“If you don’t like it anymore, there’s the fucking door.”
I stare at my best friend, the room spinning as I tilt the bottle to my lips, drinking until the last of the Jack is gone. The burn is better than the response I’m afraid I’ll give.
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Hawke,” I say through gritted teeth. His chuckle is condescending as fuck. On the other side of the studio, his ass is resting against the front of the soundboard, his arms are crossed, and the shake of his head only serves to piss me off further.
Hawkin Play. Lead singer for our band, Bent. My brother from another mother. The person who knows all my secrets. All-around good guy. And apparently, by the threat he just gave, a newly minted ball-buster.
Fuck that.
I toss the empty bottle into the trash across from me, and the sound of glass hitting the metal ricochets around the room.
“Don’t tell you what to do?” He emits that patronizing, bullshit chuckle of his again that grates on my every nerve. “I don’t have to tell you shit, brother, because it seems you’re content on doing the damage all your fucking self.”
Here we go again.
“Let me guess. Rocket and Gizmo set you up to do this,” I say of our other bandmates. Of our friends. The family I made for myself. The men who hightailed it out of here after our session most likely so Hawkin could read me the damn riot act. “What? Did you have a fucking kumbaya session over how to wrangle Vince and protect Bent’s precious goddamn image?”
“Image?” Hawke shouts, throwing his arms out to the sides. “We’re rock stars. The drinking and drugs are expected. Par for the fucking course. What’s not the norm is being so goddamn high you all but fuck Rocket’s girl.” He looks at me with wide eyes that sure as hell probably match mine. “Jesus Christ. You don’t even remember that, do you?”
“Didn’t we fight about this last week?” I say drolly, trying to rack my brain if what he’s saying is true.
But he’s right. I can’t remember.
I didn’t do that, did I?
“Yep, and we’re going to talk about it again. Shit, Vin, you almost missed our performance on Saturday Night Live because you were off doing who the fuck knows what.”
“I know what I was doing and damn, she was incredible.” It’s a lie. I was high as fuck and lost track of time. But at this point it seems like the lie will fare better for me than the truth.
“Class act. Way to go.”
“Fuck off.”
“You probably wish I would, huh? Then you could circle the drain all by yourself and prove your dad right.”
“Do not mention him again,” I warn.
He sees me. He hears me. But he clearly doesn’t fucking care about the warning because that chuckle is back and so is the disappointed shake of his head.
What he doesn’t know is that I’ve disappointed everyone my whole life, so why start changing that shit now?
“You made us a promise, Vin. You made me one. From the get-go, we agreed that we come first—the band and its best interest does.”
“Your point?”
“That sure as shit doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.”
“Well maybe it’s time for a fucking change, then, huh?”
“Not on my watch.”
“Oh, Jesus. Are you listening to the egotistical bullshit you’re spewing? Not on my watch,” I mimic.
Fuck. I need another drink but turn around to find my second fifth that I put on the table is empty already. Did I do that? Did Hawke pour it out?
“You’re still nothing, Vinnie. Always have been. Always will be. You couldn’t hack it on your own even if you tried, because you sure as hell aren’t good enough with your mediocre talent and lack of drive.”
“Management isn’t happy,” he says softly.
“Screw them. They’re never fucking happy with us, and yet it’s us who’re lining their pockets, so I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think.”
“You’re fucking up, man.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Onstage. In the studio. In public. In private. Not many more places you can.”
“I’m sure I’ll figure out how to.” Sarcasm drips from my words as my best friend stares at me with a disdain I don’t understand.
“I’m worried about you.”
My throat feels like it’s closing up. I shake my head, rejecting Hawke’s words. Not being worth enough to be cared about. “Like you give a flying fuck about me.” Drown him out. Shut him up. “All you care about is your own pristine image. But I know, Hawke. I know about your fucked-up brother and the shit he did. The shit you hid and protected him from. I know you’re nowhere near as perfect as the public thinks you are,” I say, trying to throw the whole kitchen sink in.
Wanting the argument.
Needing the argument.
“You’re right. I’m far from perfect. But just like you helped me then and every other time, I want to help you now.”
“Fuck you and your placating tone. I don’t need shit from you.” I shove a hand through my hair and pace the small space. Back and forth, hands fisting as the anger burns a pit in my stomach. “God, I need a fucking drink.”
“Cuz that’s just what you need.”
“You’re right. A bottle would be better than one drink if I have to listen to more of this.” I turn and look at him. “Since when did you put that stick up your ass? Huh? What are you? The fun police now?”
“Yep. Sure am. And I started being it when you decided to slowly start killing yourself.”
“Whatever.”
“Cut the crap, Vin. It’s me here. I just want to help. What’s going on that you’re not telling me about? What are you trying to dull? I’ve known you for too damn long to know that something’s wrong.”
“How did I raise such a pussy, huh? A real man wouldn’t need to hide behind his best friend to make it. A real man would be able to do it himself.”
“Fuck you, Dad. You don’t know—”
“Ah, but I do know.” His laugh is grating. His words a reincarnated repetition of the same shit I’ve been hearing for over a decade. “I know your mom left because she didn’t want you. I know I’ve fought for years to give you everything so you can what? Be in the background because you’re too much of a pussy to take center stage yourself? I would have killed for that chance, and clearly you just don’t have it in you. A real man would, but then again, it’s you, right? Can’t expect too much from you when you never were much to begin with anyway.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I mutter.
“I call bullshit.”
“Fine. Call it.” I shrug. “Does it make you feel better?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Who’s laughing?” I ask.
“You’re not taking me seriously.”
“I pride myself on it.”
Hawke pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Look. You fucked up big time last night.”
“Nice change of tactic. You’ve always been the one who tried to keep the peace.”
“Last night?” He raises his eyebrows and demands an answer that I don’t have a good enough answer for.
“The fucker had it coming to him,” I say of the reporter I chewed out on the red carpet. On live TV. “Ask stupid fucking questions like that and—”
“They’re only stupid if they’re not true.”
“I didn’t touch the woman. The kid she’s claiming is mine, isn’t. I’ll never chance my fucked-up genes in a next generation.”
“C’mon. Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
“I don’t need your fucking help, Doctor Play. I just need . . .” I don’t know what the fuck I need, but I’m sure it can be found on the other end of a vice.
I brace my hands on the soundboard and look at the empty studio beyond. The one we were in thirty minutes ago. The one that gave me the only reprieve I seem to have these days—music.
My friend’s sigh is as heavy as the weight on my chest. “So this is how it’s going to be?”
“How what’s going to be? You trying to control me? I like handcuffs, brother, but only when they’re used during sex.”
If I keep pushing, maybe he’ll just walk away. Maybe he’ll just leave me the fuck alone.
“I’m just trying to help, Vince.”
The minute his hand touches my shoulder, my temper snaps and arm is cocked back, ready to fly.
He stares at me, eyes daring me to land the punch and begging me not to at the same time.
He doesn’t understand.
No one does.
How do you hate someone and love them simultaneously? Even when they do nothing but tear you down? Especially because they’re the only person who didn’t leave you?
“I’m dying, Vinnie. Liver cancer. Stage four.”
My dad’s words come out of nowhere. The fuck?
“A year, maybe.”
I keep my head down and just nod. What the fuck am I supposed to say?
“Just thought you’d want to know.”
I grunt. Is it normal not to feel a goddamn thing hearing that?
“What? No comeback? No sweet words from a son to his father?” His chuckle is cruel. “Don’t worry. I didn’t expect much from my total loser of a son. Perhaps the shame I feel about you will kill me before the fucking cancer does.”
I lower my fist, the need to throw it still vibrating through me. Still owning me. Still begging for the release I can’t seem to find. Fucking great. Way to be just like your old man. Come out swinging when you feel backed into a corner. You’re an asshole, Jennings. A total fucking asshole.
“That’s how it’s going to be? You don’t want to hear the truth so you’re going to fight your way out of it?” Hawke asks.
Instead of answering, I move around the room again, looking for a bottle of something, anything, to numb the pain. “You forget, brother. I never had a mom, and I sure as hell don’t need one now.”
The vial. I forgot I had some feel-good powder with me. With my back to Hawke, I pull it out of my pocket, pour a little powder on the tip of my finger, and wipe some on my gums. The kick is almost instant. The feeling that all is right with the world. The euphoria that lets me breathe again. The ability to forget for just a moment.
“Want some?”
“Fuck no,” Hawke shouts, knocking the open vial out of my hand before I can barely finish my question. It falls to the floor and spills out. “What in the hell are you doing?”
My laugh is loud. My head like a balloon floating and attached to my body by a string. “Like I said, Pretty Boy Play is too good for me now.”
“Dammit, Vince. This isn’t you. This isn’t—”
“Like you’ve fucking looked close enough in the past few months to have a right to say you know me.”
“What the hell, man. How dare you say—”
“Whatever.” I wave a hand his way. “I don’t need you. I never have. I never will again. Go back to your shitty singing, your precious band, and your pretentious, fucking wife. I’m sure you’ll be better off without me.”
Hawkin stands there dumbfounded, head shaking and teeth gritted. The fist I expect to fly over my insult of his wife, the blatant lie, doesn’t come. Hell, it never even clenches. “That’s how you want this to go, huh?” His words are measured.
“Pretty sure it doesn’t need to go anywhere when it’s already been done and gone for some time.”
“What are you saying?”
“Doesn’t need to be said, does it?” I look around the studio, shake my head, and say, “Fuck this,” before heading toward the door.
“You’re quitting? Just like that, after everything?”
“Just like that. I’m better off without you. Without this. Just you wait and see.”
“You’re going to regret those words.” His statement stops me in my tracks, hand pressed against the open door.
I hang my head for a beat and chuckle softly despite the pang his words create. “No, what I regret is letting you tear me down for so long that I actually believed I was less than you.”
I’m drowning in alcohol, in regret, in words I know we’ve spoken that I can’t take back. That I’m not sure I want to take back because fuck, does it feel good to say them. To tell my best friend how much I fucking resent him for being him when I have to be me.
There’s the fucking proof. Money doesn’t fix the fucked-up shit in your past. Fame doesn’t fill the voids others left behind. “Friendship” doesn’t overshadow abandonment.
But alcohol helps dull it all.
Coke helps to forget even more.
Do I still love him and Rocket and Gizmo?
Fuck yes, I do. More than anyone I’ve ever known save for one person.
But I also hate them.
And when I walk out the door, shoving it so hard it slams against the wall behind it, a bitter taste is in my mouth over words I’ll never be able to take back.
I glance back and see Hawkin standing in the darkened studio, his shoulder resting against the wall, and his face an expression I hope I never see again.
Disappointment.
Worry.
Pain.
Pity.
Fuck you, Hawke.
Just fuck you.
