Page 2 of Broken Instrument

With my chin to my chest, I fist my hands at my sides and count to ten, reminding myself of every single fucking reason I can think of as to why I shouldn’t call Marty––my half-brother turned dealer. Why I shouldn’t track him down and buy a few pills. Only a few. Just enough to get me through the next few weeks when I know it’ll only cause me to spiral more. Shoving my hands into my hair, I tug at the roots––hard––and push the stall door open with all my strength. It slams against the wall with a reverberating crash as I make my way to the sink and wash my hands with scalding hot water, though it does shit to wash away my past mistakes.

Shoving my hand into my pocket, I pull out a fun-sized bag of M&M’s and rip the package between my teeth. The pieces fall in a cacophony of a rainbow as I pour the entire bag into my mouth and chew mechanically. Not sure how they became my new vice or why I started eating them by the handful when I was in rehab, but they’re the only thing that curbs my dry mouth when I’m craving something stronger. Or at least, they usually do. Right now, they taste like sawdust. My annoyance flares as I avoid my gaze in the mirror, crinkle the wrapper into my fist, and toss it into the trash.

In a daze and not ready to go home, I head to the bar and collapse onto the nearest stool, ordering a shot of Jameson. I’m not addicted to alcohol. Or at least not any more than anyone else in this bar. But I’m not stupid either. I know it’s the first step to spiraling. To giving in. To becoming the weak, broken lead singer of my band.

Old band, I remind myself. Right now, I’m not sure where we stand.

I chose Broken Vows as its name for a reason. I’m not exactly great at keeping promises. Especially not ones that are so damn hard to keep.

The sound of glass clinking against the bar top startles me, bringing me back to the present as the bartender sets my order in front of me. I blink slowly and stare at the amber liquid.

It’s taunting me. Daring me to drink it. Promising to numb me the way I’m desperate to be numbed. I swirl my finger around the small rim, the familiar itch begging me to grab hold of the tiny glass and swallow its contents whole.

And it would be so easy to do.

Sure, there are rumors about why I left Broken Vows a few months ago. Why they’re touring across the country while I took an extended leave of absence as their lead singer and guitarist before showing up on the porch of my old place.

River, Milo, Jake, and my brother, Gibson, and I used to all room together. I moved in with my friend, Buddy, when the proximity to Gibson, aka Sonny, became too much.

It feels like a lifetime ago. When things were simple, yet oh so complicated at the same time.

Before River and Milo’s little sister, Reese, was cast in a Hollywood movie. Before Broken Vows took off, my brother fell in love for the first time with an innocent little coworker named Dove, who wound up touring with us as the co-singer in the band. Before my addiction consumed me and tore apart everything we’d been working for. Before I had to let go of my dreams because I was pissing on everyone else’s.

Yeah.

It really does feel like a lifetime ago.

So much has changed since then. Hell, I’ve only been gone for a little while, but half my roommates have moved out, Milo’s now a dad, and his girlfriend and new daughter are living across the hall from me.

Yup. A lot has changed. And I have no idea how to handle any of it.

I shouldn’t have come back.

But I didn’t know where else to go.

I had nowhere else to go.

Which led me here. To SeaBird. Desperate to get away and breathe for a little while. But realizing being around alcohol, a live band who doesn’t hold a candle to Broken Vows playing on the stage where we used to play, and the temptation of a one-night-stand––which is apparently a trigger for me––is enough to drive a guy insane.

And I am going insane.

The fact I’m actually considering drinking the beverage in front of me is enough evidence to put me in a crazy house.

It should be easy.

To give it up.

Especially after everything it’s cost me.

So why am I considering throwing away all the progress I’ve made?

Because you’re weak, a little voice inside my head reminds me. And I hate the voice almost as much as I hate the alcohol in front of me.

The barstool next to mine squeaks softly as a pair of suit-covered arms taint my periphery.

“They’re shit, aren’t they?” he says.

Confused, I look at the stranger. When I recognize him, I barely bite back my groan.

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