STONED (Wrecked Book 1)

by Mandi Beck

  “Bear, please. Joaquin told him. He knows. He knows,” I choke out.

  That gets Bear’s attention. He instantly straightens, releasing Stone and gathering me as well as Cora in an embrace as she and I cry softly. They’re the only two people aside from my therapists who know what happened that night and that Lyric is the result. They went to doctor’s appointments with me, discussed options, supported me when I refused those other options vehemently. They know that this is bigger than all of us. My pain is their pain. They’re the family I’ve been missing since I walked away from Stone and the guys. They’re the family I needed even before that.

  Breaking away when I hear the door open, I look up to see JD on the porch, see the apology on his face, but can’t find it in me to care. His betrayal still raw, cutting too deep. I turn then to Stone whose pain is palpable. I can feel it reaching for me. Calling to me. But again, I’m too raw, too exposed to deal with his when mine is suffocating me. He’s staring at nothing, his hands trembling, shoulders slumped. “Stone.” My voice is little more than a croaked whisper. Slowly he brings his gaze up to mine, but it falls away. Like he can’t look at me. It hurts, but I understand. I’m broken to him now. Tainted. I saw the same thing for months every time I looked in the mirror. I’d rather he not look at me. I don’t want to see the love that always shines in his eyes for me dimmed and replaced with something ugly. I selfishly look for it, every time I see him.

  “Willow, I—” He scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing the trembling tips of his fingers over his lips again and again. I watch silently as he falls back into the fog my voice snapped him out of. Then quietly, as if an afterthought, “I have to go. I have to—go.” And I let him.

  Pulling myself together, I walk up to my home, flanked by Cora and Bear, right past JD. Stopping only to pick up the stuffed bird and wrapped present that Stone had left behind. With my back to Joaquin, I tell him in a defeated, yet steady voice, “You should go.”

  “Willow, please. I’m so very sorry.”

  “I don’t accept your apology right now. Maybe later, but now I just want you to go,” the closing of the door punctuation to my words.

  I keep it together as best as I can as I take Lyric from a sad-faced Perry and turn to the room, “I just need to be alone for a bit.” My tone is becoming more and more fragile by the moment.

  Cora nods. “Of course. We’re going to clean up down here and make some phone calls. You go be with your sweet girl. We’ll be here if you need us,” she assures me gently.

  Slowly climbing the stairs with Lyric who is clutching the gifts from Stone, I shut us into the nursery and sit with her in the rocker, allowing the room and my daughter to work their magic. Waiting for the peace that I find here to wash over me, but it doesn’t. I’m worried about Stone. What the news will do to him. I’ve had almost two years to try and find a way to live with it, and some days I still struggle. The guilt I saw written all over him is what scares me the most. At his best, Stone is a wild card. When he’s low, there’s no telling what kind of trouble he’ll find or he’ll allow to find him. Looking down at Lyric, I smile sadly as I see her fiddling with the paper and pretty ribbons on the gift box.

  “I’m sorry that your party was ruined. Should we at least open this present since it’s here?” I ask my precious girl. When she claps and gives me a toothy grin, dimple and all, I feel some of the weight of the afternoon being lifted. Shifting so that I can help her since she refuses to relinquish the bird she has in a choke hold, we work together to tear open the wrappings. Underneath we find a black velvety box and lift the lid. Overcome by a riot of emotions, a shaky breath slips past my lips when I see what’s nestled on the inside. There are two gold necklaces. One a slender bar with a heart punched out of it with what looks like coordinates stamped into the shiny metal, and the other is the small heart with a tiny half note engraved in the center, dangling from a child-sized chain. Along with them is a lovely poem about mothers and daughters and a card with what I instantly recognize as Stone’s handwriting.

  Birdie & Lyric,

  For my two girls. I’ll always be where you are and you’ll forever be the rhythm in my heart.

  I love you always,

  Stone

  With tears in my eyes, I clasp first Lyric’s and then my necklace and reach for my phone and dial. Law picks up on the second ring.

  “Hey, Willow! What’s going on, pretty mama?” I can hear the smile in his voice which confirms my fears.

  “Stone isn’t with you, is he?”

  “Isn’t he with you?” he asks, confused. “We’re supposed to meet him over there.”

  “No. You need to go find him. He shouldn’t be alone. I would start at the bars,” I say, regretfully.

  “The bars? Wills, what the fuck is going on?” Law demands.

  “I can’t get into it, I’m sorry. Just please message me when you find him.”

  I hang up before he can answer, not willing to give him more than I did.

  Lawson will find him. He always does.

  Sliding from the chair with Lyric wrapped in my arms I lay on the floor and lift her in the air to look down on me. She giggles and kicks her tiny little legs, the necklace from Stone swaying back and forth in a hypnotic beat. The tears once again start falling all on their own, pooling into my hair spread out on the carpet. I could allow myself to wallow in this self-pity, but I refuse. Not today, not when I have so much to be happy about inside this little mommy and Lyric bubble where the outside world can’t touch us. I won’t wonder if Cora and Bear are still downstairs or if Perry is worried. I won’t think about Stone and how he’s feeling or Joaquin who I’m not ready to forgive. I only want to focus on Lyric and how lucky I am to have her. Looking at my daughter, so happy and oblivious, I can’t help but smile. And briefly let my thoughts wander to Stone.

  “I need you, to be me,” I whisper to my daughter. My heart’s new rhythm.

  Stone

  I WALK AIMLESSLY DOWN KING Street not knowing where to go, what I’m looking for, just knowing that my skin feels too fucking tight, my heart too fucking broken, my bones don’t even feel right.

  Before I realize where I am or what I’m doing, I slide a stool out and sit at the dimly lit, scarred up bar. “Glen Grant, if you have it. Bring the bottle,” I tell the bartender when she glides over, stopping in front of me.

  “Oooh, a big spender. I’m gonna need to charge you before I have my manager unlock the cabinet for that one,” she says in what I’m assuming is her “sexy” voice.

  My head is down, eyes never meeting hers because I’m afraid to look anyone in the eye right now. How could they not see what I’ve done? What happened to my beautiful Birdie because I was high and drunk and stupid. So fucking stupid. I remember nothing from that night. Not a single fucking thing. Only waking up on the floor, clothes still on from the night before, a strange woman in the bed and no Willow. I had no clue what time it was or what day. Just that Willow was gone, and some fucking chick I didn’t know was in my room. Our room. Mine and Willow’s. And that even with a pounding head and cotton mouth, I needed something to take the edge of panic off. Much as I do now. Three months of in-house rehab, another few months with Koa, and almost a year’s worth of meetings and I can’t find a single fuck to give. I’m just lucky I can’t score anything more than a drink right now because I wouldn’t be able to find my fucks to talk me out of that either.

  Pulling out my wallet, I snatch the Black Amex out and toss it at her with my ID. So much for staying off the radar. From my pocket I pull out my cigarettes and go to light one when I remember you can’t smoke any-fucking-where any more. Throwing the pack onto the bar, I bury my fingers in my hair. Over and over. The need to just yank it all out so fucking strong. From my pocket, my phone starts vibrating. Fumbling with shaky hands I pull it out both wishing that it’s Willow calling and terrified that it might be. It isn’t; it’s Law. Denying the call, I toss the phone next to the discarded smokes and watch as it immediat
ely starts dancing across the surface. Again and again I silence it. Not taking any chances, I power it off. I don’t want to be found. I want to be lost. I want to drown my miserable fucking ass in the three-thousand-dollar bottle of whiskey I’m sitting here waiting on. I would give anything to find that numb nirvana a few lines of coke could bring me or a handful of pretty pills. More than all of that though, I wish I could get lost in Willow. In her smell, her breathing, the rhythm of her heartbeat. Synch the two of our pulses and just be. Just be, like we were before all the stupid shit. But I can’t do that because I fucked up. I fucked her life all the hell up, and there’s no way to even begin apologizing for that. How? How does a person apologize for what I did? No wonder she disappeared on me. I don’t fucking blame her. I want to disappear on myself.

  “Mr. Lockhart?” Releasing the hold on my hair, I raise my head to the young guy talking to me. The manager, I’m assuming.

  “Yeah?” I ask warily, pushing the loose strands back off of my face.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were aware that this bottle is thirty-five hundred dollars before I pour you a glass,” he hedges. I can see his mind working, trying to verify that it’s really me, but with the glasses I’ve taken to wearing around here, it throws people off.

  “Yeah, I know how much it costs. I gave you my card. Just charge me so I can have the bottle and we can stop talking.” The last word leaves my mouth and I go right back to staring at the bar and tunneling my fingers through my hair. I should’ve just bought a fucking bottle at the liquor store and taken it back to the house. At least I would be drinking right now. Nah, that’s a lie. Lawson would have me at a meeting quicker than I could pour two fingers worth of bliss into the glass. The manager obviously heard the irritation in my voice and is a smart man to not push any further.

  I hold my breath when I hear the seal on the bottle crack.

  Exhale when the first splash of whiskey falls into the glass.

  Squeeze my eyes tightly shut when the tumbler is placed in front of me.

  The scent of the decades old whiskey wafting up at me, calling to me, seducing me like a siren of the sea singing to a lost sailor. That’s me. A lost soul adrift on a sea intent on dragging me down to its darkest depths. Drowning me in a hell of my own making.

  I can feel the manager’s eyes on me still, so I nod in thanks, praying to fuck that it’s enough for him. I need out from under his scrutiny. He slides my credit card and ID across the bar, placing them next to the open bottle and taps a finger on the plastic stack.

  “You’re gonna want to put that away, eh. All it takes is one nosey drunk to get a look at it and see who you really are. You’ll have the paparazzi here before you know it and something tells me you’re not ready for all that.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just shuffles off leaving me alone, just like I’d hoped. Only now I have no one to focus on. Just me. Just my demons and I. Once again. I’m tense, my muscles wound tight in anticipation of that first sip. Alcohol wasn’t my real problem, the drugs were. But too much liquor and next thing I know, I’m an eight ball deep at some fucking party, some random chick with her hand down a rock star’s pants. It’s then that I’m on top of the world only to come crashing down and realize that feeling of euphoria was a ruse. Bullshit, because that’s when Willow hated me most. Then I hated myself because I never remembered any of it except that killer fucking high. I would spend all day trying my best to make it up to her, only to fall victim to that high all over again. It became a vicious, vicious fucking circle. Then it all fell to shit the day I finally admitted to myself she wasn’t waiting at home for me. I sat there and contemplated life and what’s important, what isn’t and how I can’t live life without Birdie. When is high high enough? The answer is never. In the moment I’ve never felt too high. That’s how I found myself in the hospital, tied to a fucking bed after being out for days. Rehab was my only option after that. I was trading my illusion of nirvana for Paradise. Paradise Rehabilitation Center: for those who seek privacy on their journey to wellness. Basically rehab for the fucking stars and I was about to piss it all away. All I’d worked so hard for.

  “You want anything else?” The bartender materializes in my peripheral, her tits on display, suggestion in her voice. She’s turned up the “sexy” now that she knows who I am. Without glancing her way, I shake my head no. I’ve been celibate as long as I’ve been sober. Longer. Maybe I should throw it all away in the same day, just like I did Willow. Fuck it. Not like I’m gonna get her back now anyway. Raising my head and looking at the pretty blonde for the first time since I arrived, I know it won’t happen. She’s not what I want. Who I want. Her short, blonde hair is not the long, chocolate strands shot through with caramel that I want wrapped around my fist, falling in a curtain around me as she rides me. The brown eyes watching me aren’t the whiskey-colored pools I’ve written songs about. Her voice isn’t that soft melodic one that calms all of my demons. Nothing about this girl is right. Nothing about her is Willow.

  I’m about to answer when the manager calls out sternly, “Ash, your shift is over. I have him.”

  She pouts petulantly and saunters away, but not before leaving her number on a napkin along with a smudge of peach lipstick. I nod my head at him in thanks and wrap my hands around the glass. My hands warm instantly. Like this little tumbler holds all the magic in the fucking world. Tilting the glass, I watch as the amber liquid swishes around, coming close to the edge before I tilt it the other way. Around and around. Side to side. Never taking my eyes off of the waves I’m creating. Slowly I place the drink back onto the scuffed bar top. The only thing stopping me from tossing it back and letting the smooth heat of it burn as it goes down is the thought of what Willow must have gone through. What she’s been going through. I think back on all the times I’ve seen her in The Dirty Bird, all the times she turned down drinks from anyone other than Bear or his wife. Her not drinking anymore. Going back to school for a degree in Music Therapy. It all makes sense to me now. I don’t deserve to crawl into the bottom of a bottle. Drown all of my thoughts, all the pain and fucked up shit that keeps going through my mind. I deserve to feel every ounce of the hurt. Live the anguish. Why the fuck am I so special that I get to drink it all away? Abruptly I stand, nearly knocking the stool over. The manager looks over, eyebrows raised in question. Holding up the unlit cigarette, I jerk my chin to the door, signaling that I’m going outside for a smoke. He nods in understanding and I slip out into the cool evening.

  As soon as I step through the door, my glasses fog up. I’m not sure when it got so fucking cold out, but it did. Lighting up, I tug my beanie out of my pocket and pull it on. With the cigarette dangling from my lips, I tuck the longer strands of my hair under my cap and pocket the glasses. My gaze lowered, I look at the toe of my boots and inhale deeply. The nicotine makes me feel light-headed, the only high I’ve allowed in so long. Flicking the ashes over and over, I pace, prowling like a caged lion. I have no fucking idea what to do with myself, only that the restlessness is almost as bad as it was when I was detoxing. Then I wanted to tear my skin off because I needed to score, now I want to tear it off out of anger and rage for what I’ve done. All the mistakes I’ve made. Snubbing the cigarette out, I immediately light another one, pacing and smoking, inhaling and exhaling, extinguishing and lighting another. Over and over until my throat feels raw and my face and hands frozen. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out here, my mind a riotous mess, but I have to go back in to at least warm up.

  Head down, I go back into the bar to my seat. All of my stuff still there, the glass of whiskey taunting me. There’s a band just setting up on the stage in the back, the sound of them tuning their instruments and checking the sound making my hands itch for my Martin. The need to pour myself into some music so strong. I concentrate on that instead of the other longings setting my blood on fire. The feeling of longing never leaves me alone. Longing for a line of coke. For my guitar if it's not in my hands, my music, a drin
k, a cigarette, a little pill to make it all go away and then another to make it come back. Longing for Willow. Always Willow. Always fucking longing.

  Three hours later I’m still sitting at the bar, swirling but never sipping the whiskey. The only reason I know it’s been that long is because Logan, the manager, told me. I’m nearly knocked off my seat when someone tackle hugs me from behind.

  “Dude, do you know how many fucking bars there are in Toronto?” Lawson demands, sliding onto the stool next to me, gaze on the bottle of Glen Grant and the full glass.

  “How did you find me?” I ask sullenly.

  “Well, Wills called and said you shouldn’t be alone, and when I asked her what that meant, she just said to check the bars. So, I started with the meeting we’ve been going to, but they said you hadn’t been by. Guess she was right,” he says. No accusation in his voice, only concern. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  “Birdie called?” I couldn’t keep the hope from my voice. Maybe she doesn’t hate me as much as I hate myself right now. How she can even look at me, I have no fucking clue.

  “Yeah. She used to call me every time she needed help with you, or if you went rogue and we didn’t know where you were, she would always text me to tell me that you were back,” Law says, sadness coating his words. “I feel guilty as hell for ignoring it all for so long and letting her deal by herself. It wasn’t fair. We all knew what the fuck you were up to. We just chose to ignore it because we worried about upsetting you and fucking with the band’s vibe.” He’d never admitted any of this to me. I had no idea that Willow turned to him for help.

  “Nah, man. It’s all on me. I’m the only one to blame. I’m glad that she at least had you,” I say, sincerely.

  “It’s on all of us in some capacity. We let you down as much as you let us down. We’re family. Always have been. Shoulda never let things get so bad. I’ll never let you stumble down that path again though, I promise you that,” he assures me. “Why did Willow call? And how much have you had? Do we need to call and see if we can get Koa here to go on tour with us?” Lawson peppers me with questions. His support unflappable, his faith in me not shaken.