Page 15 of Over You
I climbed into the car, wishing I was already drunk. Or high. Or both.
Nash spent the five-minute drive to The Club listing off the reasons a guy should orgasm once a day the way Bubba listed all the ways to cook shrimp inForrest Gump.
By the time we had reached Sunset and Vine, the only light came from the flickering neon signs above the bars. After sundown, the streets took on the glitz and glamour that made LA nightlife famous. People, dressed in clothes they couldn’t afford, flocked to the bars to spend money they didn’t have on over-priced drinks they didn’t need.
Leo revved his engine before screeching to a halt in front of The Club’s valet.
Out of all the bars and nightclubs in LA, The Club was the place to be if you were somebody, or if you wanted to pretend to be somebody, evident from the line that wound around the building like a toy snake. Any given day of the week, the building was packed with wannabe models. Every bartender was a future Oscar nominee, and every janitor had a song they were trying to sell to a label.
As we approached the red-canopied entrance, people in line shouted my name. Cameras flashed, spotting my vision. I stopped to sign a few autographs, took a handful of pictures, and let some girl cop a feel. Then we were ushered to the front and right past the velvet rope that separated the wannabes from the real deals.
The bass bumped and rumbled through my chest. Strobe lights flickered green to red to blue, catching in the fog that swirled through the air.
As per routine, we followed the stairwell to the VIP area, joining other rock stars and Hollywood A-listers. Some hypnotic bullshit pumped through the speakers. Nash and Leo high-fived Jag, then fell back onto the plush, velvet sofa. Within milliseconds, girls were on their laps, performing celebrity worship, and I’d ordered a two-hundred-dollar bottle of cognac.
A few years ago, had someone told me that I’d be sitting in the VIP section of The Club next to Jag Steele, I would have thought it wasmaybepossible. Had they told me that one day, none of this would matter—that not one bit of it would make me happy—I would have laughed in their face. When you’re on the bottom rung of the ladder, counting pennies to pay for gas, this lifestyle seems like the answer to everything.
Money.
Notoriety.
Fans.
But that was the thing that sucked about fame. I no longer had a crutch to blame—I had everything I’d ever wanted, yet I was miserable.
A wiry brunette sauntered up to me, ribs visible through her sheer dress. With a bat of her fake lashes, she perched herself on the arm of my chair like a Siamese cat, scratching her nails over my chest. “Hey, Spence.”
“Spencer,” I corrected.
A coy smile curled her pink lips. “I saw your article inRolling Stone.”
Nash tossed a cardboard coaster boasting The Club’s logo at me, missing by a good foot. He waggled his eyebrows in atold you somanner before thrusting his hips up like he was pounding into someone.
A redheaded waitress in short shorts and a neon pink halter top set the Cognac on the table. I snagged it, popped off the lid, and then gulped back a hearty swig of the rich man’s drink.
“Your story’s amazing,” she cooed.
I snorted into the bottle before slugging two shots-worth back. My story was either amazing or pathetic or a combination of both.
“I mean, you’ve been through so much.”
“Yeah.” I fiddled with the wedding band I still wore. “It’s called life.”
Her hand snaked down my chest to the waist of my jeans. Groaning, I dropped my head against the cushion then swatted away her touch. I didn’t have the patience for this.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t want anything in return.” She reached for me again, but this time I caught her wrist.
“You’re fucking with my buzz, so take your selfie and make your social media post; then find another place to plant your knees, sweetheart.”
One of her eyebrows pulled in. Maybe the Botox kept her forehead from forming the scowl she wanted. “You’re an ass.” She pushed off the chair with a pout, tugging at the short hem of her dress before sashaying to the opposite side of VIP and sitting on the knee of Pandemic Sorrow’s drummer.
Within the hour,I’d tarnished my three-month-clean badge I had so brazenly bragged about in that issue ofRolling Stone. Which, by the way, was a load of shit. But, I had an image to sell and looking rehabilitated was evidently the “in” thing at the moment.
Jag swiped under his nose, brushing his long, black hair from his face. He glanced at the dance floor below where the mass of bodies moved in unison like a throbbing amoeba in a petri dish. “Man,” he said, jaw clenching while the coke set in. “They don’t know how lucky they are.”
He bent over the railing, sucking another white line up his nose. “People underestimate it. They put us on stages, lighting up our asses like some celestial body. Sex. Money. Mansions. And they worship us like we have salvation to offer. There’s a reason gods are immortal. This life kills everything.” He turned his back to me, but I didn’t miss him mumble, “And I’m just waiting on it.”
With that ominous statement, he disappeared into the crowd of other addicts and fame seekers. The buzz from the drugs shot through my system. My jaw tensed right before the guilt set in.Tomorrow, I’ll start over.Day one of being clean. . .
