You'd Be Mine(57)

She did it first.





22



Annie


sunday, july 28

cleveland, ohio

That night, after the show, Fitz and Kacey walk me back to my hotel room, and Fitz says he’s still planning to throw a small party in his room for Kacey’s nineteenth birthday. I want to turn in early but decide I won’t let Jefferson—sorry, Clay—take me away from my best friend’s party. He humiliated me in front of thousands of people, and I can’t even begin to unravel why. I don’t know what he’s gained from objectifying me. Maybe it’s a delayed sense of retribution after introducing “Coattails.” Maybe Lora got under his skin and he’s taking it out on me. Maybe I misread things between us. Part of me wants to get my guitar and write a revenge song.

But the thought of writing something about him reminds me I’ve gotten confirmation from the label that “You’d Be Mine” made the cut and will be featured first for radio play. The timing couldn’t be more ludicrous or devastating, and I’m just too overwrought over Jefferson Clay Coolidge to see the tree for the forest in front of me.

So I beg off to my suite to get cleaned up and shower off the stage sweat and the feel of Jefferson on my skin. I’m the last to arrive. Fitz answers the door at my knock, his face so pale his freckles stand out like tiny polka dots across the bridge of his nose.

“Ah,” he says, not bothering to open the door all the way.

“Do I have the wrong room? I thought this was a birthday party,” I tease, peeking curiously over his shoulder. He closes the door farther, but not before I hear shouting.

I push past. “What the hell? Is that Jason?”

To his credit, Fitz doesn’t fight me as I press through. Tiny Kacey has a bottle in one hand and another straining against Jason’s chest as he’s shouting. He’s red-faced and snarling, veins throbbing in his neck. On the floor, across from him, blood dripping down his face, is Jefferson.

I scramble in but stop short of the two men, my loyalties painfully torn. Not like Jason notices, his fury laser-focused on Jefferson.

“What’s going on?”

Jason still refuses to look at me, but he shakes off Kacey’s hands, straightening his shirt. “Ask Jefferson,” he says in a mocking tone.

A humorless chuckle rumbles from the floor as Jefferson gets to his knees, still bent over. It takes him two tries, as he’s intoxicated beyond belief. Eventually, he crawls over to the pullout sofa and collapses there.

“I’m waiting.”

“Never mind,” Jason spits. “He’s high as a fucking kite. He can’t talk.”

My breath ices over in my chest. I turn to Fitz for confirmation. “Is that true?”

He winces. “I swear I have no idea where he got the pills or how long he’s been taking them.”

“Jes tah-day,” Jefferson slurs slowly.

I’m at his side in a flash. “How many did you take? Where are they? What are they? Holy shit, Jefferson. What were you thinking?”

His eyes are glassed over and dilated and nothing like him at all. Drunk Jefferson is one thing, but he’s stoned out of his mind. He slumps over, and my heart throbs painfully until he starts laughing again. It’s like watching a slow-motion version of him. Even his shaking shoulders look heavy. My nails dig tiny grooves into my palms. “Where are the pills, Jefferson?” I ask more slowly this time, each word dragged from my throat even as the walls seem to be closing in on me.

“I ate them all.”

My heart stutters. “How many were there?” I turn to Fitz, who’s even paler than before. He starts digging through the trash and ripping through the suitcases sitting by the door.

Kacey lifts an empty brown bottle. “Is this it? It says, Shit, you asshole, Clay.” She keeps muttering, and I snap.

“Focus, Kacey! Don’t you sleep, Jefferson,” I say, slapping at his face. “Just give me the bottle.” Kacey hands it to me. They’re pain pills, hydrocodone, but the name on them reads Lora Bradley. “Where’s Lora, Jefferson?”

He shrugs and smiles at me sleepily. “I sen’ her ’way.”

“Did she give these to you?” I ask, registering that Fitz is on the phone with someone, probably Trina, in the background.

“She didn’t like meh hillsss ssssong.”

Jesus Christ. “How many were there, Jefferson? I need to know if I need to call an ambulance.”

He holds up five fingers.

“Five?” I inhale deeply. That’s better than an entire bottle. Still, mixed with alcohol? I relay the information to Trina, who is going to contact the tour doctor. Within minutes, there’s a knock at the door. I relent my spot next to Jefferson to Fitz and slump against the wall in the hallway next to Jason.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Jason says.

I sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he doesn’t have me, Jason. We aren’t together. You know this.”

Jason shakes his head. “You forget, Annie, I know you. I heard your song. You can’t pull that with me.”

“Seriously? Because I wrote a song—”

“You love him, and he only loves himself.”

“You heard him, Jason. He’s a mess. Not only that, but you saw the shit he pulled with me tonight. Give me a little credit. I don’t need protecting.” He makes a noise that’s obviously disbelieving, and I slug his arm. “Why’d you punch him?”