Pulling his arm back, he threw the kit into the Dumpster as hard as he could, listening as it banged against the side wall before falling into the heaps of trash. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out the heroin. Got ready to do the same with it.
But fuck that. Just fuck it. He wasn’t afraid of three grams of powder, wasn’t afraid of this goddamn motherfucking drug. Not anymore. He was done with it. Done. With. It. And he wasn’t going to run from it this time, like a scared little boy who couldn’t take the pressure.
He shoved the baggie back in his pocket, then turned away and headed for his car. He’d spent the last few years running from this drug, so afraid of his weakness that he couldn’t even think about it while he was sober, let alone be anywhere around it.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was a rock star, and this shit was everywhere in his world. It was fucking everywhere. He could get it anytime he wanted with a flick of his hand or a quick, whispered request. Hell, half of the time fans just shoved it into his hands in an effort to get in with the band for a night. And he’d never resisted, because he couldn’t. Because if it was there, he was going to smoke it or snort it or inject it.
Not this time. Not anymore.
Being afraid of heroin, hiding from it, running from it, hadn’t done the trick. So fuck that shit. He was carrying this bag with him from now on. Right there in his fucking pocket as a symbol that he was strong enough.
That he didn’t need to be afraid of it and that he didn’t need it.
That he wasn’t going to fall back down into that abyss. Not now and not later, when he was on the road. He didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know how many other ways he’d find to fuck up—a lot, probably. But not this way. Not again. He might have a hard fucking head and a past that nightmares were made of, but he’d learned his lesson.
He. Was. Done.
Crossing the parking lot toward his car, he felt lighter than he’d ever been. Felt like he actually had a chance for the first time since he’d tried heroin in the back of that shitty club at seventeen. It wasn’t enough to drown out the shit in the back of his head, wasn’t enough to dampen the self-loathing that rode him with every breath. But it was enough to keep the heroin in his pocket instead of his veins, and for now, that was all he could ask for.
Chapter Eighteen
“So, Shane, I think that’s pretty much all the questions we had for you,” Jared said, shoving a hand through his hair and glancing surreptitiously at his phone.
Poppy knew the feeling—she’d been doing the same thing for the last hour and a half, trying to figure out where the hell Wyatt was. After he’d left her apartment that morning, he’d texted her that he was going home to change and then heading over here, since they were interviewing three bassists today. She’d been planning on snapchatting a bunch of it—something she couldn’t do if Wyatt was missing. The last thing she wanted was to broadcast any problems he had to the world—and her father, especially.
And what was most concerning was that he’d missed the whole day. Shane was the third interviewee—and the first one any of them had actually thought had a chance. He’d been the bassist for a couple of up-and-coming groups she’d had her eye on through the years, but for whatever reason, the bands had always fallen apart before hitting the big time. Which, she admitted, made her a little leery of him—one seemingly solid band falling apart could happen to anybody. Two in less than three years? That was really bad luck—or something else. Still, he was a damned good bassist. Definitely good enough to at least do a quick audition set with the band.
Which they would totally be doing, right now, if Wyatt wasn’t in the fucking wind, once again refusing to answer any calls or texts.
Part of her thought she should head over to his place and make sure he was okay after what she’d put him through that morning. But she couldn’t justify it. Not when she didn’t think he was using. Yeah, it was her job to try to keep him clean, but that didn’t mean she had the right to invade his privacy if all he wanted was some alone time after everything he’d told her. He’d come to her last night when he could have been drinking, had promised her this morning that he wasn’t going to use. That had to count for something.
Besides, she had to trust him some time. Trust really wasn’t her strong suit, but after this morning, she wanted to try with him. Needed to try. They all did, or they’d end up right back in the mess they were in three months ago.