Life Support (The Breathe Series Book 2)
Page 37
I pushed myself off of the door frame, then followed him down the slender white hallway.
He glanced back at me, a slight grin shaping his lips. “Man. I know I’m supposed to act all chill and stuff, but I can’t help it. Pandemic Sorrow is my favorite band. You’re a legend.”
Shoving my shades up through my hair, I forced my lips to curve up. I’d been told in rehab that I needed to act more appreciative, but when you’re as numb and arrogant as I am, sometimes it’s hard to act thankful about anything.
I forced out what I’d been told was an appropriate response. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate that.”
The guy stopped, dropping his clipboard down by his side and staring at me through his thick, black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. He shook his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “You guys aren’t really done, are you? Those are just rumors?”
“Nah. We can’t go nowhere. Music’s all we know.”
Pleased with that response, he turned and continued to the dressing room.
About seven months ago I’d almost made my heart explode, or almost overdosed, if you want to get technical with it, but I think the exploding heart thing sounds much better, less accusing. I had been forced into rehab, kicking and screaming, because I didn’t have a fucking problem. I just got a little too excited, a little too carried away, and snorted one too many lines. That’s not a problem, that’s an accident. Right after I finished my treatment and was told I was “cured” from my “habit,” I threatened and swore that I was going to leave Hollywood behind in an effort to stay clean. Of course, when that happened, people thought the band was done for. I hadn’t threatened that because I wanted to stay clean – honestly, it all just sounded like a hassle – but more so that I wanted to get the fuck away and have some privacy. At times, the idea of fading into the background, of having a life where each damn breath I drew wouldn’t be scrutinized and slapped across the front page of every tabloid in existence – well, sometimes that just seemed abso-fucking-lutely amazing.
We stopped outside the dressing room, and I grabbed the intern’s shoulder before he walked away. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jay.”
One side of my mouth flipped up in a halfhearted grin, and I said, “Why do you work here, Jay?”
A ridge formed on his brow as he stared at me, not exactly sure why the hell I was asking him that question.
“What do you want to get from this place? From working at MTV? Fame? Is that what you’re running after?” I pointed back to the studio. “You want to eventually end up in front of that camera?”
Nodding, he said, “Well, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t want to be famous?”
I shook my head in disgust and turned to enter the dressing room as I mumbled, “Yeah. Well, some people that are famous just wish they weren’t.”
Jag is available at eBook retailers.
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