Page 4 of Captured Immune

We do belong together.

—Arella

I read it again.

And again.

And again.

The sunrise appears out of nowhere. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, and I don’t feel like doing either. I also haven’t let go of this picture since I saw Arella’s note.

The absence of her is driving me insane. I need to do the one thing that will completely block her from my mind. Unfortunately, I promised myself—more importantly, Liz—that I would never drink that much or get that high again. Although, back then, I didn’t know I’d feel so devastated.

Maybe I can black out for one day. I just won’t tell Liz.

No, no, no.I scold myself for even considering it. Nothing good can come from that. Except I could feel better, even if it’s just for one night.That’ll be worth it, right?Probably not. The second I wake up sober, this chest ache will come right back. It always does.

What I truly want is a permanent healing solution, and she’s probably in the arms of that other guy right now. The mere thought of it scratches at my throat, leaving it coarse and dry. Instead, I imagine her alone in her bed, sulking like I am. I let out a groan toward the ceiling. Neither image makes me feel good.

Should I call her? Has she tried to call me? Where’s my phone?After rubbing my sore eyes, I force myself to go phone hunting.

I don’t find it in my bedroom. Or the living room. Or the kitchen. When I still can’t find it, I search my music room twice. Nothing.

Huffing, I trudge upstairs to my workout room. Finally, I find the damn thing sitting next to my Bluetooth speaker. Now that I think about it, this was the last place I used my phone before Jess showed up during my workout yesterday.

Damn.Was that only yesterday?

My phone has five percent battery left. I’ve got two missed calls. Neither is from Arella. Three texts. None of those are from Arella either. They’re all from Liz, dated yesterday.

You coming to perform tonight or what?

T?

Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it’s September 5th. Don’t worry about coming if you don’t feel up for it.

The anniversary of seeing my parents get blown up is not the reason why I skipped out on my band’s show last night, but I’ll take it.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Liz’s name and picture appear on the screen. I let the call go to voicemail, because I’m not in the mood to talk to Liz right now—or anybody. Well, except for one. If Arella called, I wouldn’t hesitate to pick up.

A second later, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Liz.

Are you planning to come tonight?

If I’m not in the mood to talk to people, I’m definitely not in the mood to perform. Especially not on a Saturday, when the Soul House is always packed. But if I skip again, my band manager will have my head. Monique lives for any chance to yell at me. I don’t have the energy to deal with her wrath, so I suck it up, grab my leather jacket, strap on my helmet, and head toward downtown Los Angeles.

Riding my motorcycle is lonely without Arella. I can still feel her behind me and her fingers drawing figure eights over my abs. It’s not until I’ve arrived at my destination that I realize I should have stayed home.

Arella usually comes to work with me. Whenever she doesn’t, everyone asks about her. Typically, I can tell people she’ll be coming when she gets off work. This time, I can’t. What will I say instead? I sure as hell am not explaining what actually happened.

I find a parking spot in the back lot, then force myself to dismount my bike. I’d much rather go home, but I drag my feet to the backstage door anyway. On the keypad, I type in the access code.

Beep!The little light turns green, and I step inside.

Marcus is behind his drum set, spinning a drumstick around his fingers when he glances up at me. “Hey, man! Where you—” His face drops. “Damn. Who died?”

I must look like a train wreck. Definitely feel like one. I rub my stubbly cheeks. Maybe if I had trimmed my beard, I wouldn’t look so defeated.

“Is Ari comin’?” Kevin, our bass guitarist, asks through a mouthful of chips.

---