You'd Be Mine(55)

I wish she would just leave already. “What the hell do you even care?”

“Someone should care about you. Is it so hard to believe I would?” Her smile is self-deprecating, but the sadness in her eyes is a punch to the gut. She really does care. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t care about the right version of me—she cares. “Anyway, I have something for you. Maybe it will help you get out of your funk.” She stands and walks across the room to where she’s left her purse. “I’ve been carrying these around for a bit. After your text asking me to come early, I thought maybe you needed something. It’s from my personal stash, but I have a contact if you need more.”

She pulls out a bottle, and I hear pills rattling inside. She holds it up, crossing the room toward me.

“I’m not sick.”

“And these aren’t medicinal. Physically you might be fine, but even you have to admit you’re a bit of a mess. Your brand is fun, Clay. Careless, immature, drunken, reckless fun. So get your act together and show the label you’re still plenty capable of providing what they pay you for: butts in the seats with full cups and high social media presence. Save yourself.”

I shake my head, anger surging, smacking the pills out of her hand with a clatter. They smack against the far wall and fall uselessly on the floor. “I don’t want your drugs.”

She laughs at me, shaking her head, her dark hair swirling behind her shoulders. Lifting her purse strap higher on her arm and turning for the door, she says, “Jesus, Clay, it’s not heroin. They’re just some pills. They’ll loosen you up a little. I’m trying to help. Get your shit together, or you’re going to throw it all away.”

The door closes behind her with a slam, and after a minute, I walk over to where the bottle is sitting on the floor. I don’t pick it up, instead tapping it with my foot like it’s a yappy dog or a poisonous snake. I should throw it away, and I’m just about indignant enough to do it. Toss the bottle and return to my old-school hills song. To my grandfather’s woodshop. To my roots.

It’s not the first time someone’s tried to give me drugs. I’ve been around for about a year and have had plenty of offers from industry insiders. Uppers to keep you peppy onstage, downers to help you sleep when you’re too exhausted. It’s the first time Lora has given me something, though. The cynical part of me wonders who put her up to it. Stanton at Southern Belle? Is this some attempt at sabotage? Or was it Trina? Someone on my side, looking to save their career? I know Fitz wouldn’t stoop that low, but he’s pretty much as far as my trust extends.

I’ve never taken them. Always thrown them away without a second thought.

Someone should care about you, she’d said. Like I’m an orphan lost on the streets. Like someone needs to take responsibility for my care. Like I can’t do anything for myself. Same shit, different day. Someone always trying to run my life. I pick up the pills, and this time I don’t throw them away.





21



Clay


sunday, july 28

cleveland, ohio

The pills haunt me. I know they’re safe in my room, and logically I know that days ago I didn’t need or want them—that I’ve never wanted them. That my brother would kick my ass if he (were alive, of course, and) knew I didn’t throw them away the second I got them. That my grandfather would blister my backside. I promise myself I’ll flush them when I get back. I wish I could flush them now. I wish I had made Lora take them with her when she left.

I don’t want them.

But I can’t stop thinking about them. I feel like hell. I don’t remember not feeling like hell. I’m wrung out and dried up and tired. So tired. Everything hurts. My hangover is permanent these days.

Annie’s been avoiding me since Indiana.

Lora left town.

My brother is dead. My grandfather is dead. My mother is dead.

Everyone leaves me in the end.

What if the pills do make me feel different? Better? Up to this point, drugs felt … I don’t know … too much. Too far. They crossed a line I haven’t been willing to cross. But Christ knows the booze doesn’t do anything anymore. I’m reminded of Annie that night a month ago in my hotel room. “I can still see them,” she said. “It’s not working.”

It’s not working.

Thinking of Annie fills me with an irrational anger. Lora’s reminder that Annie is eclipsing me was unnecessary. It’s not like I haven’t spent the summer with her. I’d have to be blind and stupid to not have seen what was happening. To be honest, I’ve been expecting it since I was recruited to get her signature all those months ago in Michigan.

But I still don’t have a contract, and Willows definitely went missing for a few hours two mornings ago. Fitz wouldn’t tell Trina where they were, which in and of itself was a shining, blinking fuck you to our blond road manager. She’s back to sneaking cigarettes and glaring at everyone.

I didn’t ask. Lora wouldn’t lie to me about Southern Belle homing in on Willows. The question is what I’m going to do about it. If Annie goes with Southern Belle, my label may never forgive me my transgressions. Suddenly, I’m back on the Ferris wheel feeling inadequate in the face of Annie’s drive and passion for music. These days, I’m finding it difficult to muster up much of anything.