Page 2 of Worth the Trouble

Noah leans toward me in his chair and knocks me with his shoulder. “You okay, man?”

“Always.” I grin and try to bury whatever doubt just crept in.

He nods, but his eyebrows pinch, and I don’t like that he doesn’t seem to believe me.

Of everyone in the band, I’m closest to Noah, and the dude can read me better than anyone. Like right now, when he ties his shoulder-length blond hair back as he assesses whatever he’s seeing on my face. He knows something’s up, and he’s right.

I’ve felt off for a while now. Demons are a bitch like that. Following you around whether you’re smoking, screwing, or sleeping. I used to think if I just did a little bit more of anything I’d be able to silence them.

Fuck me, apparently.

The reporter sits down on the chair in front of us. Her knee-length pencil skirt rides up as she crosses one leg over the other and smiles. She’s got big lips and innocent eyes, and she’s pretty in an uptight, prissy kind of way that I usually find hot because it’s so much fun to mess it the fuck up.

But again, nothing.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Through a wall on the far side of the room I hear music playing, and I recognize the song: “Ain’t No Rest For the Wicked.”It immediately makes my skin crawl because every word is like an anthem I’ll live and die by.

I heard it enough growing up for it to become a part of who I am.

My dad would play it on repeat when he was too tired to beat the shit out of me. Like he was trying to nail the message to a post in my brain. At least it was one of his lesser forms of punishment, and coming from a man whose brand of education was extremely specific—and often hurt like hell—it was the better option.

And effective.

The song ends, and I wonder if there was music at all or if I’m just hearing things. But then, the song starts over from the beginning, loud enough to draw Eloise’s attention this time, so I know it’s not in my head.

Just what I need when I already feel off balance—thoughts of my father added into the mix.

Maybe I died and I just haven’t realized it yet. After all, I’ve gotperditiontattooed on my stomach because I’ve known since I was old enough to know anything that it’s where I belong—in a constant state of suspension.

Most people wish for heaven and fear hell. I’d take either over the purgatory I’ve spent my life in. Chasing a high until it finally breaks me.

When I was real young, I still believed that everyone reached that point in their lives when shit turned around. I truly believed the universe would decide one moment I’d suffered enough. It’s that same dumb thinking that convinced me my father would one day reach a point where he’d get tired of using me as a punching bag.

The day he broke his knuckles on my face, I saw the truth.

I suffered plenty and nothing saved me.

Nothing would.

There was no magical event that would change my life unless I was the one willing to do it. So I did—with the band and with my music. I sold one pound of flesh at a time, and now, I’m being mentally crucified for enjoying the perks of it.

The song starts over.

It starts. Fucking. Over.

“Rome?”

My eyes snap back into focus on the reporter sitting in front of me, and I feel the eyes of the rest of the band.

“What was the question?” I lean back in my chair and cross one ankle over the other, trying to pretend I’m bored so she doesn’t notice me crawling out of my skin.

The reporter pushes her glasses up her nose, and her sweet brown eyes dart to the paper in her hands. She’s nervous. The tick as she flips between the pages gives her away. She probably hopes I don’t see it. But that’s the problem, I see everything. Even when I don’t want to.

“What made you fall in love with music?” Her eyes dart back up to me.

I bring my hands together and pop my tattooed knuckles. “You mean besides the pussy?”

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