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CHAPTER 1
LANGSTON
The shot of…whatever the fuck I’m drinking burns as it slides down my throat. My body should be numb by now which tells me that I’m either drinking some bottom of the barrel shit or it’s taking more for me to get to where I need to be. That’s not good.
Fuck, it hasn’t been good for a long fucking time now. I know it. My brain knows it, but every other part of me is screaming to take the pain away and to help me forget where the scars on my soul come from.
But can I ever really forget?
I look up at the gorgeous as fuck bartender on the other side of the bar in the seedy dive I’ve found myself in and lift my lips in a smirk. It’s always gotten me anything I want from a woman. She arches an eyebrow in question, but her eyes don’t light up with the way I’m looking at her. Odd. My eyes travel over her body and my dick definitely takes notice for a second.
I should give into the feeling. Drinking and fucking is about all I’m good for now. I used to be able to add music to the list, but that’s not true anymore. Fucking hell, I can’t imagine music ever being part of my life again.
Not now.
“I can’t serve you another shot,” the bartender pulls me from the spiraling memories of the lost music, the lost life, which cut like razor blades.
“Come on, sugar,” I drawl; or maybe slur slightly. The way she squares her shoulders tells me I’m not going to get another drink out of her. Not anytime soon.
This is why I’ve been hording bottles of liquor in whatever hotel room I’m living out of, in whatever city I’m in, on any given night.
Ever since everything fell apart, I’ve been traveling—drifting more like it—in search of something. I told everyone in my life, especially my old label, that I was looking for another guitarist. I knew it was a lie the moment it left my lips and I’m pretty sure everyone else knew as well.
How could I replace my best friend? How could I even think about it? Not when the wounds left behind are still so fresh. Hell, maybe not ever.
“Gotta cut you off,” there’s not even a hint of remorse in the woman’s voice.
I make a humming sound in the back of my throat and rake my eyes over her body again. “Maybe you can help me out in another way,” I suggest, my voice smooth and filled with charm. At least, I think it is.
Fuck, my dick isn’t even all the way into it, but I’ll do anything to forget. Aren’t you supposed to make bad decisions when you’re at the bottom? Honestly, I never had to be at the bottom to make some bad decisions.
It used to be so fucking easy. Women threw themselves at me. They wanted to be able to brag to their friends that they fucked a rock star. Who was I to deny them what they wanted? It was all part of the life, right?
The life we worked so hard for. The life supported by our music which had us seeing the world, partying all night, and living.
Living.
Fuck.
I’m not even sure that’s what we were doing. Was it fun? Fuck yes, it was fun. I had my best friend at my side, and we were living the dream we had worked so hard for. It was everything we wanted.
Maybe I should have wanted something different. Something deeper. Conley might be alive now if I did.
But he’s not.
“Sorry, rock star,” there’s amusement in the bartender’s voice, “can’t help you there.”
“Gotta tell you, darlin’, I love a challenge.”
She throws her head back and laughs, but it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at me, not entirely at least. The sigh she lets out should probably be a warning, but it barely registers as my vision goes a little hazy. The only reason I don’t acknowledge the second bartender in front of me is because I know there is only one of her.
“If only you were my type,” she tries to soften the blow of her rejection. I think. Maybe.
I snort out a laugh that is not at all attractive, but I’ll do just about anything to stave off the sadness. “What,” my voice is filled with self-deprecation, “a washed-up rock star with no future and no friends isn’t your type?”
Her eyes go soft, and I look away, wishing I could look down into a drink. But I don’t have one. Fucking hell. Trying to shake off the sadness and the memories creeping along the edges of my consciousness is almost impossible.
“I meant a man,” she deadpans, and my head snaps up. With a small smirk, she confirms, “That’s right, honey, I’m not into dicks. Sorry,” she shrugs one shoulder, but I don’t think she’s sorry at all.
