Page 57 of Broken Lines

Sure, I’ve been out of that limelight for ten years. I’ve spent the last decade alone, not talking, descending more and more into my own demons and biases. Until I’m basically the hermit the town across the bay thinks I am.

But still. She’s not just immune to my…charms, I suppose you could call them.

She’s repulsed by them.

But maybe that’s a good thing.

I frown. No, scratch that. That’sabsolutelya good thing.

I shake my head as I sit up in the bed. Being that I slept in my own room last night instead of the living room, it’s pitch black, as I’ve got the blackout shades down. I flick on the bedside light, wincing at the brightness as I glance at an empty bottle on the nightstand next to me.

Right. The shit scotch. Which I drank all of.

My gaze slips to the ripped-out pages of notebooks strewn across the bed and the floor. Right…right, there was that. I left Melody downstairs at, what, nine? Ten? Except I didn’t go to sleep until well after two-thirty in the morning.

Instead, I stayed up drinking and trying to tap into whatever creativity I’ve got left, to writesomething. To find some last drips of whatever I used to have.

Laughable.

This whole goddamn house is littered with torn up pages and filled notebooks and the backs of magazines scrawled with lyrics and chord progressions I’ve shoved into dark corners.

It’s all shit these days. Or maybe it’s not and I just stopped giving a fuck about any of it. Or maybe I can’t even tell what’s shit and what’s not anymore.

I grunt as I slide out of bed and yank on some sweatpants. I dig through my clothes for a t-shirt that doesn’t smell terrible. But…maybe it’s time to do some laundry.

It’s definitely time do some laundry.

Shirtless, sweats hanging off my hips and the hangover nipping at my ass, I hit the button to raise the blackout shades on the windows.

I frown in confusion.

It’s still dark outside.

For a second, I wonder if I’ve actually only slept an hour or two, and for some reason, I’ve woken up before dawn or something. But then I glance at the clock on the far wall and scowl.

First of all, why thefuckam I up at seven o’clock in the goddamn morning, because I haven’t woken up before eleven-forty-five inyears. But second of all, being that I am, why theshitis it still pitch-black outside?

But that second question answers itself when thunder erupts outside, followed by a crack of lightning. Actually, that might very well answer the first question, too.

I groan and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I’m tempted to swig some cold medicine, stuff some earplugs in, and go back to sleep. But…goddamnit, I’m up. And now my body is up too, and demanding caffeine and alcohol. In the reverse of that order.

Grumbling, I yank the door to my bedroom open and plod out into the hallway, then down the stairs to see what the hell I can dig up in the way of coffee and booze. And then I step into the living room and stop cold.

Because the whole place looks…amazing. By which I mean, “clean”.

I can actually see the surface of the coffee table. I can see the hardwood floors and the area carpets. What I can’t see is a single ashtray, or mirror dusted with cocaine, or empty bottle anywhere in the entire goddamn room.

The sheets are off the windows, and the real, actual curtains are drawn back. The books on the shelves are arranged. The half-dead plants in the corner look…well, still half dead. But the soil at their base looks wet like someone actually watered them for once.

The framed pictures on the wall are straight. The couch cushions are arranged. The blanket she slept in is folded neatly and draped over the back of it. Even her stuff that she dried last night is folded in a neat little stack on a chair, next to her backpack and her boots.

I step back, arching a brow as my gaze slowly travels across the room.

This doesn’t look like my hovel of a living room. It looks like a photo shoot from Architectural Digest. It looks like Elle Decor was in here Elle Decoring my shit up.

I want to hate it.

Ireallyreally want to hate it that she—Melody, obviously—cleaned up my goddamn living room. I want to hate that she mettled in my shit and got rid of…who even knows what hidden genius balled up in the pieces of paper across the floor that are no longer there.

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