I can feel myself slowly going mad, the inability to create pushing me further into a downward spiral of self-loathing and apathy.
Both the pick and instrument are hand-me-downs; the pick, a shiny piece of purple plastic with a two-headed serpent on the face, and the guitar, a vintage Fender Precision bass that my father got from his father, who swore it was once played by Pino Palladino.
I’ve always considered them good luck charms. My first album, Follow You To Hell, was produced from a single bass line off this very instrument, and after it went platinum, I resigned to start every new project the same way.
There’s a room down the hall where the walls are lined with different guitars, and a baby grand sits in the foyer off from the private elevator, but they don’t spark my inspiration.
Right now, nothing seems to, and I’m starting to wonder if I should just give up entirely.
Sighing, I push the bass off my lap and get to my feet, that hollow feeling expanding inside me, its inky tendrils wrapping around my sternum. They tighten until it feels like the bone might crack under the pressure, and I make my way to the bed, crawling beneath the covers.
The heaviness that’s lived in my body for years now threatens to crush me, and for a moment, I wish it would.
Wish I could erase that night after the charity gala from my mind for good.
But when sleep overtakes me, it’s thoughts of her I drift off to.
Liam manages to drag me out of my bed for the first time in weeks.
He shields me under a Reds baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a shapeless puffer jacket that feels a little too obvious for the beginning of summer.
I haven’t seen a ray of sunshine in days, though, so I let him take me out. We hop into a blacked-out GMC Suburban and head to some dive bar on Staten Island.
Part of me expects animosity from the crowd, especially once we settle in at the bar and I shirk off the glasses and coat, but instead we’re flocked by a crowd of sympathizers.
They drone on and on about my plight, how they’ll always believe a man until proven guilty, and for some reason, it rankles me. Unease chinks along my spine, digging into the vertebrae until I’m practically vibrating with annoyance.
After I’ve signed a dozen autographs, Liam slides a beer over and raises an eyebrow at me.
“You good? Because three seconds ago, it looked like you wanted to tear into your own fans.”
“I’m fine. That was just a lot to soak in.” I take the bottle, bringing it to my lips for a quick sip, far past caring that I shouldn’t be drinking. “Guess I’ve got to ease myself back into the socialization part of this gig.”
“See, this is why sitting alone in your apartment day in and day out is a bad thing. Think of all the connections you’re missing out on when you sit up there sulking, forgetting how to interact with people. You could be networking with people who could help you, clear your name once and for all, but you’re too busy hiding.”
“I’m trying to work,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. Ever the publicist, always worried about my image and not the fact that I’m drowning in misery. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t exactly have very much else going on right now. Making music is the only thing keeping me fucking occupied, asshole.”
Liam sighs, taking a swig of his own beer. “I get that, man. But you can’t just give up.”
“I haven’t.”
“Really?” He quirks a brow. “Then why the hell haven’t you found that girl yet? The Aiden James I know would never roll over for some cheap pussy.”
My throat burns, hearing him call her that. Then, the fire inside rages even higher, my internal defense of the girl who ruined my life irritating me.
God, I’m pathetic.
I don’t even know her fucking name, and yet I’m stuck on her as though she’s a goddess on earth, and I’ve found religion in her.
“Nothing to find,” a voice says from over my shoulder. We turn to see a man with a bad comb-over leaning against the counter, pudgy fingers wrapped around a half-empty pint. “Didn’t you hear? That girl’s dead.”
I snort, and Liam rolls his eyes, leaning in to ask, “How could you know that? No one even knows her name.”
“Oh, someone knows her name, all right. And someone took care of pretty boy’s little problem,” he sneers. Tilting his head, he takes me in from head to toe and chuckles to himself. “Then again, maybe she’s created a whole new set.”
With a hiccup, he stumbles off to the back, his gait and slurred speech confirming that his ramblings are just that.
There’s no way the girl is dead.
Surely, someone would’ve figured that out. Even though the Internet’s been practically scrubbed of her existence, outside of the claims themselves, it’s not possible something like this would happen and I wouldn’t know about it.
Right?
Liam and I sit in silence, my thoughts growing persistent in volume with each drink I take. I do my best to tamp it down, not wanting to spoil the night for Liam, but eventually I can’t ignore the pulse in my veins.
Sliding off the stool, I clamp a hand on his shoulder. “Gonna step out for a smoke.”
He hesitates, casting a glance over his shoulder to where my bodyguard, Jason, sits in the corner of the room watching us.
I sigh. “Please, I’ll just be a second. I swear I’m not going anywhere. Need some air.”
“Okay.” Liam shrugs, scratching at his blond hair. “I’ll try to stall him.”
Clapping him on the back, I duck out a side exit into a damp alley and collapse against the brick wall. Shuffling out a cigarette from my jeans, I light up and take a slow drag, trying to calm the painful buzzing ricocheting off my temple.
Dead. I scoff, wondering who the fuck that girl was, and how she ended up being so goddamn elusive. Is it possible her enchantment was nothing more than a ruse, and that she was sent to ruin me?
Then again, if that were the case, I don’t know why she seemed so reluctant to be my date that night. Why she ran from me, when I’d only just gotten a taste.
Tapping my foot on the concrete, I do my best to make sense of the situation, ruminating on everything that’s led up to this point for the millionth time since the allegations began.
No one knows who she is, because she forged the papers to get into the charity gala that night.
But at the tattoo shop, they’d run her license, and no one said anything about it being a fake.
With the cigarette dangling between my lips, I replay that thought in my mind again, heart stalling as it gets stuck on a loop.
She used her real license to get a tattoo.
Blinking at the bare wall in front of me for several beats, I take one last puff and toss the cigarette to the ground, taking off on foot down the alley and street to where the Suburban is parked. Throwing open the back door, I quickly relay directions to the driver, sending a text to Liam that I’m heading back to the apartment and sending the car back for him.
A string of explicit texts follow, but I ignore them, adrenaline coursing through my blood as the driver whizzes through the city streets.
When he finally gets close enough, I shove open the door and sprint down the sidewalk, barreling into Gio’s shop with absolutely no finesse. My hair sticks to my forehead, damp with sweat, and I’m out of breath as I ask about their records.