Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)(63)

But last night, Poppy had told him if he couldn’t stay clean for himself, he should do it for his friends. Because they deserved it. Because he owed it to them. Because they were worth it.

She was right on all counts. They did deserve it. They were worth it. Quinn, Ryder, and Jared had stood by him for years, and this time they’d held out against Micah and the label and the insurance company just to keep him part of the band. They’d visited him every chance rehab gave them, coming in shifts so he’d know he wasn’t alone. They hadn’t judged him, hadn’t given up on him even when he’d given up on himself. Hell, they’d even taken calls from him at three in the morning, when the cravings were so bad it was all he could do not to claw at his skin to get to his veins.

Fuck, yeah, he owed them—more than he could ever repay—and f*ck if he was going to shoot this shit into his veins and ruin everything they’d given him. Everything they’d worked so hard for. Micah was a selfish prick who hadn’t cared about anyone but himself. Wyatt would be damned if he went out the same way that bastard had.

Fuck it. Just f*ck it. And f*ck heroin, too. He was done with it.

He pushed to his feet, walked the few steps across the bathroom until he got to the powder-filled baggie. He shoved it back in his pocket, then zipped up the kit and threw it on the counter while he poured peroxide over his hands. He only cursed a little at how much it hurt when there was no smack in his system to cut the pain.

When he was done, he put the first aid kit away, then picked up his drug kit. He went into the small living room of his apartment and gathered his keys before locking up the place. Then he walked down to the parking lot—and the Dumpster that sat in the corner of it.

He stood there for a second, thinking about what he was doing. Second-guessing himself. But that was just the addiction talking, trying to get inside his head, to weaken his resolve. And he wasn’t going to let it. Not now. Not this time.

Pulling his arm back, he threw the kit into the Dumpster as hard as he could, listening as it banged against the side wall before falling into the heaps of trash. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the heroin. Got ready to do the same with it.

But f*ck that. Just f*ck it. He wasn’t afraid of three grams of powder, wasn’t afraid of this goddamn motherf*cking drug. Not anymore. He was done with it. Done. With. It. And he wasn’t going to run from it this time, like a scared little boy who couldn’t take the pressure.

He shoved the baggie back in his pocket, then turned away and headed for his car. He’d spent the last few years running from this drug, so afraid of his weakness that he couldn’t even think about it while he was sober, let alone be anywhere around it.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was a rock star, and this shit was everywhere in his world. It was f*cking everywhere. He could get it anytime he wanted with a flick of his hand or a quick, whispered request. Hell, half of the time fans just shoved it into his hands in an effort to get in with the band for a night. And he’d never resisted, because he couldn’t. Because if it was there, he was going to smoke it or snort it or inject it.

Not this time. Not anymore.

Being afraid of heroin, hiding from it, running from it, hadn’t done the trick. So f*ck that shit. He was carrying this bag with him from now on. Right there in his f*cking pocket as a symbol that he was strong enough.

That he didn’t need to be afraid of it and that he didn’t need it.

That he wasn’t going to fall back down into that abyss. Not now and not later, when he was on the road. He didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know how many other ways he’d find to f*ck up—a lot, probably. But not this way. Not again. He might have a hard f*cking head and a past that nightmares were made of, but he’d learned his lesson.

He. Was. Done.

Crossing the parking lot toward his car, he felt lighter than he’d ever been. Felt like he actually had a chance for the first time since he’d tried heroin in the back of that shitty club at seventeen. It wasn’t enough to drown out the shit in the back of his head, wasn’t enough to dampen the self-loathing that rode him with every breath. But it was enough to keep the heroin in his pocket instead of his veins, and for now, that was all he could ask for.





Chapter Eighteen


“So, Shane, I think that’s pretty much all the questions we had for you,” Jared said, shoving a hand through his hair and glancing surreptitiously at his phone.

Poppy knew the feeling—she’d been doing the same thing for the last hour and a half, trying to figure out where the hell Wyatt was. After he’d left her apartment that morning, he’d texted her that he was going home to change and then heading over here, since they were interviewing three bassists today. She’d been planning on snapchatting a bunch of it—something she couldn’t do if Wyatt was missing. The last thing she wanted was to broadcast any problems he had to the world—and her father, especially.

And what was most concerning was that he’d missed the whole day. Shane was the third interviewee—and the first one any of them had actually thought had a chance. He’d been the bassist for a couple of up-and-coming groups she’d had her eye on through the years, but for whatever reason, the bands had always fallen apart before hitting the big time. Which, she admitted, made her a little leery of him—one seemingly solid band falling apart could happen to anybody. Two in less than three years? That was really bad luck—or something else. Still, he was a damned good bassist. Definitely good enough to at least do a quick audition set with the band.