And so, in the end, he didn’t answer Jared’s question. He didn’t say anything at all, in fact, except for a mumbled “Sorry.” And then he was out the door before he lost it completely.
He walked in a quick, straight line away from the studio, beating a hasty retreat until he’d put some distance between himself and the back of the main house. When he got to the beginning of the large copse of trees that shielded the back acre of Quinn’s property from the dwellings—and the dwellings from curious fans who’d managed to sneak or talk their way onto the island—he leaned against the closest tree and reached for his cigarettes. He needed something—anything—to concentrate on besides the craving crawling through his veins like poison. Or salvation.
He found Poppy’s lollipop instead and that—that was what finally made him lose it. That was what finally put a crack in the composure he’d been trying so fucking hard to hold on to.
He hurled the damn candy away from him as hard as he could, watched as it slammed into a tree about a hundred feet away before falling harmlessly to the forest floor.
It wasn’t enough, wasn’t close to being enough. He whirled around, started to pound his fist into the nearest tree. Only the thought of the damage it would do to his hands—to his ability to play music—had him pulling his punch at the last minute.
But then he remembered that it didn’t matter, that he wasn’t Shaken Dirty’s drummer anymore. And he slammed his fist straight into the tree’s trunk.
Pain reverberated though his hand and up his arm as his knuckles split open under the force of the impact. He didn’t give a shit. In fact he relished the pain because it took the place of the cravings—and the anguish that was slowly ripping him apart. Desperate for the emotional numbness, he pulled his arm back, prepared to hit the tree again.
Except this time, he didn’t get the chance. Because suddenly Poppy was there, her cool hands wrapping around his arm. Staying the punch. Freezing him in place.
“Stop!” she told him, her voice low, firm, and more compassionate than he deserved. “You’ll destroy your hands if you keep that up.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said with a shrug, pulling his arm from her grasp and turning away.
“It does matter,” she answered. “It will always matter. You’re a drummer—”
“I was a drummer. Now I’m—” He broke off, not knowing what to say or how to even complete the sentence. Being a drummer was everything to him. It was his whole identity, his whole life, and if he wasn’t one anymore, then he didn’t know what the fuck he was.
Except an addict. He’d always be one of those, wouldn’t he?
He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend it wasn’t true. But it was. He knew it was. Just like he knew if he could get his hands on a gram of smack right now, he’d do it all. Smoke it, shoot it, fuck, at this point he’d snort the shit up his fucking nose. Anything to get away from himself for a while—to get out of the skin that hadn’t fit right for as long as he could remember.
He closed his eyes at the thought, flexed his hand, tried to concentrate on the pain. On the cravings. On anything, on everything, but the past he couldn’t take back. The mistakes he couldn’t get away from unless he was so far gone on drugs and booze that he barely knew his own name.
It didn’t work.
Then again, no fucking surprise there. He’d been trying to perfect that trick since he was a kid and it had never fucking worked. Would never work. He was stuck in his own head until all the bullshit he couldn’t leave behind finally destroyed him once and for all.
He pulled back his arm, determined to hit the tree again and again—to break himself against it until there was nothing else to concentrate on but the pain. But in the end, he couldn’t do it, not in front of Poppy. Not when she was standing right in front of him, her face pale and her big, brown eyes wide and worried.
He couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand the way she was looking at him, like she was afraid he was going to fall to pieces at any moment. Couldn’t stand the idea of losing it in front of her and looking totally pathetic. And he definitely, definitely couldn’t stand her pity—or the fear he saw lurking deep in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, finally breaking the long moments of silence that stretched out between them. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”
“You didn’t,” she answered.
As one they looked down at his bruised and swollen knuckles. “Yeah. Right.”
She took his hand then, rubbed her thumb gently over the back of it. “It’s okay,” she soothed. Her voice was soft—gentle—and he could tell she was trying her best not to spook him. Almost like he was the deer and she the hunter.
Because he didn’t like that analogy—or the kernel of truth to be found in it—he reached forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her toward him.