Page 208 of Scoring the Player
I’m pushed damn near headfirst onto the stage.
Straightening up, I glare at Sid.
“Just close your eyes and escape,” he says, handing me the mic.
“You’re on my kill?—”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”
I stand there for an awkward amount of time before fixing on a band member’s Gibson acoustic guitar. Without having to ask, she offers it to me. Another band member offers me his stool.
“Thanks,” I say to them both.
I hook the guitar strap around my neck and get situated, adjusting the mic and stool. I massage and stretch my hands quickly to warm them up before I strum a few chords and hum scales away from the mic. There’s only one song that comes to mind. It’s not mine, but it’s the only song that’s been on repeat since I lost Salem.
I clear my throat and raise my gaze above the crowd. “If you’re out there listening, I miss you. I dream of boring days with you too. This song is for you.”
I close my eyes, and with a deep breath, I let go.
CHAPTER 52
ARNAZ
“Peace”
It wasn’t in bed or underneath, the backyard, toilet, patch of shade, strip of sunlight, couch, kitchen, midnight concrete.
It wasn’t inside of me, or the smile of a stranger. I summoned it by name. I pretended not to need it.
I fucked, I wept, I prayed, I drank, I sweated, I howled, I slept, I waited.
Never did it come.
Never did I find it.
The sky rumbles as lightning blinks through the dense gray clouds.
“Is this it?” the driver asks, rolling to a stop.
“I think so.” I check the rideshare app for the address.
Carter’s Rolls-Royce Black Badge Cullinan comes into view as we pull into the driveway.
So much for hoping he’d be off traveling.
I’m here for Anaïs.
“Thank you.”I climb out and make my way to the door, tucking my head to shield myself from the rain. Standing under the floral archway, I look out at the street.
With the hectic game schedule, it’s taken me longer than I wanted to make it out to check on Anaïs. I’m free for the next three days and plan to spend them making sure she’s okay.
There’s no way I can beherefor more than a few hours, so I booked a room at a nearby hotel.
The .25 mg of risperidone my psychiatrist prescribed with a strict warning to take only if I experience a severe panic attack or anxiety sits in the small pocket of the duffel strung over my shoulder. I told her I thought it was unnecessary, but she disagreed after hearing about this trip.
I stretch out my hands and watch raindrops splatter against the cement before lifelessly joining the puddle.
I watch my breath form a cloud in the air.
