No way in hell am I going to let this asshole interrupt my well-deserved rest because he can’t keep it in his pants.
George is saying something, but I cut him off. “Gotta go.”
Clenching my teeth, I hop out of bed and charge for the door connecting our rooms.
“Listen here, ass—”
A low, tortured sound fills my ears. “Josh.”
When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see Phoenix’s silhouette thrashing around on his bed.
The headboard thumps again as I run over to him.
“Josh. Wake up!”
I quickly unlock the cuff around his wrist. “Hey.” Placing my hand on his shoulder, I give him a gentle shake. “It’s okay. You’re just having a bad dream.”
“Josh!”
Shit.
I shake him a little harder. “Phoenix—”
He bolts up with so much vigor he nearly knocks me to the floor.
Forehead creasing, he takes in his surroundings. He looks so disoriented and his breathing is so erratic I briefly debate calling for help.
I flick on the light next to his bed. “Are you okay?”
God, what a stupid question. Of course, he’s not. He’s having a nightmare about his friend and bandmate dying.
A nightmare based on reality.
Coming out of his haze, he lurches off the bed and wanders over to the minibar. He yanks the door open with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t come off the hinges.
He surveys the various alcoholic mini bottles and reaches for the Bacardi.
I scoot to the end of the bed. “You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”
Chandler more or less said he doesn’t care if Phoenix drinks in private as long as it doesn’t become a public issue, but drinking won’t make the demons he’s trying to drown out disappear.
It will only create new ones.
With a snort, he twists the cap off. “Add it to the list.”
Leaning down, I grab his forearm. “Why don’t you switch to Coke instead?”
“Great idea. I’ll call my dealer.”
Talk about a misinterpretation.
I gesture to the Coca-Cola can in the fridge. “I meant the soda.”
His throat bobs on a swallow. “Soda won’t make me forget.”
“Neither will getting trashed.” Something tells me deep down he knows that, though, so I try a different tactic. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’d rather drink about it,” he grunts before he downs the Bacardi.
Can’t say I’m surprised. Getting Phoenix to open up makes pulling teeth seem effortless.
Even still…I try anyway.
“I know losing your friend was hard—”
“No, you don’t know. Trust me.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the door. “I’ve got it from here. You can leave.”
His dismissal makes my heart sink like a cinder block.
“I want to stay.”
He might not want to talk, but I don’t feel right leaving him alone.
After all, it’s my job to watch over him.
Cutting me a look I can only construe as ‘suit yourself’， he opens a mini bottle of Jack Daniels and guzzles it.
Then—as if getting drunk were some kind of Olympic sport he was training for—he plucks a bottle of Hennessey from the fridge.
“Phoenix.”
I might as well be talking to a wall, though, because he finishes it.
“You should slow down.”
He launches the empty bottle across the room. “You should leave.”
Trepidation coils my stomach when he gets off the floor and makes a beeline for the small bar in the corner.
My trepidation turns to full-blown aggravation when he swipes the bottle of vodka off it. Unlike the others, it’s a fifth bottle.
The composure I was trying to maintain snaps like a twig, and I spring up. “Jesus Christ, dickhead. Would you fucking stop!”
“No!”
I’m trying my hardest to sympathize, but he’s making it beyond difficult. “I know losing your friend hurts like hell but—”
“You don’t fucking know!” he screams so loud I flinch.
“Then why don’t you tell me?” A bolt of sadness spikes through my chest. “And if not me…then someone. Anyone.”
Because trying to block it all out with drugs and alcohol will only send him to an early grave.
Nostrils flaring, he brings the bottle to his lips and turns toward the gigantic window overlooking Houston.
He’s silent for so long that when he finally does speak, it nearly startles me.