Page 16 of One More Song

We went through a few drummers before we found Dusky. He’d been covering for the drummer for Wild Irish when we’d met him, and we all just clicked. And that’s when Absinthe was born.

And our futures were written in bright glittery lights.

Tours.

Fame.

Women.

Drugs.

Rock-and-fucking-roll.

“You ever think that this life we’ve created is complete bullshit?” I ask.

Synn leans his head back against the railing post and looks at me, taking a few seconds to think about my question before answering. “No. I think we’re probably four of the luckiest bastards alive.”

I pick at the label of my bottle. I know he’s right. But then why the fuck can’t I fill the damn emptiness in my chest. I know why. The demons I don’t want to face. Can’t face.

“Just do me a favor,” Synn says, standing. “Keep your dick in your pants while we’re here.”

I grunt and flip him off.

“I’m serious, dude. Ember doesn’t need you fucking her around. She’s got a kid—”

“Since when has my sex life concerned you?”

“Since it was blasted all over the internet.” He frowns down at me. “And I like her—”

I glare up at him. “So that’s it? You want her for yourself?”

He snorts. “Sure, she’s hot, but that’s not what I meant. She’s not like the normal chicks that we’re used to. She’s...good.”

Which is something I’ve never claimed to be.

“No shit,” I mutter, dragging my hand through my hair. “And I don’t plan on fucking her.”

“You never plan anything, Ash. That’s why we’re here in the middle of nowhere, one little mistake away from losing everything we’ve worked so hard for. So tell me now if that’s what you want? If you don’t want this life anymore, then fine, we’ll walk away. But don’t screw it up on purpose.”

He walks back into the house before I can say anything else. Not that there’s much to say. He’s right on all accounts. I’ve fucked up more times than I can count.

My agent’s been trying to get me in to talk to a shrink for years. But the last thing I need is to spill all my daddy issues to some stranger who’ll no doubt sell the story to the top-paying magazine.

I’m not a complete idiot, I know the asshole messed me up. I’ve got the baggage to prove it.

I’ll never forget his last words to me before he’d put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

You think you’re so much better than me, son. But you’re just like me. Broken. Selfish. You think because women fuck you, and men want to be you that they love you? They don’t give two shits about you. You’re just as empty as I am. And you’ll die just as alone.

He’d shown up at my place wanting a handout, and I’d turned him away. The police found his body four days later in an alley outside the venue we were playing at. His final fuck-you-farewell. And the media had been all over it.

It was the beginning of my end.

Some portrayed him as the villain, others the victim. But none got it right. He was just a lonely, pathetic, drunk old man who’d never loved anyone in his life.

Not my mom.

Not me.

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