I smelled like shit. That was definitely vomit on the front of my shirt. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and had to laugh. I was a long cry from being the sexed up bad boy singer everyone was used to seeing.
I looked like crap. Like a heroine addict before they overdosed in an alleyway. My cheeks were sunken and I had dark circles under my eyes. Despite feeling like asshole warmed over, I had enough residual vanity to make myself strip my clothes and jump in the shower.
Being clean helped to clear my head. I was hung-over as hell and I knew I needed to get something to eat. But the thought of leaving my apartment and going out there, out where people would know me and want to talk to me, seemed like a really bad idea.
The last thing I needed in my general state of suckitude, was to try and make conversation with anyone.
My phone started ringing again.
Obviously the person on the other end didn’t understand that I was super busy wallowing in pathetic self-pity.
I picked up the source of my annoyance and went to hit ignore when I saw who it was.
Jose Suarez.
Figuring ignoring my manager wouldn’t be in my best interest right now; I put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been calling you since yesterday!” Jose demanded.
“Man, lower your voice!” I croaked, rubbing my temples. I needed some ibuprophen stat!
“I don’t give a shit if you’ve been run over by a damn bus, you answer the phone when I call you!” he ordered and I flipped him off, though he couldn’t see me.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay, what’s the emergency?” I yawned and even that simple movement made me feel like I was going to throw up again. I was a fucking mess.
“Are you screwing with me? What’s the emergency? Well except for the fact that your career is in the shitter, nothing really,” Jose bit out sarcastically.
Oh, yeah. There was that.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like it sounded,” I apologized.
“I’m getting the impression that not a lot of shit sorting is going on down in east bumblefuck, or wherever it is that you fuckers live,” Jose snarled.
I really needed some ibuprophen. And I needed to stop tasting my stomach lining in the back of my throat.
“Have you spoken to the other guys?” he asked and I shook my head. Oh right, he couldn’t see me.
“Nope.” My mouth popped around the word for emphasis.
“You planning to talk to them?” he asked snidely.
“I guess,” I said petulantly.
“You guess. Huh. Well that doesn’t sound much like someone who’s invested in saving his band,” Jose pointed out. He didn’t sound angry about it. Just thoughtful. And thoughtful Jose was kind of scary.
“I don’t know if it’s worth saving anymore. If they think it’s okay to walk off stage and leave me like that, I’m not sure I want to play music with them anymore.” And there I had said it. It was the thing that had been swirling around in my head since the entire concert fiasco.
I was bitter. I was really freaking bitter. And my feelings were hurt. I could admit that what my friends had done had cut me deep.
And maybe I was making decisions based on emotions, but I couldn’t think past it. I wasn’t sure we would ever be able to get to a place where we would be able to move passed our hurt pride.
There was a lot of ugliness between the four of us right now.
“I hear ya. I really do. So maybe now is a good time to talk about some news I have for you,” Jose said and I figured I needed to be sitting down for whatever he had to tell me.
“News?” I asked, rooting around in my medicine cabinet for pain reliever. The throbbing in my head had started to get worse. My brains were starting to liquefy.
“Yeah, so I was talking to my man, Roberto, who works over at Deep Hill Records,” he began and my ears perked up.