Page 138 of Finding Storm

But I don’t.

So, this is the way it has to be.

And I fucking hate it.

It’s been four days since I got back to LA.

Four days without Stevie.

And I’m climbing out of my fucking skin.

So many times, I’ve picked my cell up to call her, just needing to hear her voice.

My fingers fucking itch to text her.

But I can’t.

What the fuck would I say?

I miss you. I need you.

I know you can’t come to LA, and you won’t do long-distance. I understand all of this. But … I just fucking miss you. I’m desperate for you, and I need a fix.

Four days, and I still feel as empty as the day I left her there in bed and got in my car and drove home.

Only … LA doesn’t feel like home anymore.

It just feels lonely and empty.

I’m surrounded by people.

And all I want is her.

I just wonder if she’s missing me like I am her.

I’m driving home after another day in the studio. Me and the guys have been working on what I already wrote because I’ve got nothing else.

The words have dried up. I can’t find a goddamn thing to write about.

When I was with Stevie, the words flowed easily.

Without her, I’ve got nothing.

Usually, after a day in the studio, me and the boys would go grab a drink after to wind down and relax.

They’ve been going without me. I keep making up bullshit excuses as to why I can’t go.

But the truth is, I don’t feel up to socializing. I’m too stuck in my own head. I’m not really feeling very fucking rock ’n’ roll these days.

I pull my car into my space in the building’s lot and turn off the engine. I open the door, and I’m just getting out when something down the side of the seat catches my eye.

Something white.

I reach my hand down, and my fingers grab hold of what feels like fabric. I pull it out and stare at it.

Stevie’s panties.

The ones I ripped off her.