The Wreckage of Us

by Cherry, Brittainy

  Mom was the same way, but her movements were not as intense as Dad’s.

  They looked . . . fucking awful.

  As if they’d left Eres and had been riding the shit train ever since.

  It was clear they were still using, and that broke my heart. I’d figured one of two things had happened since they’d left: (a) they’d overdosed and lost their lives, or (b) they’d found their way to living a happy, clean life and just left me in the past.

  Obviously, option B made it easier for me to sleep at night.

  But finding out that there was an option C—they were still as fucked up as before—broke my heart.

  “We’d been meaning to reach out for so long, but I doubt Big Paw would’ve wanted us to come back like this,” Mom said, shivering as if she were cold, but sweating at the same time. I tossed off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She smiled. “Looks like they ended up raising a southern gentleman,” she commented, nudging Dad in the side. “I told you he’d turn out to be great, didn’t I, Ray?”

  “She sure did say that,” he agreed, sipping at his cola.

  “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

  “Oh, you’re an easy one to spot. We saw you were performing in town tonight, and your face has been broadcast all over the internet and magazines and television. I don’t know if you know it, son, but you’re kind of a big deal around these parts.”

  I gave him a tight smile. If only he knew the uneasiness he gave me by calling me “son.”

  I hadn’t been their son in years.

  “But why are you here?” I asked again. “What do you want?”

  I saw how taken aback Mom was by those words, but I didn’t know how else to ask. I’d envisioned the two of them and me reuniting many times before, but unfortunately, I’d hoped it would’ve been before fame came—not after. Now that I was on the path of making something of myself, it came off as quite suspicious that they were approaching me for a family reunion.

  Mom reached out toward me and placed her hand on top of mine, and fuck, it felt good to hold her hand. I hated how good it felt. Even though her hands were ice cold, her touch was enough to warm up the chilled parts of my soul.

  “We wanted to see you, Ian; that’s all. To make sure that you are doing okay.”

  “You could’ve checked in a long time ago to make sure of that. My address hasn’t changed. You knew where I was.”

  “Yes, but we didn’t have the money to travel back down to Nebraska,” Dad argued.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t have money for a pay phone either. Grams and Big Paw’s number has been the same since the nineties.”

  Dad’s brows lowered, and a coldness washed across his stare. “What are you trying to say? We didn’t try hard enough to get in contact?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say,” I said straight out. “It’s just odd that you happen to reappear after all this time now that you saw me on TV. It’s fucked up.”

  “Watch your tongue, boy!” Dad barked, pointing a stern finger in my direction, causing people to glance over to our table.

  Mom reached out and lowered his arm, shushing him. “Calm down, Ray.”

  He grumbled. “I just don’t like what he’s getting at.”

  “Why, because I’m right?” I asked. I pulled out my wallet and began thumbing through the bills. “So what are we thinking? How much do you need? I mean, you are after money, right? It’s clear we aren’t here to reconnect and share memories.”

  Mom’s head lowered, and she shook it. “We did want to see you, Ian. I swear, but it’s just . . . we’ve fell on some hard times and were wondering if you could help us out.”

  The regret I got from allowing my heart to beat again after all these years came storming back toward me. The problem with beating hearts was that they could break in an instant.

  I pulled out the cash in my wallet and set it in front of me. Their eyes glazed over in wonderment as they looked at it, showing me that the money was exactly what they were after. “I got five hundred.”

  “Bullshit,” Dad—no, Ray—snapped. “You’re a damn superstar. You can give us more than that.”

  “What in the hell makes you think I owe you anything?”

  “We’re your parents,” he said, his voice dripping with anger. He was probably high out of his fucking mind.

  “You’re not anything to me. Here’s the thing. You take the five hundred dollars now, or you take no money, and we can figure out if we can have a relationship down the line. But if we do, I’m not giving you a dime ever. You take the five hundred dollars, or you get your son back. The choice is yours.”

  I felt like a damn idiot.

  As the seconds ticked by, my heart, my stupid bruised and battered heart, was crying out like the eight-year-old child I used to be, asking—no, begging—his parents to pick him. I wanted them to pick me, to choose me, to want me.

  They glanced toward one another, then to the cash, never looking back toward me. In one quick movement, Ray scooped up the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

  And my stupid bruised and battered beating heart?

  It fucking shattered.

  They left that night with $500 in their hands to continue to chase their high as I was left alone in the diner, looking like a damn fool.

  “What’s going on? What happened?” Hazel asked as I lay in the hotel room with the phone pressed against my ear. She’d left me dozens of text messages and called multiple times, leaving me voice messages filled with worry.

  I’d finally built up enough nerve to call her back around one in the morning. “Just some bullshit,” I murmured. It took a lot for me to break out the whiskey, but I was sipping away at a glass as I sat in bed. I was drunk by the time I’d called her, and that probably wasn’t a good thing.

  Whiskey normally made me sad, but that didn’t matter—seeing as how I was already crushed.

  “Was it someone who ran into you? A fan? Paparazzi?”

  “No.” I shook my head as if she could see me. “Even worse. It was my parents.”

  Hazel gasped through the receiver. “Oh my gosh, what?”

  “I guess they saw me on TV. Wanted to catch up, and by ‘catch up,’ I mean they wanted money.”

  “Oh my gosh, Ian. I can’t believe that. What did you do?”

  “I gave them an option—five hundred bucks or a relationship with me.”

  She sighed, almost as if she knew what they’d chosen. “They took the money?”

  “Yeah.” I chuckled, the back of my throat burning from the whiskey and the pain of the night. “They took the fucking money.”

  “Idiots,” she whispered. “I hate them. I know I shouldn’t hate your parents, but I do. I really freaking hate them.”

  “Yeah. It’s not like they made the wrong choice,” I drunkenly said, tossing the whiskey back, before walking over to the bar to pour myself another glass. “I wouldn’t have chosen me either.”

  “Don’t say that. You aren’t the mistake in this, Ian. They are. They are the flawed ones, not you.”

  I stayed quiet and placed a hand on the bar to stabilize myself as my mind spun from the whiskey and the heartache.

  “What do you need?” she asked, her voice alert and stern. “Tell me what you need.”

  I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “My best friend,” I muttered. “I need my best friend.”

  “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  32

  IAN

  “What the fuck is this?” Max hollered as he stormed toward me in the hotel lobby the next morning. We had two more shows in Richmond, and I couldn’t help but want to go home. But as they said, the show had to go on.

  The guys and I were waiting in the lobby to head off to a few interviews, and the sound of Max’s high-pitched voice felt like nails on a fucking chalkboard to my hangover.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose as he stopped in front of me. I was sporting the nice sunglasses and dark apparel
, and all I wanted was a few ibuprofen and deep-fried foods.

  “What’s what?” I grumbled, not wanting to deal with my manager that morning. Did he make our dreams come true? Yes. Did he drive me insane at times? Double yes.

  “This,” he said, shoving the phone into my hands.

  I stared at the screen, and a knot formed in my stomach. It was a tabloid image of me sitting in the diner with my parents, and it captured me handing money over to the two of them. From the outside looking in, it looked shady as fuck.

  Okay, regardless, it was shady, but the tabloids made it look fucking awful. Now I understood Max’s panic.

  “What is it?” James asked, taking the phone from my hand. The moment he saw it, his mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Is that . . . ?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  Max snatched the phone back from my hands, completely unaware of who I was sitting across from in that picture. And he obviously didn’t care.

  He sat on the coffee table directly across from me and clasped his hands together. “Are you on drugs?”

  “What?” I blurted out. “No, I’m not on drugs.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me, Ian. If you are, I just have to know what kind. Cocaine? I can do. Molly? Sure. A few pills and cough syrup on a Saturday night? Sure, why not? But this—this picture looks like two people on fucking meth. And I don’t fuck with artists who are doing meth,” he bellowed with his nose flaring. “So did you meet up with those meth heads to join their party?”

  James’s jaw clenched, and he lowered his brows. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Max,” my friend said.

  “No offense, Yoda, but I’m talking to my star right now. A star who is about to throw away everything we have going for him. So please, mind your own business.”

  James parted his mouth to give Max a piece of his mind, but I held a hand up to stop him. James’s face was bright red with anger, and it took a lot to get him to that level. I knew if he snapped on Max, there would be no going back from it.

  When James grew upset—which hardly ever happened—he turned into the Incredible Hulk, and he would’ve smashed things. Like Max’s face.

  “They are my parents,” I said, knowing there was no reason to lie. “They haven’t been in my life for years, due to their drug problem, and when they found out about my success, they came around looking for money.”

  Max sighed and rolled a hand against his face. “Please don’t tell me you gave them money; please don’t tell me you gave them money,” he begged.

  “I did, but I told them they couldn’t come back for more. It’s over.”

  “God dammit!” Max said, standing from his sitting position and stomping around like a damn child. “No! No. You never give addict family members money. You know why, Ian?”

  “Enlighten me,” I grumbled, annoyed by my manager.

  “Because they never fucking go away! If you give a druggie a penny, they come back again asking for a dime. This is shit. This is fucking shit.” Max dug into his fanny pack–type bag, pulled out his prescription pills, and popped them into his mouth. He took a deep breath and tried to ground himself. “Okay. Okay. That’s fine. I’ll fix this. But in the meantime—don’t go around handing out any more money to anyone, okay? Your career is just starting, and I really don’t want it to end because some meth-head parents decide they want to get rich quick and write a tell-all story about Ian Parker.”

  “They have nothing to tell. They haven’t known me for years.”

  “People don’t care if they are telling the truth! They just want drama!” he shouted.

  Before I could reply, he was already making calls and storming off.

  The guys all looked at me with the most sincere looks on their faces. It was clear they were more concerned about my well-being than Max was, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

  “Not now, you guys,” I muttered, leaning back against the chair. “I can’t talk about it now.”

  “I get it, man,” Marcus said, patting me on the back. “But when you’re ready to talk, we’re here to listen.”

  That night’s performance was probably one of the hardest ones I’d had to put on, but I followed through, and when it was time to get off stage, I dashed to my dressing room. I wanted nothing more than to avoid all human contact, go crash in my hotel room, and live in my self-pity.

  As I opened the dressing room, I noticed a person sitting in the chair near my mirror with their back to me.

  “Uh, excuse me?”

  “You know, you have to be more careful about these dressing rooms having better security.” Hazel swung around in the chair and gave me her smile. The smile that fixed things. “Otherwise any fangirl could come in here and try to touch your butt.”

  I didn’t reply to her sassy comment. I just beelined toward her and pulled her in for a hug. I held her tighter than ever.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered, nudging her head against my chest.

  “You’re right on time. Where’s Rosie?”

  “Big Paw and Holly are watching her for the next two days, with the help of Leah, until I get back to town.” She pulled back a little and placed her palm against my cheek. Her dilated eyes pierced me. “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head.

  She hugged me tighter. “Okay.”

  Just then, the dressing room door swung open, and Max came barging into the room. “Ian, we need to—” He stopped. He arched an eyebrow and eyed Hazel up and down. “Oh. Uh, sorry, I didn’t know you were with company.”

  I stepped away from Hazel and gestured toward Max. “Haze, this is Max, my manager. Max, this is my girlfriend, Hazel.” It felt good introducing her that way to people—as my girlfriend.

  Max’s eyes began to study Hazel a little more, and for the first time since I’d been working with him, I realized what he looked like. He looked like a rat, always studying things to see if he could get something from them.

  He pushed out a smile, walked over to Hazel, and offered her a handshake. “Max Rider. Nice to meet you. So you’re the one taking up a lot of Ian’s focus, huh?”

  Hazel grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

  Max kept his lips pressed together tightly and traced his eyes over Hazel once again. “What’s your last name, Hazel?”

  She cocked an eyebrow but answered. “Stone.”

  Max whistled. “Hazel Stone and Ian Parker. It has a good ring to it. Anyway, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just wanted to remind you of the party tonight with some big names, Ian.”

  I cringed and shook my head. “I was hoping to lay low tonight with Hazel. It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours.”

  “Who are you telling? I know. I’ve been in charge of damage control, remember?”

  Hazel cocked another eyebrow toward Max’s tone, and I could tell she was bothered by him. She must’ve been trying really hard to bite her tongue. I could imagine the sassy responses flying through her brain.

  “Yeah, I know. But I just need a night off.”

  “Not now,” he argued. “Now is the time you get out there and showcase that you aren’t on drugs. You be charming and funny and the persona we are creating Ian Parker to be.”

  “I don’t feel like being charming and funny.”

  “That’s why it’s called acting.”

  “I’m a musician, not an actor.”

  He laughed. “All musicians are actors. The only difference is musicians can sing better. Anyhoo, I’ll text you the details.”

  He hurried out of the room and slammed the door behind him before I could respond.

  “So that’s the amazing Max Fucking Rider, huh?” Hazel said, rolling her eyes so hard I thought she’d never see straight again. “He does know that at the end of the day, he works for you, right?”

  I gave a lazy smile. “I doubt he knows that. Sorry you had to witness that. I was hoping we could talk and chill, but I think I have to make an appearance tonight, for damage cont
rol and all.”

  “Who’s handling the damage control on your heart?” she asked.

  I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in close. “You are.” I pressed my lips to her forehead. “I know you didn’t come out here to come to a party, but I’d love to have you by my side to keep me levelheaded.”

  “Where you lead, I’ll follow. Whatever you need from me over these next thirty hours, I’m yours.”

  33

  HAZEL

  Max Fucking Rider.

  More like Max Fucking Dickhead.

  I couldn’t believe he was so cocky for such a little, little man. Max was a bald-headed guy, probably in his forties, but he dressed like he was in his twenties. He was obviously trying too hard to stay relevant, and it was coming off exactly as that—a middle-aged man trying too hard. Plus, he had a large amount of chest hair curling out of the top of his shirt.

  If a penis and a gorilla had a child, it would be Max Fucking Rider.

  If it weren’t for Ian and the band, I would’ve told Max where he could shove it. But instead, I was a good southern belle. I smiled and charmed and kept my extremely unpleasant thoughts about the man to myself.

  Then I went to the hotel with Ian to get ready for the party.

  “I have nothing to wear for a party,” I confessed, combing through the few items of clothing sitting in my suitcase.

  “Whatever you have is fine. You could wear what you have on now, and that will be fine,” Ian said.

  I laughed and looked down at my oversize hoodie and leggings. “Really? Is this what people wear to meet celebrities nowadays?” I frowned, feeling a bit defeated as I saw the fancy clothes that Ian was changing into. I doubt the women who were surrounding the Wreckage on the daily looked the way I did. They probably wore formfitting dresses and high heels.

  I looked down to my Adidas.

  Definitely not Christian Louboutin.

  “Don’t do that, Hazel,” he warned.

  “Do what?”

  “Think you have to change for this world I’m in. These parties, these fancy clothes—this isn’t real.”

  “And what is real?”

  “Old dirt roads. Bonfires. Grams’s cooking.” He smiled at me and walked over to scoop me into his arms. “You. Me. Us. We’re real. Everything else is just an act. Whatever you wear is good enough.”