Page 76 of Anthem of Love and Loathing

Which I love.

It’s not going to get me you though, is it?

Is he still flirting? Or is he serious? He says we’re playing, but also says he would be serious if I told him that’s what I want.

I’m leaving in a couple of months. You’re the bassist for L.A. Riot. This flirtation is all we can have.

Cruel. It won’t stop me from trying to change your mind.

I can’t help my stupid smile or the warmth in my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything but pain.

See you in the morning.

Sweet dreams, Scary Girl.

Crawling between the luxurious sheets that feel like a caress on my body, I turn on Supernatural reruns and continue my horror binge while I enjoy my salty-sweet contraband.

I’m suffocating. The weight on my chest is too heavy. I can hardly draw in a proper breath. One of his hands covers my mouth when I try to scream. His other hand pries my legs apart. “Next time you go to the cops I’m going to kill you.”

I bolt upright, sending tiny pieces of foil flying. My heart is beating as fast as a Hummingbird’s wings in its attempt to escape my chest. His face is as vivid in my mind as it would be if he were right in front of me. I bring my knees to my chest and wind both arms tightly around them blinking several times to make sure that he isn’t truly in front of me.

Marco.

I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart when...

Crash!

I jump out of my skin. Coping strategies disappear from my mind as my bedroom door flies open, and I choke on a scream.

“Little Vandal.” Riot announces loudly, leaning in the doorway at an angle where he should not be able to keep upright. His eyes are red and unfocused. He squints as he looks around the room eyes settling on me. “There is you.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I crawl up to the headboard when he stumbles to the foot of the bed. There’s blood on his hand. “What did you do to yourself?”

“Ran into itchen.” He screws his face up. “Itching? Kurt…”

“You’re drunk.” He must have had a lot to be slurring this bad.

“Says.” He sits on the bed next to me. His eyes are glazed, his pupils pinpoint.

Or it’s not just alcohol. Obviously, it will be weed too.

“Stoned?”

“Funky knobs lily.” He flops heavily onto his back.

Bronx warned me his partying had gotten worse. And I’ve seen some of it firsthand. The powder on his nose. The little baggies of pills. “High?”

“Mm hmm. Truth Candy?” He reaches up and rubs a strand of my hair between his thumb and forefinger. “That video... sexy. His name... not your lips.”

“What?”

“You is me?” He continues to play with my hair while he presses the fingers of his other hand against the bridge of his nose. “Miss me. You left me.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it?” My vision blurs. There’s a heaviness inside me that I can’t stand. He’s the one who cheated on me. How dare he come in here in the state he’s in and—

“Meant to be…” he says on air that doesn’t seem to be there. His fingers still in my hair. “Us.”

“What are you trying to say?” Is he trying to say that he missed me? It’s too little too late. Are his fingernails turning purple? “Riot?”