Where am I?
I look around, taking in the small, cramped flat. Clothes are strewn everywhere, and the place reeks of cigarette smoke and booze. I look up and take in the popcorn ceiling, the dark water stain on the corner of the wall. It’s a dump, but I’ve woken up in worse places.
I scrub my face, my head banging like the drums at last night’s concert.
I hear a groan from the other side of the bed.
There’s a naked girl next to me and her face is unrecognizable. All I see is a mass of tangled blonde hair. Thank fuck—I can’t take any more brunettes.
I stand and stretch, my head running through what I got into after the show.
A nightclub on top of some hotel.
Snorting blow off some chick’s ass in the bathroom.
I pull on my jeans and shirt, feeling like death warmed over. I have to get the hell out of here.
“Where you going?” says the girl as she props herself up against the headboard, tits hanging out. My stomach turns and I quickly look down as I push my feet into my Chucks.
“I gotta go.”
“It’s still early. Let’s go for breakfast.” She stands, and I do a double take at how tall she is.
Ah, that at least explains why I chose her.
Tall girls, brunettes, girls with green eyes—they’re all Rose in my head.
I take them, because I can’t have her.
She’s shrugging into a silk robe as I dart to the den.
“Wait!” she calls out. “I need your number. Don’t you want to call me when you come back to New York?”
Fuck no. I cringe at the thought.
There’s a straw cowboy hat sitting on the back of the couch. I snatch it up and twirl it around. “Mind if I take this?”
She murmurs an okay but tells me it’s a girls’ hat.
I don’t give a shit; I just don’t want to be recognized.
“Can I see you again?” She runs her hands down my chest as I push the hat low on my head and inch closer to the door.
I ramble off an excuse, saying I’ll be out of the country on tour for the next few months, and then before she can follow me, I mumble a hasty thank you and head out the door.
Instead of waiting for the elevator, I take the stairs. I don’t even know how high up I am, but I don’t care.
I need the burn.
I take the stairs two at a time until I finally burst through the door and into the New York morning. I inhale deeply, finally able to breathe. The streets are mostly quiet because it’s Sunday, and I check the street signs, popping out my phone to see where I am: Bedford Street in the Greenwich Village area.
My half-awake brain figures out I’m near NYU. I pause. Rose is nearby . . . just a few blocks away. I know because she’s living in one of Father’s properties, and I know that because . . . well, I know everything about Rose. Father keeps me updated and I have my own people who check in on her periodically.
I’m not even aware of what my feet are doing . . . not until I’m standing outside her building near Washington Square Park.
I dart inside a Starbucks across the street to get something to drink, and an hour later, I’m sitting on a barstool facing her place when she comes out.
She is . . . everything.
Her face is a piece of art. Her movements like a sweet song.
She cranes her neck and looks down the street as if she’s expecting someone. My eyes dart wildly around . . . and then I see him walking in her direction. He’s waving at her, a wide smile on his handsome face.
Trenton.
I close my eyes so I don’t see them together . . . even though it should come as no surprise. After all, I put her here with him. I created this fucking mess.
I can’t help but open my eyes and watch them.
I need to see it. I need to see if she’s moved on from me.
He reaches her, sweeps her up in his arms, and kisses her soundly.
She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him.
As for me . . . I die.
I fucking die.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
God.
I hate myself. I hate this life I have without her. I fucking hate everything.
I can’t go on without her. Not anymore. I’ve tried for the past two years. I’ve pretended I’m okay . . . but I can’t do it any longer.
I want to yank her out of Trenton’s arms and make her love me again.
And my heart . . . it knows what I have to do to make that happen.
I have to get clean.
TWO YEARS LATER
Rose
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SEX-AY!” OSCAR SAYS, raising his glass in a toast as we sit inside Bono’s, my favorite Italian bistro and one of the hippest places in Manhattan. I also work here part-time for extra money while I attend graduate school.
I raise my shot glass at him and slam back the tequila. The room spins just a hair as I set the glass back down on the table.
I’m in the mood to celebrate.
It’s September, and both of us graduated from NYU this past May. Oscar, who ended up getting that scholarship he wanted, graduated with a design degree and managed to land a coveted job at Barneys as a sales clerk, with aspirations of being a manager someday. As for me, I’m currently enrolled in the NYU graduate program, working toward my doctorate in psychology.
“If only Trenton didn’t have to work,” Oscar murmurs with a little pout as he straightens his dark hipster-style glasses. “But, no worries. I’ll be your boyfriend tonight and will make sure you get home sober.” He pushes another shot of tequila toward me, and I give him a baleful eye.
“You know what tequila does to me,” I say as I inch it back to him. “I either want to fight or take off my clothes, and I don’t think I’ll be doing either tonight.”
“Fight, fight, fight,” he says, beating his hands on the table.
I laugh as I check my phone to see if Trenton’s called or texted since this morning when we met for coffee. He hasn’t, and it makes me frustrated. He’s been working late almost every night this week.
I sigh, reminding myself how important his new job is to him. He’s a portfolio manager at a small boutique firm; thankfully, his dad knew the partners from college.
“What’s Mr. Businessman doing tonight?” Marge asks as she tosses back another martini. With her curly red hair and dimpled smile, she’s been a good friend to me since I moved to New York four years ago to attend NYU. We still giggle about the night she got me in the bar to see the Vital Rejects.
Yes, Anne—with Robert’s encouragement—agreed to send me to NYU. They have been supportive over the past four years, even allowing Oscar and I to live in one of his buildings.
Since the night of the blow up with Spider, my relationship with Anne shifted. I don’t tolerate her manipulations, and she knows it. She seems to have come a long way, and I appreciate her. She’s always just wanted the best for me; we just didn’t agree on what that was.
Marge waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Are you with us?”