Page 15 of Craving Oblivion

Such soft words, barely spoken. Yet they’d had such impact.

“I hate you.”

I believed her. Once she’d loved me, fiercely. I realized that now—I’d been coming to that realization for a while. She would have done anything for me. But she believed I’d broken my promise. It didn’t matter that I’d thought she’d broken hers.

I should have known better. To Aya, promises meant everything.

I’d failed her, thanks to my fear. Sure, Lindsay’s stunt had hurt us. But I’d broken Aya because I’d set her up for that moment with my refusal to fully give her what she’d needed: my love. My assurance. My trust.

“I hate you.”

After a few more swallows, I found a place where I didn’t see the anger and hurt in her eyes as clearly and her words, “I hate you,” didn’t burn straight down to my soul.

And I liked it, so I stayed there, after a while letting Steve’s presence drift around me. Sure, I saw his worry, but I didn’t care. I only thought I’d had something to escape from before. Now oblivion was the only way to cope with the pain of self-loathing, of so much wasted time and nothing but more ahead. Remaining removed, untouchable, meant I didn’t have to feel.

8

Nash

Another concert, another night, a different continent. Not much had changed since we’d launched that first West Coast tour, hot on the heels of our debut album. Except everything had changed in the month since I’d talked to Aya in that coffee shop. It had gotten so very much worse.

I lifted my arms, beaming out into the crowd, giving them what they wanted: me.

“Love you, Vegas!”

I hated everything about this. I remembered Asher’s words on Cam’s bus all those years ago, about how touring could destroy relationships. I hadn’t understood then.

The screaming continued, grating on my nerves. I turned and glared at Samson, my stage manager. He spoke into the headset, and the lights blinked off. I dropped my mic, too eager to leave the stage to care about putting it back into the stand. I walked offstage.

“Great show!” Jax said, slapping me on the back, his grin wide.

My muscles bunched.

“Yeah, man.” Bridger’s grin was so wide, I could see his crooked canine. His shaggy ginger mop appeared darker, nearly brown, thanks to the sweat from exertion on his drums. “Woo! Let’s do another encore.”

He might’ve been five years older than me and a damn fine musician, but right now he was a pain in my ass. I growled. I needed a drink—no, the bottle, especially if I was going to have to deal with Bridger’s enthusiasm.

Tatum glared at me as I stomped past them, heading toward my dressing room. I had a bottle of bourbon, and I planned to empty a bunch of it.

“What’s bugging him?” Bridger asked.

Tatum’s soft reply never reached me. Probably for the best. She might be an excellent bassist and a beautiful woman, but I was still angry with her. I’d thought our talk after my mother’s funeral had cleared the air, but she’d pulled her shit again onstage in London, and interest had sparked in her light hazel eyes again each time she looked my way. She wanted to fix me—heal me or some other stupid-as-fuck idea.

Reaching my dressing room, I snagged the bottle and tipped a long drag into my throat as I headed to the shower. I stripped down, kicking my boots into the corner, and stepped into the stall, ignoring the frigid spray as I took another pull on the bottle. After a moment, the water heated enough for me to wash the sweat and makeup from my skin. I set the bottle outside the stall and reached for my shampoo.

“So this is how you unwind?” Tatum asked. She opened the glass door, her pale, naked body gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Her hazel eyes pleaded with me to love her. “I can help you with that. I’d be happy to help you.” Her gaze dropped to my straining erection, part of every post-concert experience.

I didn’t even bother to take it in hand any longer. I simply drank myself into limp dick. It solved lots of problems I didn’t need. Kids were way up there—no way I was having kids and fucking them up like my parents did Lev and me.

“Get out.” I shut my eyes and let the water cascade through the soap in my hair, trying desperately not to fall back into Aya’s eyes from that night—that damn night that still gave me nightmares—or from the coffee shop, for that matter.

“I hate you.”

She wasn’t the only one. The more I considered the situation from Aya’s point of view, the more I hated myself.

Tatum stepped into the shower behind me. Every muscle in my body went rigid as she ran her hands down my chest. I grabbed them before they dipped below my waist.

“I said get out.”

---