“Who the fuck do you think you are? I barely know you. You were just a good fuck to me. All of a sudden you’re going and picking up rehab paperwork for me? Are you under some kind of delusion that we’re anything more than that?”
“No,” I said, fighting the lump in my throat that was threatening to swell and turn into tears. “I don’t think we’re anything more than that, Tristan. But, as a human being, I think I’m still doing the right thing. If I stood by and didn’t even try and something happened to you…I wouldn’t forgive myself.”
He laughed again and rubbing his hands across his face he said, “Shit! I thought you were calling me to hook up. This is crazy. I’ve been to rehab; it’s all a bunch of crap. I don’t have a problem. I party because I like to party. It’s fun. When I want to stop, if I want to stop, I will.”
“That’s what all addicts say, Tristan.”
He stepped towards me then and I was afraid for a second because the look in his eyes was pure fury. “Don’t ever fucking call me that. Addicts are trash; I know addicts. I’m not addicted to shit and you need to get your own life and stop worrying about mine.”
“I wasn’t trying to put you down, Tristan, or put a label on you. I’m not worried about or interested in who you screw. I just care about what happens to you. Please take the papers and at least give it some thought. I’m worried about what’s going to happen when you win this thing and have a million dollars at your disposal. What happens when you have access to enough money for one big, never-ending party? Do you feel like you have the impulse control to handle that?”
He was looking at me, but I had no idea if he was hearing me. I saw something change in his eyes and I was hoping that meant he was absorbing some of what I was saying. I was wrong though, he suddenly flashed me one of his biggest and brightest grins and said, “Why don’t we go back to my place and talk about it?”
He really did think I was easy. I didn’t blame him; I’d already dropped my panties a few times. If he knew me though, he’d know that it wasn’t something I went around doing. It started out as infatuation with who he used to be, and me trying to forget the past. Now…it felt like more in my heart, but I wasn’t’ kidding myself. I knew he didn’t feel it. I was a big girl; I could live with that. I couldn’t live with just walking away.
“Listen, Tristan…I like you, a lot. But, nothing is happening between us again unless you’re ready to get some help. I also don’t do sex unless it’s exclusive. If you’re fucking other girls, I’m not fucking you.” I was hoping maybe if I spoke his language that it would make a difference. Sex he understood. He actually listened when the subject was on the table. It didn’t help though; all it did was piss him off again. He ripped the papers out of my hand and turned and stormed out of the room. I stepped out after him and, of course, Tony the AP was standing there in the hall, looking after him. I felt nauseated. This wasn’t good.
“What was that about? Was he having another temper tantrum?” I was pretty sure if I said yes that Tony would want to know the details and my lie would have to get bigger and bigger. I hated lying. I really hated all of this. I went with the closest version of the truth that I could think of off the top of my head.
“No, I mean not really. He’s mad, but at me. It was probably my fault this time,” I said. “I was just worried because I heard a rumor that he and another contestant are messing around. I know there’s no hard and fast rule against the contestants dating, but it seems to me like it would be awfully distracting to them both this late in the game. He said it was none of my business. I guess maybe he’s right. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” I could feel the sweat beading on my forehead. I hoped he couldn’t see it.
“I don’t think you overstepped here,” Tony said. “I appreciate that you’re concerned about the contestants, that’s actually a big part of your job. I think it’s great that you took that initiative. Thank you, Elly.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. He seemed to have so much faith in me, misplaced, obviously. I felt like a big, fat, lying jerk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRISTAN
I took the fucking stupid paper out of Elly’s hand before I left. I have no idea why I took it; I was just pissed, and instead of putting my fist through the wall, I grabbed the papers. When I got out to the bike, I stuffed it in the saddlebag before taking off. I had no intentions of filling it out. I had no idea where she got her nerve. What made her think it was even close to being her place to pick up rehab papers for me? I’d met controlling women before, but this took the cake.
I put my helmet on and drove out of the lot wondering what she was thinking. Did she think I was going to thank her? She saw some paraphernalia on the floor, but she never saw me use it; she never saw me use anything. For all she knew, the pipes could have belonged to someone else. Hell, they could have belonged to my parents—who, by the way, are addicts. Neither of them can function in society any longer. I may not give a shit about society, but I can function in it just fine. She could go fuck herself if she thought I was desperate enough for a piece of ass that I’d agree to that. It was just like a woman to try to manipulate with sex.
I got on the on-ramp for the freeway and the words, “I care about what happens to you,” came back to me. I didn’t believe that. Why the fuck would she care about me? She didn’t even know me. We’d fucked a few times, but we’d never really talked about anything. There was so much about me that she didn’t know. I could have been an axe murderer for all she knew. She should have been more careful about who she attached herself to. I bypassed my exit and eventually veered off the junction for 605 towards Seal Beach. I didn’t have any destination in mind, I was just driving. I didn’t want to go back to my apartment. Brooke was supposed to be coming by; I didn’t want to deal with her.
I drove down towards the beach and rode along the frontage road where I could see the water. I loved the ocean; something about it made me feel calm. If Elly knew me at all, she’d have known that was why I used the drugs….most of the time.
Emotionally, I was jacked up, I admit that. I parked the bike and got off. It was cool out, but not cold. I don’t know if I’d have noticed the cold, anyways. Most of the time, I just felt numb….except when I was with Elly. Damn her!
I took off my boots and walked out onto the sand. I thought about the old saying, ‘Life is a Beach’; what a bunch of bullshit that was. If life was a beach, then I was drifting somewhere out in the tide, washing up every so often, and then being pulled back out and under. I always felt like I was waiting for something. I had no fucking clue what it was. I doubted that rehab was the answer. I’d been down that road; I didn’t know what good it could possibly do to take that route again.
I walked out to the edge of the ocean where the tide was just beginning to wash up. I stood there in the dark, watching the waves, and thought about how much like the ocean my life really was. Some days the tide eased in, slowly…like it was doing right then. It crept across the sand and up over my feet and around my ankles. Most days, that’s how I liked it. I didn’t want anyone to notice me, I just wanted to do what I wanted to do and have everyone around me leave me the fuck alone.
Then there were the other days, the ones where I wanted to come crashing in like when the ocean crashed against the side of the pier or pounded the rocks. I wanted to be on stage—center stage—and I wanted the whole world to watch me. I wanted to be loud, make noise, and get noticed. Elly and other people who knew me might have thought that change from day to day had something to do with the drugs, but it didn’t. That shit was in my head and I used the drugs to try to tame it. It would have driven me crazy if I didn’t.
There was one seagull picking at the shells and sea crap that had just washed up. While I walked along the beach I watched him fly in and out, searching for food…searching for something. I could feel his pain. I was always searching for something. He seemed to know what he was looking for and he would dive towards it. But every once in a while, he would g
et too close to the water and I would watch him struggle to keep from being sucked down. Every day felt like a struggle to me. The bird at least knew what he was struggling against and moving towards though. I had no fucking clue.
Sometimes when I went there, I would get inspired and go home and write a hot, new song. Other times, I’d leave feeling more lost than I was when I got there, like a piece of me got left behind. All I ever really wanted was to feel at peace with myself and my life. Most days, I didn’t think that was ever going to happen. The weed helped; it draped a peaceful veil down across my brain for a while and I didn’t worry about stupid shit when I was high.
Of course, I always over-did it. I’d smoke until I was nearly comatose. If I didn’t have a gig, I’d be just fine with that. I wouldn’t have minded sleeping through some of the shit. But days when I had to make a living, whether my heart was in it or not, those were the days when I’d put the powder up my nose or melt it into the pipe and bring myself back up. I knew that was drug abuse, I wasn’t stupid. But an addict? Did I have a problem? Could I stop if I wanted to?
I watched the colors of the moon bouncing off the ocean and I wished that I could look at it like other people and see the beauty in it. I looked at it and I saw the moon, and I saw the ocean. I rarely saw beauty in anything. Even the girls I fucked. I would look at most of them afterwards and I’d feel sad. Not for them, but for me. For how low I’d sunk. Did that make me a narcissist? A sociopath? Again, no fucking clue.
I did see the beauty in Elly when I looked at her. She was hot...but not the hottest girl I’d ever been with. Yet if any of the others had suggested to me that I went to rehab, I’d have walked away without even so much as a glance backwards—after I told her to mind her own fucking business, of course. With Elly, it was different. She’d opened my eyes back up to what it was like to feel good things. At first, it was awesome, but I realized in order to feel the good, you had to feel the bad. I didn’t want to feel that other shit. I wanted to stay high so that I didn’t have to. Did that make me an addict?
Maybe I was slated to be an addict from the start. Seriously, considering how I was raised, how the hell was I supposed to turn out? When I first started performing, my parents were renting me out for parties, weddings, and shit. I’d have to stay up real late and then turn around and go to school the next day. When I complained about it, my mom would give me one of her ‘happy pills’ to get me through the day. After a while, I couldn’t sleep at night, so then she’d give me one of her ‘sleepy pills’. After a while, I discovered that I could buy even better stuff on my own. I left the shit laying around my room for a while; I know she saw it, but she didn’t say anything about it. When I finally started hiding it, it was just to keep her or the old man from stealing it.
“Shit!” I yelled out to the dark sky. My words bounced off the ocean and back at me. Elly sticking her nose in my business made me have to think about all of this—and that pissed me off. I didn’t like thinking about it. I hated my fucking childhood, I hated my parents, and yes, I hated the way I was living my life. But who the hell was she to tell me what I should do? If I did go to rehab and get clean, was she going to stick around? In my experience, no one ever did. That’s why the only person I’ve ever depended on was myself. I’m the only one that knows what’s good for me. I don’t think that makes me a narcissist: I think it makes me a realist.
I finally walked back up to where I’d left my bike. It took me twenty minutes to clean off my feet and put my socks and boots back on. The salty air had made me feel calmer; for some reason, it always did. I climbed back on the bike and headed towards the freeway. I planned to get high and go to bed. I wasn’t going to think about that shit anymore, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to check into some fucking rehab where they would try and force me to talk about it.
By the time I got back to the apartment, it was late. I parked the bike and took the papers Elly gave me out of the saddlebag. I rolled it up in my hand and took the stairwell up. I was shocked when I saw Brooke sitting next to my front door. Damn! I figured she would have given up and left by. What the hell was up with these persistent bitches?
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked her, and not nicely.
“Seriously, Tristan? You invited me over, and then I take a cab all the way out here and you’re not home. What is up with you? Are you always this rude to people you invite to hang out?”
My fucking head was pounding again. A few days ago, I couldn’t wait to get my dick in this girl. Now, all I wanted was for her to go away.
“I had things to do. You should go, Brooke. I’m not in the mood for company tonight.”
“Too bad. Do you know how much the cab cost me? You can at least offer me a beer.”
“I’m all out.”
“I doubt that ever happens. Then let’s smoke some weed.”
“Damn it, Brooke! Can you hear me talking? I don’t want to hang out with you. I want to be alone, which means I want you to go the fuck away. Is that clear enough? I’m seriously not in the mood for this shit.”
“Screw you, Tristan! You came on to me just to make that bitch Elly jealous, didn’t you? You know they have rules against screwing around with staff—and she knows it, too. You’ll get disqualified and she’ll get fired. Don’t make me tell somebody what’s going on. You’re not above following the rules, and neither is she.”
I couldn’t believe she was actually threatening to tattle on me and Elly. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so pissed. She had the nerve to call Elly a bitch? These fucking women were giving me a headache.
“Do what you want to, Brooke, I honestly don’t give a fuck,” I told her as I went into the apartment and closed the door in her face.
Before I’d gone into the studio earlier, I had done a few lines. I couldn’t wake up that morning. I’d smoked too much weed and had a few too many beers. The mirror, still coated in dust, was on the table. There was a straw lying next to it. The bong I’d used to get high was on the counter next to the box I kept my weed in. There was at least a half a case of empty beer bottles on the counter; as well as half a bottle of Fireball, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a vodka bottle that had less than a shot left in it.
I sat down in one of the dining room chairs and, as much as I hated to admit it, Elly was right. I definitely had a problem. I still preferred that no one refer to me as an addict. I hated that fucking word. But a problem, I had to admit, that I had. Not a day had gone by for years that I wasn’t drunk or high. I hated it, but I did it anyways. The reason I did it anyways was because I felt like I needed it in order to cope….to function…to block things out. The point was I needed it. The difference between wanting it and needing it was the difference between partying and being an….having a problem.
I dug through the pile of junk on the table until I found an ink pen. I opened the paperwork that Elly had given me and smoothed it out. The header said, “When you stop chasing the wrong things, you give the right things a chance to catch you.”
I laughed. I really was trying to take this seriously, but did they have to use the clichés? As I filled out the paperwork, I hoped that this place wasn’t like the ones they’d sent me to when I was a kid: more clichés than action. I wondered, if I took this step, would Elly prove she meant what she said about being supportive? To her that might mean one thing, but to me it meant her naked and in my bed.
CHAPTER NINE
ELLY
The night of round six, I went into work nervous. I hadn’t seen Tristan since our fight a couple days before. I was sure that Tony bought my explanation of why we were fighting, but then I got home and got myself all worked up thinking about what would happen if Tony decided to say something to Tristan about it. Tristan was such a loose cannon, I never knew what he was going to say. He was liable to tell Tony to go fuck himself and let it go at that. Everyone around here knew how moody he was, so that might not be too much of a shock. What worried me most was that he was also liable to tell Tony t
hat the only person around here that he’d fucked was me.
I didn’t know if anything happened between him and Brooke or not, but judging from the fact that they couldn’t even stand to look at each other, I doubted it. I also liked to tell myself that. The point was that I didn’t trust Tristan to keep his mouth shut. It wasn’t because he was some kind of narc, or that he felt guilty about breaking the rules; if he gave us up, it would be because he was pissed off at me, and because he truly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about anything. He might regret walking away from a million dollars and a chance at a new career, but he was just impulsive enough to do it.
I did my best to concentrate on my job and try not to worry about whether or not he slept with Brooke or whether or not he was going to fill out the rehab papers or whether or not he was going to screw up and tell someone about us. I had to shake it off before people started noticing. Molly already mentioned that I looked uptight. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop feeling like I was going to explode until it was all resolved, but I at least had to get better at covering.
When it was Brooke’s turn, I watched Tristan watch her perform. She did a bad job. That’s not my jealousy speaking; honestly, she sucked. Tristan flinched and winced a few times. Diva had her hands on her head and the record producer covered his ears at one point. When they finished telling her how bad it was, Brooke left the stage in tears. I felt bad for her. She was talented, but obviously having a bad night. I had to wonder if her problems stemmed from the same place mine did: Tristan Rogers.
He went next. I found myself holding my breath every time he performed; hoping he’d do well. I couldn’t read the look on his face when he took his place at the microphone on the stage. He looked tired…or high. His eyes were streaked with red and he had dark circles under them, as if he hadn’t slept in a while. He signaled to the band and they started playing. As soon as he hit his first note, I knew that this was not going to be one of those performances he owned. This time, I only had to hold my breath for several seconds before I realized that there was going to be nothing good about it. He was screaming again; it sounded like he was furious. He looked angry and I could tell that the judges hated it, maybe worse than they’d hated Brooke’s performance.
My Rock #3 (The Rock Star Romance Series - Book #3) Page 4