"Awesome," I repeated half-heartedly. And creepy. But I had a few problems bigger than an abandoned building miles away. Brandon threw the keys on a side table as we entered the massive room. The whole space was decorated in sturdy, masculine furniture, befitting a luxury ski lodge, arranged in small groupings to make it feel more intimate.
"I had a feng shui decorating expert out here to make sure the flow of energy was balanced and shit." I stared at him blankly before glancing around briefly.
"Is that what I've been missing? Balanced energy?"
Brandon shrugged. "Could be, dude."
I managed a soft laugh, dropping my bag and walking toward the window where I could stare at the view. From up here it was an entirely different experience. The beautiful vastness of deep woods all around, the cloud-capped mountains far beyond, the way dew sparkled on leaves under slants of late-afternoon sunlight. I silently stared for several minutes.
"So you're really going to leave me here, huh?" I asked without turning, my voice sounding more desolate than I'd intended. Nothing except air, forest, stone, and sky. Oh, and an abandoned mental institution. Couldn't forget about that. Well, and myself—the one thing I could never escape, although I was damned good at trying. Out here though . . .
Brandon paused. "Yeah, I really am. And you're going to be good—better than ever. You know it's—"
"Yeah, I know." My mind supplied what Brandon hadn't. A second chance, a final chance, the opportunity to forge a comeback . . . high time to get my shit together. I continued to stare out the window. The beautiful simplicity of the landscape felt like a mockery of the dirty, roiling complexity inside me. Or maybe it wasn't complex at all. Maybe it was the simplest thing in the world: I was a goddamned fuck-up. I'd gone so far up my own ass that I couldn't find my way out again. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I turned back to Brandon who was looking at me with concern.
I ran a hand through my hair. I needed a shower. Cringing, I asked, "Will you tell me what happened last night?"
Brandon paused. "You don't remember any of it?"
"Bits and pieces." I sagged down onto the nearest chair, massaging my temples. I still felt the remnants of the massive headache I'd woken up with thanks to the copious amount of alcohol I'd consumed the night before. And the fact that I needed a fix. "I remember Paul tossing me out." My agent, his face filled with red-hot rage as he very literally kicked me out of his house. Sprawled in the dirt, groaning, gritty saliva dripping down my chin as Brandon dragged me up.
"You fucked Sabrina in the downstairs bathroom, man. The whole party heard it."
Sabrina. Paul's beautiful, blonde trophy wife.
Nausea rolled through me. Oh shit. Fuck. I fell back on the chair, trying to grab on to the pieces of memory that flitted through my brain. Sabrina had followed me to the bathroom and propositioned me and I'd . . . Jesus, I'd taken her up on it? I had no recollection of agreeing, just the vague vision of pounding into someone against the sink as she scratched at my back and made loud mewling sounds. Before I even realized what I was doing, I reached around to my back and when I pressed lightly, I could feel the sting of the wounds she must have inflicted with her long fingernails—the proof of my disgusting actions. Vomit threatened and I swallowed it down, running my sweaty palms over my thighs. "Fuck," I murmured. "Fuck, fuck."
"Yeah, well I guess that about sums it up," Brandon agreed. "On several levels." His expression was filled with pity, and I looked away. There were a few beats of silence. "You can't keep going like this, bro. This isn't you. You can't keep living this way. You have to be the one to make the choice, though. Your life can be good again, man."
I nodded, even though I had no idea how it possibly could be. "Yeah, I know," I lied. "This is good. Man, I appreciate it." And I did. If it wasn't this, it would be celebrity rehab somewhere where paparazzi were hiding in the trees trying to get a picture of me sobbing in group therapy or some such shit. Instead, Brandon had picked me up off the ground—quite literally—and taken me home. Then in the morning, he'd shown up with coffee and Tylenol and offered me this place. As long as I promised to use it to get myself back on track. And I wanted to, I really did. I was so fucking weary of my life, of the endless parties and drinking, the desperate suck-ups, the meaningless sex, and the overly bright mornings that always arrived with shame, sickness, and depression. And so I'd packed a bag and taken him up on his offer. I knew I should look at it solely as a gift, but in reality, hiding seemed a lot more appealing than facing my numerous fuck-ups. So here I was.