Sweet Temptation (The Sweet Trilogy #4)(39)

—“Logan to Government Center” by Brand New

I am obsessed. I believe this is what they call “getting a taste of one’s own medicine,” and it’s a bitter flavor.

I didn’t work on the way home from Los Angeles. I drove like a zombie with hardly a wink of sleep. It wrecked me to see Anna’s number calling my mobile and not be able to answer.

That was over a week ago. Since being back in Atlanta I’ve thrown myself into work with a flourish, determined to get her off my mind. Surely another person’s body will make these thoughts of her go away.

No?

Right then, two people.

Three . . . ? New bodies day and night. Different smiles on different lips. Different arses, different hips. I’ve even been writing songs, much to Michael’s bloody delight.

Music, sex, pot, bourbon. Vast quantities of all of the above at once.

Nothing. Fucking. Works.

I get into trouble when school starts, which pisses Father off, as if I’m some human boy who gives a shit about his senior year and his future. He just doesn’t want to play nice with the humans when they call with their concerns. It’s not high on Father’s to-do list to pretend to care for his troubled son who comes to school with bloodshot eyes and sleeps through history lessons.

Although he has seemed otherwise impressed with my performance outside of school. Good on me.

Because not one bit of this makes Anna go away. In fact, with each girl I abandon and each arsehole thing I say and do, I’m filled with shame. I see her face at every party. In every car I pass. She is everywhere, but I cannot have her. I’m constantly surrounded by people, but I’ve never been more alone.

I’m not sure how long I can sustain this level of self-abuse, but I cannot stand to be sober, and the more I fuel my lust, the more I seem to need. I am a disgusting disaster, but there’s an apparent “tortured soul” appeal about me, because chicks have never been so keen to have me. I’m getting more action than James Fucking Bond. My bandmates joke that I’m a god.

And yet, I’ve never been less fulfilled.

Each time Father leaves I listen to Anna’s voice mail messages. I shouldn’t. It’s stupid for many reasons, but what can I say? I have become an idiot. Like that time this week when I called Marna, blasted out of my mind, and mentioned I’d met a new Neph named Anna, daughter of Belial. I figured word would have spread about her from Father by now, but Marna was obviously shocked and overly interested. Gin was in the background shouting questions.

“What’s she like? Why haven’t we met her? How old is she?”

“Erm, she’s a year younger than me. Father asked me to help train her up.”

“Train her up?” Marna asked. “What for? Isn’t she trained and working already?”

“I meant, we work together. Or something.”

“Or something?” she asked incredulously.

Even in my drunken state I knew enough to cut the conversation short.

Today, I make another idiotic phone call. This time to the band’s manager.

“Ay, it’s Kai,” I say.

“Rowe! What’s up?”

“Couple months ago this bloke called Jay gave you a CD of his songs. Think I can come by an’ give ’em a listen?” Cripe, I’m drunk. Hope I’m not slurring.

“Hold on, let me look.” I hear him shuffling around through his things. “Is it Jay Thompson from Cartersville?”

My heart rate spikes. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Haven’t listened to this one. He a friend of yours?”

“Just an acquaintance. Can’t make any promises.”

“No problem. Come in when you can. Oh, and did Michael tell you the news about L.A.?”

Bile rises in my throat at the thought of my L.A. memories, but we’re only going there to make a record.

“Bloody brilliant news, mate,” I say.

I give the alcohol twenty minutes to burn off, then hop in my car.

It turns out one of Jay’s songs is incredible. Upon my urging, our manager gets on the phone to see about allowing permissions for a cover. When Jay says yes, my manager claps me on the back, probably thinking I’m grinning about discovering a new song, but all I can think is that when we cover it, Anna will be there to support him.

Bloody hell.

Now who’s playing with fire?

We learn Jay’s song in record time, excited to have new material for our next gig. When the night comes I down three shots of Jack to calm my nerves in the half hour preceding the show. The house is packed. When we take the stage I find Jay straightaway in the front row. He’s with that curly-headed bloke who wrote the songs with him. My heart feels like it’s slipped off a ledge. I look all around the dim room and cannot find her.

Why isn’t she here? Has something happened?

After the show I head backstage, knowing Jay will come. I’m immediately bombarded by fans, but I can’t focus on a single one of them. When Jay comes in I go straight for him. I try to be polite, because for once Jay is not smiling at me. I hold out a hand and he’s slow to take it. His aura is orange underneath, probably leftover excitement from the show, but it’s gray with his misgivings for me on top. I wonder how much Anna told him.

“Nice work on the song, mate,” I say. A bit of the gray fades.