Page 68 of Broken Instrument

“Really?”

“It’s not my scene,” I clarify.

They both nod but exchange glances as Jess pulls something from his dark leather pants. “No worries, man. We’ll chill here. We don’t need a party to bond and shit.”

When I see the bag of white powder, my mouth waters, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and little black dots taint my vision as I zero in on it. Is there an elephant on my chest? I feel like there’s an elephant on my chest. Like it’s preventing my lungs from fully expanding, and the only way to get the damn beast off me is to reach out and––

The chair I’d been sitting in thuds against the ground as I shove to my feet and back away from Jess like he’s holding a loaded gun pointed directly at me. The old me would’ve snorted it without any hesitation. I would’ve ridden the high and probably written a kickass song while I was at it. But I can’t. I can’t do this. I gulp down as much as I can and take another step back, clenching my fists at my sides.

That’s another thing the old me would’ve done.

I would’ve beaten the shit out of this guy if he offended me. But right now, I feel like nothing more than a scared, pathetic piece of shit as a sweat breaks out along my brow.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Gunner asks.

“I said it’s not my scene anymore.”

“Yeah, man. We get it. Saw the news articles and shit. We’ll keep it on the down-low. Not a big deal.”

I shake my head. “Get out of the studio.”

“What?”

“I said get the hell out of the studio. Now.”

“Dude, it’s only a little blow––”

“Now!” I yell. I feel like my chest is collapsing on itself as my entire body practically convulses. With anger. And need. So much fucking need I can’t see straight. If Hawthorne were here, there’s no way he’d put up with this shit. So, where the hell is he?

I look through the glass separating the recording area from the mixing booth, but it’s empty.

Fucking empty.

“Listen,” Gunner starts, but I storm out of the room without waiting.

The door bangs against the wall, jarring the pictures hanging on it, and I rip open the exit door, too, almost running into Hawthorne, who’s talking on his cell.

He must’ve stepped out to take a call, but it does nothing to ease the itch beneath every inch of my skin. Like a thousand mosquito bites but worse.

It was right there.

I could’ve taken it, and no one would’ve known.

And I wanted to.

I wanted to try it.

To slip back into the oblivion that was my second home for years. Hell, it was my first home until it obliterated my life.

And I can’t do it again.

“Let me call you back,” Hawthorne murmurs into his cell. Hanging up, he grabs my shoulders and forces me to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“They brought blow into the studio!”

“Shit.” He rubs his hand over his face and lifts his forefinger to me. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not gonna work with them––”

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