Page 81 of For Wrath and Redemption
It’s too easy to score prescription drugs when you’re a rock star.
Everyone has them. Everyone wants to share them with you. It’s a wonder how anyone ever gets sober in this industry. I could walk out into the audience now and come back with a fucking pharmacy in my pockets within minutes. If I wanted, I could call no less than twenty people who would hook me up with their doctor, and I’d have a bottle of painkillers by the end of the show.
I know how to be subtle, though. I’ve been doing this for years.
Roadies and groupies are my suppliers. You just have to know whatyou’re looking for. They’ve got tells, and I can recognize all of them. I hit up my go-to roadie after soundcheck for Xanax. He’s reliable and discreet, and at this point I don’t even have to ask. I just nod to an exit door and meet him outside five minutes later.
“Been a minute,” he says as he hands me a generic Ibuprofen bottle.
I take it and shove it into my pocket, then hand him a wad of cash.
“Yeah. My stash stretched.”
It’s not a lie. It’s not uncommon. I’ve had periods where I use less. I trick my brain into thinking it’s healed. I give my therapist a sliver of truth and pretend it works. I use the music as a crutch. It never lasts, though. I either can’t handle the comedown or something sets me off. So after my mom died, I doubled up. I thought I’d need more to do the least.
I got Trouble instead.
I take the bottle back out of my pocket and take a pill.
“Thanks,” I say, and then I walk out.
I clock the groupie during the third song, but I don’t make the decision right away. I scan the wings for Claire first. If she’s here, I can’t see her. NoThank You, Edinburghphoto post, I guess. I ignore the way my stomach twists.
Right before the encore, I flag José over.
“Floor. Third row. Blonde hair. Fake tits. Got my name written on her chest in black paint or marker or some shit. Go now.”
“Dressing room or hotel?”
“Hotel.” José nods and starts to turn away, but I stop him. “Vodka.”
He doesn’t even question me. He just nods again and disappears. I go back onto the stage for the encores, and I expect to feel better. There’s always guilt. There’s always a feeling of failure. But usually, I can ignore them. Usually, the Xanax dulls the noise enough that I can look forward to a fuck and a fix.
Tonight, that doesn’t happen.
Tonight, I just hate myself, and I let myself wallow in it.
The groupie is waiting on the couch holding a bottle of expensive vodka when I get back to the suite. Her red glitter bra and jeans are already discarded on the floor. I’m surprised she left her thong on, honestly.
“You want to party?” she asks the moment the door shuts behindme. It’s a confirmation that I chose correctly. I’m never fucking wrong about this shit.
“What you got?”
She giggles and reaches into a red glitter purse at her feet, then wiggles an orange prescription bottle at me. “Benzos.”
I shake my head. “Got that covered. Painkillers?”
She purses her lips and dives back into her bag, then pops back up with six small, white, oval pills in the palm of her hand. I take one, check the imprint, then grab another.
“Now we can party, sweets.”
I chase two painkillers with a swig of vodka, then kick off my shoes before falling onto the couch next to the woman. She tries to climb onto my lap, but I hold up a hand. I’m not high enough for this yet.
“Wait.” I take my phone and turn on some music, then close my eyes. “I need a minute.”
I feel the couch cushion shift beside me. “Can I take off your shirt?”
I sit up and raise my hands above my head. She takes my shirt off, then goes for the button on my jeans. I let her undo that, too. She rubs on my thigh, then my dick, and I want to laugh at hownothard I am. I could blame it on the pills, but I know it’s not that. It’s because the hand is wrong. The scent is wrong. The woman is wrong. And anyway, if I wasreallywanting to fuck, I’d have gone with a different drug cocktail.
