Page 31 of Craving Oblivion

He’d taken to treating me like a toddler. I frowned but didn’t bother to lift my head from the couch cushion. “I’m good. But thanks.”

“Well…”

“I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Yes, sure. Of course.”

Awkward—just like every other interaction we’d had over the past couple of weeks. But we were talking, even if our interactions didn’t exactly rise to the level of conversation. Mainly, I suspected Steve checked in on me to ensure I was sober.

I was, and I definitely planned to stay that way, but contentment flitted beyond my reach. I sat up and finished my glass of sparkling water. No way did I want to slide back into the oblivion, though. Even if this place hurt.

I stared up at the coved ceiling. Not a speck of creativity had flowed through me since I got sober, no matter how long I held my guitar—a gift from Jenna and one of the finest works of craftsmanship I’d laid eyes on.

Oh, I had songs in my head. Beck’s “Loser” was the loudest, and Radiohead’s “Creep” settled in for its say, too. But no new melody twined between them, pushing those back.

I’d felt like this since I gave up the substances—though, honestly, I hadn’t produced much that wasn’t crap in the year before I went to rehab. I’d been disconnected from everything. But whatever the reason, I hated my inability to make something. I’d held on to the belief that I would find my muse again, but now, months after I’d admitted myself and a month since my return to life, I just felt…empty.

It was a terrible feeling.

Not that my loneliness was new. Those two songs had taken up residence years before and rarely left for long. And beneath them, Patsy Cline twanged out “Crazy.” I was crazy because I couldn’t get over the most recent society photos from the Sunday Times early edition.

It was one of my only clues into Aya’s life, and I tortured myself with the possibility of seeing her face—and who would be next to her. She’d been linked to multiple men since she’d left Austin, all of whom I wanted to punch in the face.

Much too often these days, Lord Dipshit and Aya were together. I lifted my head and stared at the image spread across my coffee table: Aya wearing a beautiful, peacock blue, embroidered gown, her lovely dark waves tamed into a rich-lady updo reminiscent of my mother’s. And her hand on Lord Dipshit’s arm. I’d glared first at the photo, my shoulders relaxing a fraction when I noted the lack of a ring. But the article was three months old, as was the photo. I was still catching up on British society news—well, information about Aya. I’d flung the paper down after I’d read that “sources close to Lord Aldringham expect an engagement announcement between his eldest daughter and Lord Seymour shortly. The ensuing union would tie together two powerful families in Britain.”

I closed my eyes. Aya marrying a lordly prick to appease her father—I never would have believed it.

That’s what she’d become. I thought I knew her better than that. I’d been so sure she’d see through the social climbing and...what?

Come back to me?

That had always been my fantasy. But it wasn’t as if I’d made any move to tell her I still wanted her—no, craved her. I craved Aya Aldringham with more of a hunger than I’d ever had for the pills or powders I doused myself in.

Not that it mattered.

“I’m heading out, son,” Steve called.

He rounded the corner and spread his arms. “How do I look?”

His hair had grown out, meaning he needed product to tame the wavy mass. His eyes were sharp and hard under his thick, brown brows. His cheeks were sleek and cleanshaven, and his dark blue button-down was tucked into a nice pair of khakis—with a belt. He wore shit kickers, which kept me from completely hating on his outfit.

I rose from the couch and swiped at the newspaper.

“You look good. Shirt’s a good color.”

The fuck I knew about fashion, but I did like the shirt. Steve filled it out well, and he was in better shape than me. He called it fifties fit, whatever that meant. He was mean about workouts when I didn’t fall into line with his daily torture, so I did my damnedest to stay on his good side.

“Enjoy your night,” I said.

I heard his boots cross the hardwood as he moved into the kitchen ahead of me.

He stopped at the back door and cursed. “Are you expecting someone? Do I need to stick around? You could have told me. I got a hot date, and Sherry is not going to like me standing her up.”

I stretched, trying to work the kinks out of my shoulders. “Nope. I’m not expecting anyone. You know that, seeing as only you and the Graces even know I’m back in town.”

That probably wasn’t accurate. The media must know I was home by now, and the paps all wanted their shots of Nash Porter, post-rehab.

I wasn’t in the mood for company. Already Steve was on my nerves just by being excited about a date. The uncaring asshole. He knew I was in a mopey stage.

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