She slammed her door and I stood there slack-jawed, my heart thumping so hard and quick I thought it may seize at any moment. My thoughts jammed up and I couldn’t even process the idea that I should run after her as she pulled off, that I should make some dramatic scene pleading for her to come back. I watched my entire life leave and didn’t even fight it. I was a coward; I would throw a physical fight any day, any time, but when it came to fighting for something that was actually worth it, for something that could save me, something that was really mine – I never did. The one thing that Roxy had said made her like me was that she thought I would fight for something I cared about, and I fucking couldn’t even do that right.
I pulled my hair back in my hands and stared down at the concrete, losing my sight in the fresh puddle of oil that had dripped from the undercarriage of her car. I was my father; I was an addict, and life hated me.
I went back inside and stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the pile of coke on the table and the magazine she’d slammed down onto it. Pacing back and forth, I tried to think of the best way to handle this damn mess. I hadn’t meant any of the hurtful things I’d allowed to spew from my lips. It was my defense mechanism, the only way I could protect myself from the pain. Had I known she was pregnant, there’s no way in hell any of that would have come out of my mouth.
I tried calling her, but she wouldn’t answer the phone. I drove over to her apartment, and she refused to come to the door. That evening I went to her work, but they said she’d called in.
I drove around for an hour, sober as hell and terrified. I had two fucking days before I’d be gone for ten months. By the time I got back, she’d have already had the baby. I couldn’t leave things like this between us. Finally, I decided to try to find my way to Layla’s apartment. I’d only been there once, high as shit, to drop Roxy off.
I parked my car. Ignoring the gang that was gathered on the side of the street and staring me down, I sprinted up to the complex, racking my brain to remember which one was hers. I didn’t remember going up stairs, so I knocked on the first door I came to.
A guy opened the door, and confusion painted its way over his face when he saw me standing there.
Glancing inside his apartment, I asked, “Is Layla here?”
Still stunned, he shook his head.
“Do you know which one’s her apartment?”
He raised his arm, jaw slowly dropping, and pointed to the apartment across the hall.
I turned and ran to that door, barely able to make out the guy mumble, “Man. What the hell did you put in that weed? I think it’s making me trip, I swear. That dude looked just like Jag –” The door slammed shut.
I banged my fist over Layla’s door, panting. The anxiety of exactly how much I’d fucked up made my chest tighten and my throat constrict, nearly strangling me.
The door swung open, and Layla finished shoving a piece of bread into her mouth. She glared at me as she chewed her food and tapped her fingers along the doorframe. “She’s not going to talk to you. You get one chance with her and that’s it. And if you ask me, the whole bet thing with your brother…that should have been your one chance. Well, whether that had been it or not, I guess she would have still been knocked up. You’re a waste!”
“Look, I didn’t know. I’m an ass. I’m a damn idiot, but I just can’t let this happen.”
“Do you know how worried she was about telling you? She found out the day you were coming back from tour. She thought you’d leave her or ask her to get rid of it.”
I stared helplessly at Layla. “I fucking love her. I need her. Tell her to fucking call me back, go over there with me and get her to open her damn door. Something!” I begged.
Layla sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I do. Hell, it doesn’t really matter what you do. She’s done.” She banged her foot against the doorjamb. “The fact that she even dated you is insane. That goes against everything she stands for, guys like you – Roxy despises guys like you. There’s no way it would have worked, even if you hadn’t been such a selfish prick.”
I wiped my hand down my face, then quickly pulled my fist back and punched the outside of her apartment, denting the siding.
“You’re gonna have to pay for that.” She started to close the door, then stopped. “Look. She’s got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. I don’t know what time. But it’s at Cedar Sinai. Dr. King.” Layla shrugged. “Maybe just go there and force her to talk to you? But don’t you dare tell her I told you.” She slammed the door, and there I stood.
One day. I had one damn day to convince her to give me another chance.
Chapter 38
Walking in, I kept my shades lowered over my eyes to hide the rings beneath them. I went directly to the checkin desk and rang the bell. A short, middle-aged woman came out from behind the filing cabinet, a fake smile glued to her face. “Yes, sir. Can I help you?” There was a slight tremble in her voice. I guess not many guys walk into an OB/GYN without a woman. She probably figured I was going to try to steal some prescriptions.
“My,” I swallowed, my head growing dizzy from the adrenaline, “girlfriend, she has an appointment today. I can’t remember what time. Her name’s Roxy Slade. Could you tell me what time her appointment is?” I peered through the window at the sign-in sheet she’d yet to put out. I knew how ridiculous I sounded, but I was absolutely desperate.
The lady gazed over her thin-rimmed glasses at me and popped her gum. “Sorry, honey. I can’t do that.”
“What? Come on. Can’t you just look it up in the computer?”
She shook her head. “No. We can’t give out any information on patients. I can’t even tell you if she is a patient.”
I let out a dejected sigh and raked my top lip under my teeth. I pushed myself away from the counter and took a seat in one of the chairs right by the entrance. The woman stared at me from behind the counter.
I waved. “I’ll just wait here then.”
And I did. I waited there all damn day – sober – and Roxy never came in. Just as the last patient was leaving I walked up to the counter. “Look. You don’t have to tell me if she’s a patient here or not. But if she is, would you stick this in her chart. Give it to her whenever she does come in.” I handed her a torn piece of magazine I’d penned a note on that simply had the date and the message: I waited all day for you. And I’ll keep waiting until you let me make this right.
The lady skimmed over it and looked up at me. With an understanding nod she said, “Sure. If she’s a patient here, I’ll make sure she gets it.”
I felt lost. I fucked up. I was an asshole, and Roxy was too smart to give me another chance.
Chapter 39
I was cleaning my entire apartment. I’d kicked the housekeeper out in a fit of anger and was armed with a toothbrush, scrubbing the grout lines between the marble diamonds. I’d done a speedball to numb the agony, and I was amped up.
Sweat dripped down the bridge of my nose, splashing onto the floor. As I scrubbed, I could see the bruise where I’d shoved the needle in my arm and blew my vein out. I couldn’t get the damn crack clean enough. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the grit wouldn’t loosen. I pushed harder on the toothbrush, and the neck bent and finally snapped. When the fucking thing broke I got pissed and chucked it across the room. I felt like if I could just get everything around me completely spotless, it would all be okay. That spot on the floor was where she’d cried. Her tears had seeped into that crack, and I wanted them gone.
Using my fingernail to scratch, I furiously rubbed my finger back and forth over the line. No. That’s not fucking good enough. I stood up and darted into the kitchen, my entire body drenched in sweat. I peeled my sweat-soaked shirt off and slung it on the granite countertop. My eyes desperately searched for something I could use to clean the grout, anything I could use to cut those emotions out of my life. They stopped on the knife block at the edge of the counter by my stove. Jerking the paring knife from the stainles
s steel holder, I hurried back to the spot I’d been cleaning for the past thirty minutes.
I jammed the point of the knife in and scraped along the crevice. The knife slipped and grazed one of my fingertips, peeling back a sliver of skin, and, instead of screaming, I laughed. As I watched the bright red blood seep from the superficial cut, my mind folded in on itself, leaving nothing but those dark places my therapist in rehab had told me never to go. I bit down on my lip, then sat up and used my wrist to wipe the sweat from my brow. Without thought, the blade of the knife sliced across the flesh on my forearm. I placed the sharp edge on my arm again, this time pressing down with more force as I slowly drug the cold metal over my skin.
My flesh split open and left behind a trail of cardinal red blood, beads forming and running down to my elbow. With each drop that I watched splatter onto the white floor, I felt relief. Tears did me no good. Bleeding myself of the pain I’d ignorantly allowed myself to feel was the only way to keep me from going completely insane. I’d forgotten the unmatched serenity that I could conjure from cutting myself, it had been years since I’d done it, and it was well past time to bleed the pain out of me.
I laid down on the cold floor. I spread out and closed my eyes, relishing in the feeling of the warm blood pouring from my wound. I twirled the knife in my hand. I couldn’t stop my brain from thinking, and all it wanted to do was call the memory of her into my mind. I’d never have thought that love was so much like a fucking drug. There is no timeframe for how long it takes an addiction to happen. It all depends on the drug and on the addict. One hit can completely consume someone, whereas others may be able to play with that demon for months before it completely overpowers them. Roxy, she was like meth, she was like heroin. The bliss I’d found in her, that kind of euphoria, that only took once to completely fuck me. Honestly, she was the only woman I’d ever loved, ever allowed myself to get that close to, because I thought she wouldn’t hurt me – and she hadn’t; I’d hurt myself by committing emotional suicide when I’d attempted to permanently turn off my ability to feel.
Was I really that big of an asshole, such a huge loser that I was going to have two kids who I never saw, who had no idea who the hell I was? I had every damn materialistic thing anyone could want – but the simplest things in life, I couldn’t hold on to those to save my life. Worthless.
If it had been any other woman besides Roxy fucking Slade that I’d fallen for, I may have stood a chance, but that woman was stubborn; she was determined, and I knew when she was done with something, she was done. I was fucking famous. I was rich. And to anyone else, that may have been enough. There was no card I could pull with her. Future mother of my child, absolute fucking love of my life, and she was gone because of a lie and an addiction I had no control over. I had no control over it. I was diseased. My body was completely riddled, crippled, disintegrating because of this damn disease.
Fame fucked me. Drugs fucked me. But above all else, I fucked myself.
My phone rang, and I dug it out of my pocket, only to see if it was her. My lawyer’s number flashed across the screen. Pressing the ignore button, I set the phone down in the pool of blood collecting next to me. My heart was pounded erratically. Every few seconds I swore it was going to give out. I prayed that it would. It would hold back and feel like it was shaking inside my chest, causing pressure to build in my throat and then, just when I thought I may die, a long, strong beat would slam against my ribs and I’d curse. I closed my eyes, still bleeding onto my floor with the thought that I may not wake up, and I was okay with that. Only death could numb the hollow feeling devouring me.
Chapter 40
I woke up several hours later. The skin on my arm had dried to the floor and was stuck in the clotted blood. Chill bumps raced across my flesh as I pulled it free. Sitting up, I looked down at where I’d somehow managed to chip some of the marble away. There was a knife on the floor beside me and a syringe on the coffee table.
I tried calling Roxy as I made my way through to my bedroom. I’d lost count of the messages I’d left her and was just thankful that she hadn’t blocked my number yet. After the fifth ring it went to voicemail.
“Hi. This is Roxy. Leave me a message and I’ll get back.”
After the beep had sounded, I started singing the lyrics to Seether’s “Broken.” Music was all I had left. My voice shook as I belted out those lyrics, praying that maybe that would get through to her.
I hung up the phone and stared at the floor. What else could I fucking do?
My phone rang again, another call from my lawyer. I sent him to voicemail simply because I’d rather listen to the message than talk to another human being at that moment.
I made my way to my dresser, ripped the drawer out, and slammed the bag of coke on the top of it. I couldn’t possibly do enough to make this stop. After snorting several lines and screaming in an effort to release some of the emotional turmoil storming through me, I pulled the phone up to my ear and waited for the message.
“Hey, Jag. This is Joe.” He let out a breath. “The results came back. I got them, and it turns out you’re not the father, but I – uh, I need to talk to you. You need to call me, okay? I’ll be up.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me? That kid looked just like me. My stomach turned as conflicting emotions welled inside me. I felt physically sick. I felt loss, but how can you feel loss for something you never really had? I was confused, angry, and hurt, and, almost crying from relief, I dialed Joe’s number.
“Jag?”
“Yeah. So he’s not mine?”
Joe huffed in the phone. “No, he’s not.”
Straightening up and shoving that pain deep down inside like the emotionless fucker I’d become, I said, “Well, good. That’s good.”
Now it wasn’t just my lie I’d lost her over; I had lost everything because of someone else’s fucking lie.
“Jag, I –” Joe blew a long breath over the phone, the kind of breath that’s never followed with good news. “You should know that the kid’s related to you.”
I sat there, my brow wrinkling, and I stared at my reflection in the dresser mirror from across the room. I couldn’t say anything. I knew where he was going, and I couldn’t take that. I just hung the phone up.
I’ve always been one to believe in fate, and as I sat there, phone in hand while I stared at a tattoo of a kid’s name who wasn’t even mine, the song “Nutshell” by Alice in Chains came on. I’d always loved that damn song, but in that moment, Layne Staley was singing to me. I understood the lyrics to that song in a way I never had before. That song was a cry for help, and my entire damn life had been a cry for help. A cliché. I had nothing. I really had nothing, and I was nothing more than a cliché – a voice, a name, and what better way to end it all than exactly how everyone expected?
Joe called again, and I picked up for one specific reason.
“Hey.”
“Jag, I –”
I cut him off. “Man, don’t worry about it. But I need you to do me a favor.” I wiped my hand over my mouth. “I need to update some things. I’m coming over.”
“Jag. It’s –”
“It’s your fucking job. I pay you to sit on your ass, just waiting for something to get me out of, damn it. I need to do this, now.” I paused. “And no. I’m not going to kill my fucking self, so get that outta your damn head. I just…need to do it, before I get sidetracked.”
I drove over to Joe’s and amended my will to leave everything I owned – house, cars, assets, ownership of my part in the band, royalties – to Roxy. I canceled the draft to the bank account I’d set up for that other kid, but left the money in there because it wasn’t his fault his mother was a damn whore.
Then I drove to the airport and bought a business class ticket to Savannah. Over the course of the five-hour flight I sat crammed into the tiny seat, next to an old man whose head kept hitting my shoulder as he snored, and I thought.
I tried to remember where I went wrong and who wa
s to blame. James. I should really blame James. After all, he’s the one who forced me to do coke. Or maybe Stephanie was really to blame? I had issues even when I met her; I didn’t trust anyone, and I was terrified of being left. She left me, then she lied to me, and before any of that, she’d evidently fucked my brother. I bet that’s why she left. She found out she was pregnant and was scared shitless to tell me she didn’t know who the kid belonged to. But really, if I wanted to shove the blame on somebody, what about Dad? He ruined me. I was just a damn kid and he left me, never told me goodbye, treated me like I was a fucking stray dog. He taught me at an early age that love’s not real, it’s a damn lie, and that everyone, deep down inside, is really just selfish.
As the plane touched down, I’d finally figured out who to blame for my life. It was me. Sure, those people had hurt me, scarred me…but ultimately, I did it to myself. I let them wound me and I hid from that pain. No one made me do anything, shaped me into this fucking mess I’d become. It was all on me. I’d pissed away a dream and strangled my own reality, and it was my own fault I was completely alone. I’d always be alone. I could be worth every damn penny in the world, but really, as a human being, I was worthless.
I stumbled off the plane and, since I hadn’t packed a bag, made my way out of the airport. I hailed a cab and asked to be dropped off by the drawbridge in the seedy part of town. Once there, I wandered around the dark alleys of Savannah. The stagnant smell of the river flooded over into the hot near-morning air. No one paid me any attention; I blended in with all the other junkies perfectly.
I finally found a dealer and scored some heroin. The man smiled as he took my money, his front teeth blackened from what I assumed was meth use, then hobbled back across the street to a bench. I had no idea who he was, or where this drug had come from. He’d given me a syringe, most likely used, but I didn’t care. I stuck it in my pocket and ran my fingers over the plastic bag as I continued to walk familiar streets.
Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1) Page 27