by Amiee Louise
Sam places his hand reassuringly on my arm.
“It makes me feel sick, but she can’t know. She can’t ever know I feel that way because it would destroy her. It would destroy us. I’m trying to be supportive; I’m trying so fucking hard. In all of the online posts and forums, none of them tell you how the partners supposed to feel, and I know it’s selfish and I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but it’s killin’ me, Sam.”
That’s when it hits me full force in the gut and that’s when that damn fucking fortress I’ve spent weeks building around my heart splinters and shatters like delicate glass. I let out a strangled sob, which turns into heart rendering, gut wrenching sobs of despair and it feels good to finally let it out.
***
After my heart to heart with Sam, I spend my sleepless night going over in minute detail the events of the evening, wrapped up in my girl. We didn’t have sex, both of us just content with lying silently in each other’s arms. The next morning, I wake with a start to an empty bed and fifteen missed calls and five voicemails. What the fuck. There’s a note on the bedside table and I reach over, brushing over her careful, elegant handwriting.
I’ve been summoned to a meeting with Damien.
Wish me luck in the lion’s den!
Call you when I’m done
R x
I smile at her words, as I set about my morning routine of workout, shower, and breakfast. After I’m done, I’m standing in the kitchen bare chested, in loose grey jogging bottoms and making coffee, while I listen to the voicemails.
“Brody, it’s Tate, call me when you get this, thanks, bye.”
I roll my eyes at our P.R manager’s message as I skip to the next.
“Brody, it’s Tate, again, call me back,” he snaps.
I swipe the screen to listen to the next.
“Brody, it’s Tate, answer your fucking phone!”
I delete that one and skitter my phone across the marble worktop, hearing a deep throaty chuckle from the other side of the kitchen.
“You should call him back; he’s doing his nut!” Sam says with an amused tone to his voice.
“He’ll give himself a heart attack if he carries on like that, no wonder he’s starting to go grey!”
We both laugh, as Sam’s face grows serious.
“Mate, you need to call him.”
I cock my eyebrow, as I look questioningly at Sam. I pick my phone up and dial Tate.
***
I’ve been hauled in to the office for an emergency meeting with Tate, our head of public relations. I’m sat in front of him feeling like a naughty school boy being hauled into the Headmaster’s office. I’m in a daze wondering how I went from my mundane, normal morning routine to this in such a short space of time.
“I don’t know if I can keep this out of the press, Brody. They’re about to run the story, I tried to call in a favour, but you’re clearly seen in the CCTV footage, what the fuck were you thinking! This has happened way too often! I can't keep calling in favours to defend you anymore. My reputation is on the line and it's starting to become questionable."
The defeated sound of Tate's voice fills my foggy, fucked up brain, as I try to process his words. My fight with Carter was caught on CCTV? I should have fucking known; how could I have been so stupid? Shit, I screwed up again. He’s right, what the fuck was I thinking?
"Are you even listening to me, fuck nuts! No, of course you're fucking not! This needs to stop, when are those boys going to stop cleaning up your mess, Brody? They don't deserve you bringing them down, do you even care that you're damaging their reputations, as well as your own?"
I puff out my cheeks and let out a laboured breath, as I try to process the extent of my epic fuck up. Brawling in full view of closed-circuit TV cameras, I was naïve to even think I could have got away with this Scott free. I have to admit it wasn’t my finest hour, but I have to live with the potential fallout. Fuck.
"When are you going to learn, that there are fucking consequences to your actions?!"
I remain silent, because I can't think of anything to say, no witty one liner, no joke, not even a quip. Nothing.
"Say something then, this is the perfect opportunity for you, to at least defend yourself, use the ‘I was drunk, I was high’ excuse, as per usual, but you and I both know you’ve been clean for almost six months! So, I’m out of options on that one! Bloody hell, what the fuck were you even thinking?"
Tate raises his voice a few decibels and I sigh audibly. Quite clearly, I wasn't fucking thinking.
"The fucking bottom line is, I don't know if I can keep this out of the press, Brody! I’m trying my hardest to stall them; but they're starting to ask more questions and they've drawn their own conclusions on this one. We need to put something in place...call it damage control. We need to issue a statement, call a press conference, anything to stop this fucking shit show!" Tate says matter-of-factly and drops his head in his hands.
"I know I fucked up again, and I'm sorry," I say genuinely.
"So, he does speak! The press don't care about sorry, they just want their fucking pound of flesh and that pound of flesh, unfortunately is yours. I don’t know if I’m able spin this at this point, as much as I want to. I get that it's your reputation, but I told you, my reputation is on the line too," he repeats his earlier words, but by this point, I've had enough of him fucking talking at me.
"You're so fucking bothered about your reputation! It's not just about that anymore! How many more times can I say, I'm sorry? How many more times can I say, I fucked up? Walk a mile in my shoes, Tate, spend a day in my fucked-up head. I'm not wired like the other boys, I'm damaged! I've spent my whole life in Sam's shadow, I know I'm not perfect, but cut me some fucking slack! I had a damn good reason to beat the shit out of that fucking prick! He had it coming after what he’s done!" I say with fire in my voice.
"For fucks sake! Spare me the pity party for one, Brody! Number one, it doesn't suit you and number two, cut you some slack? I've spent years cutting you some slack! How many more times are people going to cover for you? How many more times are they going to wipe your bloody arse for you? They've hidden the fact that you were a fucking junkie for years! I know I'm supposed to be subjective, but I've sat back and watched them lie for you. Jesus, I've been part of that lie! Those boys are like family to me, you included, I've seen you shipped off to rehab so many times, but you've crossed the fucking line this time, Brody. Whether you had good reason or not, it was caught on CCTV, you can clearly see it’s you from a mile off, you’d have to be blind not too, the guy you battered, he’s blurry and you can’t tell who it was, but you could be up on an assault charge if this gets out! Even I can’t make that go away!" he says with venom in his usually calm voice, and I hang my head in absolute fucking shame.
What the fuck have I done?
Our discussion is interrupted by M.J entering the office. He is wearing ripped jeans, a black shirt open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up and matching black cowboy boots.
"Not interrupting anything, am I boys?" he says a little too calmly and enthusiastically. "Can I get you some coffee, tea, something stronger?" he asks as I look from M.J to Tate and we both shake our heads.
"No, thank you," I decline politely as he pushes a button on his desk phone.
"Can I get some coffee, please, precious? Yeah, milk, three sugars...thanks honey!" he says a little over zealously, which sets my nerves on edge. Tate unfolds his arms, glances briefly to the floor, and looks down at his smart watch. "I've got another meeting in twenty minutes; I should get going."
He nods curtly at M.J and looks at me.
"This isn't over, not by a long shot, Brody. I'll FaceTime you later and we can continue our… discussion, explore our options," he says abruptly and leaves the room.
M.J sits down at his desk and the creak of leather makes me turn to face him.
"Something you want to tell me, Hart?" M.J says coolly as he puts his cowboy booted feet up on his desk, rest
ing his hands on his stomach.
“Look M.J, I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t know how many times I can say sorry…”
He puts his finger up to stop me.
“See, this is where we have a problem, Brody, you need to start talkin’ so I can understand this fuck up a little better and none of your usual bull shit, capiche’?”
His Brooklyn accent becoming more prominent. I hang my head in shame and puff out my cheeks exasperated. Fuck me, I wish I’d had the sense to stay in bed.
***
After I received not one, but two epic dressing downs from our management team, I think to myself I must be a gluten for punishment, as I’m sitting opposite Rick. He regards me intently, his pen hovering over the page in his notebook. He crosses his leg over his knee and clicks his pen in quick succession. It no longer annoys me the way it used to, and I feel more relaxed than I’ve ever felt in his sessions. He looks like he's troubled and struggling to find the words. Rick never struggles with words if anything it’s me that struggles with words. Fuck me, this must be bad.
"Look, I'm going to level with you, Brody. The last few sessions, I feel like we've been making progress, in a good way."
I nod and lean back in my chair. He’s right, we have. It hasn’t been a chore to attend my appointments. I no longer dread our sessions, which is a huge step forward for me. He smiles his fox-like smile, but this time, it just makes him look like he needs a shit.
"Where are you going with this, Rick?" I say defensively.
"From our previous sessions and the subjects, we've touched upon, I think you're suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."
What the actual fuck? P.T.S.D? What the fucking fuck is he going on about?
I get up from my seat and start to pace.
"Do you want to talk about how you feel about this?" he asks, and I laugh bitterly.
"Do I want to talk about you thinking I'm some sort of shell-shocked motherfucker? The answer to that would be a resounding no! I'm not...I..."
I stop myself from continuing, because for the first time in all my thirty-four years, I'm fucking speechless. I've got not witty retort, no sarcastic comment, nothing.
As I start to process his words, I try to piece together how he came up with this conclusion. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is something I've read about in books and seen in films. It's not something I've ever come across in a social situation before and that's the fucking scary part. Yes I have an aversion to loud noises, I have insomnia, but I’ve suffered with it for years. I just put that down to the nightmares and now he’s telling me I have P.T.S.D? I’m struggling to process, and it takes my messed-up brain a few moments to catch up.
"H-how did you come to that conclusion? Out of curiosity." I say quickly, terrified to hear his answer.
"You mentioned you suffer from insomnia, the nightmares, you also mentioned your recent aversion to loud noises. It's been going through my mind for a few days now since our previous session. I'm genuinely concerned for you, Brody. You’ve come so far, and you've managed to stay clean for six months, that's such an achievement. I’m proud of you and you should be proud of yourself. I'd hate for you to go backwards; recovery is all about moving forward. From what I've observed of you in our sessions, is you seem to avoid certain conversations and situations, which is also a contributing factor. Now, I'm no expert and I'm not qualified in P.T.S.D counselling, so I want to refer you to a colleague of mine, Allegra Gutiérrez, who specialises in patients diagnosed with P.T.S.D. She'll give you a proper diagnosis, talk about possible medication and she’ll potentially take over our sessions.”
What the fuck? I start to pace again and run a trembling hand through my short hair. My heart starts to race, my chest begins to tighten, and my breaths come in short, sharp, laboured pants. I stumble into Rick’s desk and my whole world becomes dark. Fuck me, not again.
***
“Brody? Brody, my name’s Megan, can you hear me?” the female paramedic says softly as she shakes me gently.
I struggle to focus on my surroundings and I groggily turn my head to see Lenny having a hushed conversation with Rick in the corner of the room. What the fuck? I start to tremble and my vision blurs, as I try to sit up, but the paramedic tries to encourage me to stay still.
“Hey! Hey! Brody, it’s going to be ok, I need you to stay calm for me, can you do that? You passed out, your counsellor said it was because you were discussing a particular emotional trauma? Your anxiety could possibly be the trigger, Mr Delaney said it’s not the first time this has happened?”
My tongue feels almost too big for my mouth and I can’t speak. I’m struck dumb at the sudden turn of events and I feel myself start to become damp with sweat.
“Jesus, you look like death, what trouble have you got yourself in this time, boy?”
Lenny’s gruff voice cuts through my hazy thoughts and my head is spinning. I’m so disconnected from my mind and my body.
“Len?”
I’m fully aware my voice sounds thick with unshed tears and I feel like I’m losing control.
“Give us a minute, love?” Len asks the paramedic with a wink and she nods curtly, leaving us to it. He sits down on the floor next to me.
“It’s alright, son, everything’s going to be just fine,” he says softly, and I shake my head.
“I can’t do this anymore, Len, I can’t.”
He reaches for my hand and I let him, his touch somehow grounding me.
“Rick filled me in on what happened before you passed out, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, son. You’re stronger than that, you’ve been clean for six months, that’s a huge achievement in itself and I’m so damn proud of you. You’ve got yourself a lovely girl, you get to perform to thousands of fans every night, you’re living the dream,” he tries to reassure, me and I shake my head again.
“It’s not enough, it will never be enough. You don’t understand! I’ll never be enough!” I yell as I jab my forefingers carelessly into my temples, relishing in the sharp pain that follows.
I allow the torrent of tears to flow free and I sob harder than I’ve ever sobbed before, the events of the past few months bombarding my mind and bulldozing every corner of my brain. I feel my breathing start to quicken and the familiar tightening in my chest. The paramedic rushes to my side and I’m shaking uncontrollably.
“I can’t-I-I can’t fucking…breathe.”
I wheeze, clawing at my throat, trying desperately to force precious air into my lungs.
“Brody, I need you to breathe for me.”
I can’t focus on anything else but the events of last night, Raleigh, Carter and the whole sorry mess that I created with Lorna. The weight feels like it’s bearing down and it will crush me where I sit if I let it. My head spins, as I succumb to the blackness once more.
30
Raleigh
The thought that is floating around my brain as I’m standing outside Damien Valentine’s office, more terrified than I’ve ever been, is how the fuck did this happen? I’m all sorts of edgy, biting my nails, twirling my ring around my finger and I feel so out of control, it’s not even funny. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, that I’m considering just turning back around the way I came and just going to get totally wasted.
I’d rather be anywhere else than here at this moment in time, I’m exhausted. I spent the night in Brody’s arms, more content than I’d ever been and this morning I got a call from Paul summoning me to a meeting with Damien. I’m about to receive a dressing down from the director of my new movie. Happy Friday to me! He warned me when we first met that his bark was worse than his bite and I still don’t think I’m fully prepared for it. I was full of confidence when I received a standing ovation at last nights’ premiere, and I was optimistic that my career was no longer in the gutter. From the gutter to the stars, that’s how the saying goes isn’t it?
My thoughts are interrupted by Damien’s assistant’s nasally, shrill voice.
�
�Miss Storm, Mr Valentine is ready for you now.”
She smiles and even though I’ve met her a handful of times, she still can’t hide her disdain for me. I stand up as Damien approaches, he’s dressed casually today in a pair of black jogging bottoms, a white v-neck t-shirt, and a pair of black and blue Skechers. His short hair is shaved closed to his head and a five o’clock shadow graces his chin. He has a large cup of Starbucks finest in his hand. Fuck me, I’d give anything for one of those right now.
“Raleigh,” he greets me with a curt nod of his head.
Fuck this is going to be worse than I thought. I smile vaguely, desperately trying not to burst into tears. You can do this, Storm. He cocks his head, gesturing for me to step into his office. I take a deep breath and follow him in, closing the door with a loud click behind me. I notice the initials D.V, in flowing, script letters etched into the glass has been replaced with a plain frosted glass door. He smiles.