Page 125 of The Comedown

And scalp.

And inner thighs.

And probably a pussy lip or two.

What-the-fuck-ever. I tried my best.

But now I’m stuck on my own bus, on the way to the studio, trying not to get my ass chewed out by some executive or another currently blowing up my phone.

Slade’s been trying to fend them off by answering ’em all, but they’re out for blood right now. Even from my spot at the table, I can still hear angry voices coming through the line as my agent paces the aisle, pushing randoms out of his way.

My label’s always pissed at me, but me adding in the piano duet with Collette really set them off. Probably doesn’t help that even after the first wrist slap they gave me for it, I haven’t stopped. I just save it for the finale now so I can drag Collette backstage to fuck her brains out immediately after without making the fans wait on us again. How’s that for being professional.

My refusal to apologize to anybody for any of it is definitely making things worse, but I don’t give a fuck. Being with Collette is the only time I actually feel like myself and performing with her while singing original lyrics that I don’t hate with every fiber of my being reminds me what it felt like before. Before I signed my creative license away to a money-hungry fucktrocity of a record label, before my grandma died, before I gave up on everything, even myself.

No fucking way am I apologizing for that. They can grab a spoon and eat the pile of shit they took in the middle of my career path.

The only reason why they haven’t kicked my ass to the curb yet is because of the sudden increase in both album and ticket sales thanks to The Family Julez Tour trending all week.

I didn’t shove my tongue down Collette’s throat onstage for the pictures to go viral, I did it because I couldn’t not kiss her anymore—Jesus fuck, I held back as long as I could—but just like she predicted, everyone latched on to the drama, the intrigue, the fucking shock factor of The Collette locking lips with bad-boy rapper, Julez, after not being public with anyone for years.

As much as I love everybody knowing I’m the only one capable of kissing The Collette like that, it all just feels wrong—the attention.

My marker falls to the table, and I slouch down in my seat until the back of my head hits the headrest.

If my art was actually my art, maybe I’d be getting recognition for the hard work I put into it instead of the tongue-fucking I gave the hottest popstar on the planet.

Still speaking into the phone, Slade hands me a lit joint and gives me a knowing head nod. I take it but don’t put it to my lips right away. I just stare at the tip, watching the enticing white tendrils streaming out of it.

I don’t rush to get high as much anymore. I still get baked, there just isn’t as much of a need to all the time, not like there was.

“Yo, you gonna pass that shit or what?” some dude on the opposite side of the table asks, gesturing to my hand, and I frown because I don’t remember him or who the fuck he’s here with.

At any given time, my bus has no less than thirty people on it, which I used to be grateful for because it’d provide exactly what I need to shut everything else off. Its relief was easy to grasp, reliable to find, and instantaneous to lose myself to.

Except today, when I climbed on board again, the sight didn’t give me the reassurance it usually does. After I couldn’t even find a seat for myself, I almost walked right back off.

I used to thrive off this shit, constantly being surrounded by others, drowning out my own thoughts with the noise, the chaos, but now it’s just stifling, suffocating. I want off. I want out.

Over on Collette’s bus, it’s different. It’s quieter with more space to sit, to think. More room to grow.

But I can’t go over there right now. I’m banished for the day. And maybe the night, I’m not sure, she didn’t specify. Collette not only lets me fill her pussy now but also her bed. Well, the one above hers, which is close enough. Close enough to miss now that it’s taken away from me.

Probably. It’s probably been taken away from me. Hopefully I can finagle my way back in there tonight. I can’t stay here.

A bottle of tequila is placed in front of me next, and just like that, everything’s on the verge of being blurred to total numbness again.

I take the alcohol in my other hand, double-fisting my two oldest friends. It’s ironic how the very things I’d use to make it all disappear—the people, the noise, the parties, the distraction—are now what I wish would vanish. Or maybe it’s not them I want to disappear. Maybe it’s just me.

Maybe it’s always been me.

Collette doesn’t make me feel like disappearing though. Her, her music, her bus, her son. She’s like a witch, casting a spell over me with her many enchantments, except she doesn’t even know it. She doesn’t know anything. Not how deep she’s hooked me. Not what it does to me to be exiled back to my own personal hell.

It’s not her fault. How could she know? I never talk about my bus with her. I never even talk about my life with her. I want Collette and the way she makes me feel separate from the bleakness of the rest of my existence.

“Time to get this party started,” Slade announces once he’s finally off the phone, but I barely glance his way. Instead, I fit the joint to my lips, inhaling deeply while studying the words I just wrote.

I could show her. I could make Collette understand.