivion. It was September already. I just needed another month, and it would all ease up. Just another month.
October was always easier.
But we had a show in two and a half weeks, and if I wasn’t strong enough to leave this damned building, how was I going to make it through an entire show without giving in to the buffet of shit readily available at a festival?
A quick glance at my cell phone would tell me that everyone had the answer.
Quinn’s text told me to come to Montana.
Jonas told me to come to Boston.
My producer told me to get my ass in the studio and write.
The only person not currently bossing my ass around like a child was the one woman I expected it from. Zoe might lecture me about my general assholery, but she let me take the lead when it came to what I needed.
I killed the Bluetooth and took out my earbuds when the song changed and “Sorry” filled the room through my phone’s speaker.
“Hey, you done?” Zoe asked from the doorway of my home gym.
Speak of the devil.
“No, I’m still running.” Sarcasm dripped from my voice as I turned to face her. “Obviously.” Damn, she was fun to rile up. I hit pause on my phone, killing the music.
“I like that song.”
“Most girls do. Pretty sappy, if you ask me.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a love letter. It’s supposed to be sappy.”
“It’s a ridiculously public apology for how shitty it is to maintain a relationship in the music industry.”
“Well, there’s nothing more romantic than pouring your heart out in public, and if you don’t get that, I can’t help you.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, and her eyes followed, raking down my naked torso. Her lips parted as her attention lingered on the ink stretching across my lower abs that read Apathy is Death. I personally liked the wings on my chest, but hey, if that was the one that did it for her, that was fine by me, because holy shit, she was looking. And not just looking in the clinical sense she usually did either.
There was heat in those green eyes.
My dick stirred. If she kept looking, it was going to get really fucking awkward around here. “I can get you a poster, if you want.”
She startled, and her cheeks flushed a sexy shade of pink as she shook her head. “Sorry!” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Sexy shade of pink? Shit, I was seriously going to have to get some. I didn’t care about the “don’t replace one addiction with another” bullshit. Not when I was looking at Zoe-freaking-Shannon like she could be lunch.
“You look good,” she blurted with a forced smile. “I mean, you put on, what…ten pounds in rehab?”
“Fifteen in the past two months.” Turned out my body was down with the whole less-drugs-and-alcohol and more-food-and-exercise thing. I hadn’t realized just how emaciated I’d become until I’d stepped on a scale. Weightlifting helped too.
“You look healthy,” she gushed. “That’s all I meant.” She rocked back on her heels and clasped her hands in front of her navy-blue dress. “Healthy boy. Healthy, healthy, healthy.”
I pressed my lips in a line to keep from laughing at how flustered she was. “Right, and now that we’ve settled that, what did you need?”
“Oh. Harvey called. He said you haven’t returned his last two calls.” She arched an eyebrow.
Uptight Zoe has returned.
“Funny, I don’t have any voicemails from him.” I shrugged.
“Because your voicemail is full.” She crossed her arms. Too bad that dress’s neckline wasn’t just an inch lower. I would have killed to see just a little cleavage.
“Huh.” Hell yes, it was full. If I wanted to talk to someone, I picked up.
“And he mentioned something about three or four texts?” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.
“I’ll be sure to look.” I wouldn’t.
“You’re such a liar.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “Just tell me what you want me to say to him. How many songs have you started? How long do you think you’ll need for three?”
“Zero, and I don’t know.”
“You’re killing me, Nixon.”
“There’s nothing inside my head you’d want on the page. Not right now.” Music had always been my outlet, my escape. It was where I channeled the emotions too messy to voice and too crippling to willingly recognize. But everything in my soul was too much right now, and I was too tight to let it free. It was like trying to force the Mississippi River through a keyhole, and I didn’t have alcohol to ease the way.