Page 3 of Vespertine
“Nico,” Ramona said. “C’mon, you don’t need to do that crap.You’re high enough. Shit, you’re too high already. Don’t do any more.”
She stood by the door and looked down at Nicky with herdark, soft eyes that always shimmered like they were somehow wetter than theaverage person’s, somehow kinder. Or maybe that was just his fallout-triggeredmelancholy talking because Ramona could kick his ass with both hands tiedbehind her back. Ramona was stronger than any of them, and that went a hell ofa lot further than most people thought. But Nicky knew.
The effect of the heroin he’d shot up in the hotel droppedoff hard and fast. In the murky space he drowned in, Nicky didn’t feel likeNico Blue, guitarist and chief songwriter for the still wildly popular bandVespertine. He was Nicholas Blumfeld, adopted son of Miriam and Adrian.Disconnected fuck-up. Broken boy. Always on the outside looking in.
He hadn’t written a hit song in an age by industrystandards. Their last two albums had been full of misshapen duds. Songs with nowings. Songs that couldn’t fly. Nicky knew the truth about his music. The songsreflected their creator.
Nicky knew disgusting, ugly, hurtful things too. Like howlow he’d fall and how many guys he’d pick up after the show to fuck him(three). And he absolutely, positively knew he couldn’tdothis anymore. Not tonight. Not ever.
Music had been the only thing to sustain him through theyears, and now the drugs had burned it out of him.
“Jesus, Nico. Are you even in there?” Ramona snapped herfingers in his face and he opened his eyes. Mick and Sez wiped their noses freeof white dust and pointedly avoided looking at each other. “You don’t wantHarry coming back here after you, do you?” She asked. “Get it together.”
He nodded; it was the most he could manage. Ramona squattedbeside him, one hand on his thigh. She studied him closely and he stared backat her. She was beautiful, in Nicky’s opinion. Taller than him by at least twoinches in her heels, darker than him by several dozen shades, and soberer thanhim by any kind of measurement. She was the only one among them who didn’tregularly fortify herself with chemical helpers. Her clear-eyed control wassomething Nicky admired and envied. Ramona deserved good things. She wasprobably the only one of them who did anymore.
Ramona turned to the piles of drugs on the table and slid arazor over the top of the little ridges Sez had made, flattening them againinto a smooth smudge of cocaine on the glass table. She pounded her fist besideit. “This shit is ruining us.”
Nicky agreed but didn’t say anything. Mick and Sez ignoredher. Mick sucked up his post-coke post-nasal drip with a disgusting hockingnoise. Sez shoved him, and the room twisted for Nicky as he watched them pushand tug at each other. Over the last year, the energy between Mick and Sez hadchanged; what had once been smooth and placid was now crinkled and alight withsparks.
“Whatever’s going on with them is the last thing we need,”Ramona murmured, nudging Nicky’s arm. “Are they fucking?”
Nicky didn’t even think he could do curiosity the right wayanymore. Maybe Mick and Sez were fucking. Maybe they weren’t. Nicky didn’t knowand he really didn’t care. Heshould. He was theleader of the group, the mastermind, the brains behind the music, and he shouldreally fucking care. But he couldn’t find any sort of emotion like that in thehollow where his heart had been.
Ramona clicked her teeth.
Let them bring it all down around their ears. The sooner thebetter. He crawled deeper into the dark place inside himself, his familiarinternal cage. It would take too much effort to crawl out. Even for a line ofcoke. No matter how much good it would do him.
“God, Nico, you look like death,” she muttered, leaning overto stroke her hand over his head. He could see his greasy, dark hair passthrough her fingers on either side of his cheeks. “Seriously, pretty boy. Areyou okay?”
Nicky couldn’t speak. His words were wherever the music hadgone.
“He shot a speedball back at the hotel,” Mick muttered.
It hadn’t been a speedball actually. It’d just been dope. He’dkill for a speedball now, that slow-fast that settled him into his bones so hefelt almost like a real human again.
“Stupid, Nico,” Ramona murmured, and it didn’t sound fond atall.
Nicky’s heartbeat was strong enough now. He just needed todo it. Lean over and cut a line, snort it up. He’d be fine once he did. He’d beready to go. He just needed todo it.
She slid her hand over his shoulder and wrinkled her nose. “When’sthe last time you took a fucking shower?”
Somehow he spoke. His voice was creaky. “Last night.”
“Ha. If by last night you mean Houston, maybe.”
If Houston wasn’t last night, then Nicky had no idea when he’dshowered. Days fell into days, nights into nights. On tour it was all music,madness, and sex. Blow jobs and blow. Bending over for cocks and thrusting intothroats. It was sin and misery and it was every minute of his life. It wasrock-n-roll.
Nicky fucking hated it.
It wasn’t him. It hadn’t ever been and it never would be. Hejust didn’t know how to make it end. He’d strapped into the rocket known asVespertine ages ago and together they’d entered orbit. There was no way back.
Ni-co, Ni-co, Ni-co.
The pounding beat of the audience calling his name joltedthrough him.
“Nico?” Ramona searched his face. Sighing, she stood up andjerked the door open to call out, “Can I get some help in here?”
Then she stood back as help arrived.
