I hate you, Lex.
The thought is like bitter sludge creeping through my veins, infecting me worse than any wicked hit of the brown.
I don’t hate him. I never could. That’s why he died. Because I couldn’t fucking tell him no. I couldn’t fucking get him to see he was slowly killing himself.
And now, without him, I’m the one dying.
Music thumps, buzzing through me, reminding me I’m not alone in my massive house. There are hundreds of goddamn people milling about. Berlin Scandal is the hottest alternative band this country has seen since the 90s when Nirvana ruled the charts. Our grungy style is considered “a homage to the past.” We’ve opened for big acts like Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, and Foo Fighters, who are still killing it despite doing this shit for decades. Where they’re holding onto their old fan base who are my parents’ age, Berlin Scandal is raking in all the Harry Styles and teeny bopper kids fanatical over our dark vibe.
We’re different, but familiar.
Sellable as fuck.
Thanks to Harose Records.
Irritation churns in my gut. Ren Hayes wooed the hell out of us. Showed up at nearly every gig, praising and fucking worshiping us. Owen, our lead guitarist, begged me, Seth, and Riley into signing with Harose. We were all still raw over Lex and caved.
Money.
We’re fucking rolling in it, and have been since we scribbled our names on the dotted lines. We’ve toured twenty-six states in a matter of months. Our debut album, Hurt Me, has gone platinum three times as millions of people across the globe obsess over our music.
This is everything we ever dreamed of.
What we wanted from the get-go.
We’re rich, popular, and get our dicks sucked sometimes three times a night.
Everyone is happy…except me.
Owen can push the death of his brother two years ago into a hole and stomp on the lid to keep it shut, but I’m not wired that way. With each song I write and lyric I belt into the microphone, I relive the hurt of the night he left me. The pain is barbed wire wrapped around my heart, piercing into the broken organ and bleeding it dry. Each day is worse than the last. I’d do anything to numb the constant ache inside me, even if it means creating pain on the outside.
I grab my pack of smokes before yanking one out and pressing it between my lips. I flip open my Zippo—one Lex gave me—and study the flame as my cigarette dangles from my lips. Hot. Orange. Bright. His old party trick was to hold the flame to his flesh as long as he could and prove what a badass he was. Lighting my cigarette, I suck in the soothing, tainted air, then hold out my palm to tease the flame of the Zippo beneath my pink flesh. Searing hot pain erupts over my palm, sending warning signals racing up my nerve endings.
I don’t flee.
I don’t stop.
I watch it burn.
When hot tears sting my eyes, I blink them back and snap the Zippo shut. It still has the stupid Chiquita banana sticker Lex stuck on it. On one edge, it’s bent over and no longer sticky. I rub at it with my thumb to press it back down, but it doesn’t stay.
I smoke the hell out of my cigarette, until it goes out. Stubbing it out on my forearm, I flick the butt and stare at my palm.
My hand fucking hurts, and the skin is bubbled.
Too long.
Sometimes, I leave the flame on too long and fuck myself up more than I intend. But because I’m filthy fucking rich now, I have discreet doctors—both the mental and physical kind—who keep me loaded up on any medicinal shit I might need. With a heavy sigh, I stalk into the bathroom in my room and locate the cream I use for these instances. Slathering it on, I grit my teeth. At least I’m not thinking about the gaping wound inside me. I find some gauze and roll it around my hand before securing it with tape.
Owen’s going to be pissed.
We have a photoshoot in the morning downtown with GQ. Some new-age rock star bullshit magazine spread—something the label is forcing us to do.
Every time I think about Harose, it makes me think of Ronan Hayes. I like Ren just as much as the rest of our band and signed the stupid contract, but I have serious beef with his brother, Ronan.
Unease trickles through me. I won’t admit why I have issues with him, not even to myself. He just pushes his fist inside my heart and stirs up shit that’s best kept hidden. It makes me hate him with every ounce of my being. Like the spoiled fucking brat I am, it makes me want to taunt him—ruin him like his very existence ruins me.