Page 74 of Pawn

Time to do one of the things King and I do best. Get fucked up and feel nothing.

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“Weed and whiskey are all I need in my life.”

“And King’s cock.” Isaac laughs, joint hanging off his lip while he plays the same melody over and over. “Right?”

His hand is on a knob on a board with a gazillion buttons in front of us, a glass room with mics and instruments behind it. My eyes fall on the golden guitar on the wall but my mind is elsewhere. While stoned and drunk in Lionel Johnson’s home studio sounds like a dream, it’s hard to appreciate it.

“Shut up, Johnson,” I groan, grabbing the joint from his lips, swivelling side to side in a desk chair.

“I’m telling the truth.” Isaac leans back in his chair sporting a green velvet shirt, hands interlaced on his stomach. “I’m also way too drunk to be cooking up music.”

“Didn’t know you’re a musician.” Bringing the bourbon bottle to my lips, I take another swig. It does nothing to wash away the memory of the hurt in Damien’s eyes when I left. Does nothing for the pain in my chest, the hard glob in my throat.

“I’m more of a producer,” he says with a shrug. “You know, more Dr. Dre, less Eazy-E. Musicians get dicked around way too much.”

“Like your dad?” I ask, head dropping against the backrest, mirror in the ceiling showing off my sunken, red eyes. The studio looks like an accurate representation of the Johnsons. Zebra print and colourful furniture.

Isaac rolls up another joint, a bass-heavy beat playing in the background. I can’t count how much pot we’ve had but I’ll have as much as it takes to get Damien out of my head. Exorcism by cannabis.

“Nah that’s his excuse. If he wanted to be here, he would.” A stoned laugh leaves his lips. “Shit, look at that. The kids in Eden are as fucked as the ones in The Grove.”

“If not more.” Hopping up from my seat, I’m headed for another slice of pizza on the coffee table behind us. “Grove kids aren’t as delusional as Eden kids.”

My phone vibrates against the coffee table again and I don’t have to look at it to know it’s Damien. With a lazy arm, I pick it up and throw it across the room. It doesn’t make it very far, tumbling and sliding before it comes to a stop.

“How long are you gonna ignore him?” Isaac asks with a thick, cocked brow. “I don’t want him to come Rambo-ing at my door in an hour looking for you.”

“He doesn’t fucking own me!” I spit through clenched teeth.

Isaac raises his hands in the air in surrender before swivelling back around. “On that note, I’ll roll a fatty. Just for you.”

“Much appreciated.” Though I’ll need more than that. Turning to the wall, my finger trails down the side of a gold-framed photo. This one has an older-looking Isaac with his lips pressed to the Queen’s hand. “Woah, your dad met the Queen?”

Isaac laughs again, a high croaky one. “Yeah and the band but wait ‘til you see this.”

He walks over in beige slacks and matching Gucci shoes. With his hand on the red sofa’s arm, he reaches under the leather, pulling out a square wooden box.

“What’s that?” I ask.

Isaac sits down, positioning the box on his lap before patting the seat next to him.

“Ew, no,” I protest, nose wrinkling at the leather cushion. “I know what happens on these things.”

“We’re not animals,” Isaac protests. He shrugs, putting his arm along the back. “We clean it.”

Rolling my eyes I flop beside him, finishing my slice of pizza and washing it down with another long sip. Damien’s still on my mind when he opens the box filled with papers and photos and other pieces of stationery. Old tickets and postcards with scribbles and hearts.

“What’s all this?” I ask, picking up a wristband that reads ‘The Love House - Admits One’.

He places a photo on my lap, his dad in the middle before I spot someone familiar. “Holy shit, are those the fucking princes? Of England?” There’s a bunch of girls in bikinis around them and what I see behind them makes me gasp. “Are they in a church?”

“St. Pauls,” Isaac corrects before he starts to laugh, his thumb on the photo. “My dad’s a fucking legend. Think he fucked one of them in there?”

“I’d be mad if he didn’t.” Pulling the box on my lap, I start rummaging through, Isaac explaining my finds. A Grammy invitation, original lyrics, and more celebrity cameos in photos. “Isaac, this is insane. I’ve never—” My eyes fall on something that cuts my sentence short, the room closing in around me.

Isaac chuckles. “You got the spins, baby? Thought you were hard up.”

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