Page 1 of Broken Instrument

1

FENDER

My palms are sweaty, and my heart rate spikes as I drag my hands along the back of the brunette’s head. She opens her throat and dives in deeper, practically swallowing my cock while I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to lose myself in the feel of her lips wrapped around me.

This should feel good.

And it does.

But the closer I get to coming, the more I crave it. Not the woman in front of me, but the high. The oblivion. The moment when all the heavy shit doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating anymore.

I can’t crave it, though. Not anymore. Not after rehab. Not after everything I had to give up because I couldn’t keep my addiction in check.

It’s funny.

On paper, it sounds easy. Don’t do drugs, or it’ll ruin your life.

But what happens when your life is in shambles before you start using a handful of white pills and a bottle of dark brown liquor to cope with the day-to-day shit? It doesn’t feel like you’re giving up quite as much.

Because what’s there to give up in the first place? If anything, it feels like you’re finally able to breathe. To let go. To not feel quite so deeply for a few minutes.

And I was so tired of feeling.

That’s what I was addicted to. That’s what I wanted to ease for a little while. That’s why I popped those little white pills. Why I drank straight from the bottle. It’s why I shot heroin into my veins, and why I woke up in a hospital bed not so long ago.

It’s also why the band I created, Broken Vows, is now touring across the country with my older brother as the lead singer instead of me. It’s why I recently spent time in rehab, and it’s why I can’t even enjoy the feel of this random brunette’s mouth as she swallows my cock. Because even though it feels good, I know how much better it could feel if I was high.

My stomach tightens at the thought.

I want it.

I want it so damn badly.

I rest the back of my head against the bathroom stall’s door, tangle my fingers in the stranger’s hair, and pull her off me. With a soft pop, my hard dick slips out of her mouth, and she looks up at me.

“Something wrong?” she questions, her dark lashes fluttering, and the corner of her hazel eyes smudged with dark liner.

I shake my head, tuck myself back into my pants, and offer to help her up.

She takes my hand and smiles wickedly, proving my poker face really is worth all the years of practice I spent controlling it.

“Should we take this back to my place?” she asks as her blood-red fingernail wipes the edge of her mouth. The sight should turn me on. But all I feel is empty inside. Empty and wanting. But not for her. I don’t want her. She’s sexy. Don’t get me wrong. But she’s somehow…faceless. Not a person, but an object. And I hate it. It’s not me. Not who I am. Not who I want to be. It’s like she’s a means to an end who can’t even get me there without the help of my addiction.

Fuck.

“Can’t,” I grunt. “Thanks, though.”

Her perfectly drawn brows furrow. “But you didn’t––”

“Yeah.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I know. Have a good night.”

“You sure?” Her fingers drag down my chest and toy with the waistband of my recently buttoned dark jeans. “I could––”

I grab her wrist. “Leave. Now.”

Her breath hitches as she tugs her hand away from me and races toward the exit like a bat out of hell. The bathroom door slams against the rough brick wall, her heels clicking against the tile floor before silence settles over the bar’s bathroom.

If only my unsettled soul could quiet so easily.

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