Say it Louder (3 page)

This guy is scared shitless.

He’s two parts angry and one part sad.

And he’s got no clue what to do next.

OK, I got that last bit straight from what he’s saying. But everything about him telegraphs lost. And if there’s one thing I know inside and out, it’s lost.

I’m the expert at lost.

And this guy looks like he’s miles from being found again.

Dave dives into a rapid-fire narrative of what’s happening: his evil girlfriend who wrecked Violet’s life is apparently banging the band’s manager, and she’s got some unnamed secrets on everyone.

They’re like Voldemort secrets. Those-that-must-not-be-named secrets. Stella and Violet don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. But it’s clear that his ex has so much dirt that she could manure an entire garden with shit to spare.

As he tells them about his ex’s duplicity, questions pile up in my mind.

None of your business, Willa. Don’t go looking for trouble.

I squash my curiosity and sip more champagne. I like it. Stella talks like it’s the cheap shit, but how would I know? I’ve had bubbly stuff once in my life, when a guy shoplifted it for Valentine’s Day. Like that was some grand, romantic gesture.

You know what I want for Valentine’s Day? I want someone to keep their promises.
 

It doesn’t even have to be as grand as “I love you.”

“I like you” will do.

I’ll take “you’re pretty” or “call me” or anything they print on those candy hearts that taste like toothpaste. So long as it’s real.

I guess it’s kind of comforting to hear that everything in Dave’s overprivileged, so-rich-I-don’t-know-how-much-money-I-have life is going to shit. It’s real, and as real as what I deal with every day.

“She’s a blackmailer,” Stella finally concludes as the mood sinks from light to serious. “Don’t think for a minute you can play by the rules and she’ll ride off into the sunset with Chief and forget all about our secrets. She’s been hoarding them for a long time, and she knows they’re valuable enough to keep milking you.”

“If she has no rules, what do I have to work with?”

“Money,” Stella says. I frown, knowing that’s one answer I’d never have myself. “What if you play the jealous-boyfriend card, ignore the secrets, and give her enough money to go away?”

Dave shakes his head. “She’ll never go away.”

“You don’t know that.”

His head snaps up. “I do. Your history with the director? Stella, she’d make that public just to hurt you, the same way she hurt Violet.”

Stella visibly pales but I’ve had enough of Dave’s doomsday proclamations. He’s talking like this is the worst thing that could happen to a person, but it’s nowhere near rock bottom.

I’ve been there. This is a passing rain shower next to the storms I’ve endured.

“You about done?” I put my champagne flute down on the table with a clang. “This poor-me thing is pretty tired.”

Dave’s face pinches with anger. “What the hell do you know?”

His shift to anger gets my back up. “I know that your version of a problem doesn’t really stack up to normal people’s.” I cross my arms, hating the funk that’s descended on us. “Not having money to eat, not having a place to sleep, that’s bad. Having your bitch girlfriend cheat on you is
good
news—now you can get rid of her.”

“It’s not that easy.” His voice rises as my comment focuses his anger on me instead of the shit card life just dealt him. “If I leave her, she’ll ruin me. She’ll ruin all of us.”

“Doubtful. What’s she got on you? You cheat on a math test? Can’t get your dick up? Get over it. There are worse things to lose than your reputation.”

I cringe when the last of that comes out of my mouth. Why am I suddenly throwing down my bitch card? He came here for advice and an apology, not a life lesson in what hard knocks really look like.

Dave’s dark eyes narrow to slits. “Fuck you.”

Even though I should probably apologize, my old street skills kick in and I choose fight over flight. I straighten my shoulders and double down.

“And fuck you very much. You don’t know how far you’ve got to fall to
really
hit bottom. Once you get there, you call me, and we’ll have a nice little chat about how today was all rainbows and ice cream. Because you’ve still got more than most people get in their whole lifetime.”

“That’s enough, Willa.” Violet’s quiet voice slices through our verbal battle. I’m staring him down and I’m winning, daring Dave to blink and concede that I’m made of a hell of a lot tougher stuff than he is.

He blinks. I win. But it’s a hollow victory. Something in my heart twists with an urge to help this lost boy find his way.

Not that he’d trust me to help after what I said.

“Don’t do anything right now,” Stella tells Dave. “I’ll think through the media angle on this. Go home, have a drink, punch a wall for all I care. Just don’t let Kristina know that whatever she’s got on you can hurt you too badly.”

Dave bows his head. “But it can.”

“How bad?”

“I could lose my whole life.”

CHAPTER FIVE

There are no answers waiting for me at the bottom of a bottle of gin.

I know. I checked.

My head swims and I die over and over in violent video games, losing myself in alcohol and the bloodbath on my big screen.

The last time I drank this much? Never, unless you count that night in February four years ago. It was only a few months before Tattoo Thief made the big leap and moved from Pittsburgh to New York City.

And unless you live under a rock, any music or gossip magazine will tell you the rest is history.

But it wasn’t that easy. It was fucking hard. I know that better than any of my bandmates, because I was the guy hustling the gigs, pushing our songs out over social media, building our fan base.

I was the guy who instituted the rule that we pump iron after practices, and who made sure that we weren’t blowing off steam with drugs that would ruin us as surely as they’ve ruined dozens of other promising bands.

I
managed
us into success. Go ahead and credit Gavin’s lead-singer magnetism or Jayce’s killer guitar licks or the way Tyler always found the right people at the right time on our journey. I know it was me.

And now it’s me who will ruin us. My stupid weakness.

Kristina.

I loved her once. I’m pretty sure of that. But that night in February changed us because it planted a toxic secret that both of us were bound to protect.

I rub my eyes and my head swims, the alcohol pickling my liver and soaking my brain until my thoughts are mush.

If only it would do that to my feelings, too. But no, it sharpens them, magnifies them, until I feel this gaping hole in my chest. I lay back on the couch, headphones still on, shots fired and anguished screams from the game filling my ears.

Images of vultures swoop down and peck at my shredded chest.

I’m being picked clean, meat off the bone, rancid with heat, saturated by sweat, deafened by the noise of carrion birds’ flapping wings.

They circle. They land. They rip and tear.

It’s agony, but I invite them to dine.

Rip it all away and take me somewhere … other.

***

Throbbing and light.

I peel open eyelids that feel sticky as a day-old Band-Aid. The smell of vomit gags me and I turn from where my neck is bent against the arm of the couch, spewing pinkish liquid on my hardwood floor.

It joins another mess there that I don’t remember making.

I. Am. Disgusting.

I groan and it reverberates through my skull, heaping pain upon pain that I know I brought on myself last night.

There is no up to this down.

Whatever Willa said about there being worse things to lose than my reputation? She has no clue. I’m not just scraping bottom, I’m digging the ditch deeper.

I drag myself from the couch to the shower and then to the kitchen, where I find towels to mop up my vomit. I trash them and take out the bag, a firm hand on my stomach to keep the bile from rising again. I’m sure there’s nothing left inside me.

My car’s still gone, as is my girlfriend. She probably shacked up with Chief last night. But I expect she’ll be back to collect her things, and for some kind of confrontation.

I could shut off her credit cards, but what’s the point? If the only thing she could take from me is money, I wouldn’t be losing my shit right now.

She could take every shred of my freedom.

I dial Gavin again but get no answer. Jayce and Chief are out of the question. Tyler’s next on my speed dial, but it goes to voicemail, too.

Fuck.
I’ve always been surrounded by friends. And now, when I’m at my lowest, I’ve got nobody.

I shove my wallet and phone in my pockets and leave my brownstone, hopping a cab back to the Lower East Side where Violet lives. I don’t have her phone number, but she’s the only other person who understands how badly Kristina can hurt people.

There’s no answer from the intercom.
Fucking fuck on a stick.
 

My empty stomach growls with hunger, so I go in search of a diner. Something greasy. Maybe a Bloody Mary—hair of the dog?

The thought of more alcohol makes my stomach flip wildly and I reassure it: no more.

I pass a couple of coffee shops and then I see what I need down the block on the other side of the street: an old-school diner with neon signs and dirty windows. Perfect. I’m about to cross the street when a pink streak catches my peripheral vision and I whip my head around.

Ow.
Too fast. My brain is still pounding from the beating it took at the hands of gin last night. But my eyes are focused on the pink shock of hair and a spectacular set of tits rising from the deep V in a navy shirt as she leans over a pad of paper.

Fucking Willa. Not what I need right now. I’m about to turn away but she looks up at me from behind the counter. And maybe my reactions are hangover-slow or I’m just stupid, but I freeze.

It’s another staring contest.

And this time, I refuse to blink.

I will myself to hold her gaze and it’s too easy. There’s a magnetic force behind those dark-fringed eyes, something bold and brave and hardened.

Like I said before, she looks like she could kick my ass.

And then she’s moving from behind the counter, her expression harder now, and suddenly I’m certain she’s about to do just that.

This morning’s not getting any better.

“Why are you here?” Willa demands, and I stand there on the sidewalk, dumb as a rock, as she fills the crack in the door she’s only half-opened.

“I’m not here. On purpose, I mean. I was trying to find Violet, or somebody…” I trail off, my words refusing to thread together into something that makes sense.

“You found me. So what do you want today, Dave? You look like shit.”

“Thanks for that. Keep it coming.”

“What? You want me to say you look ready to conquer the world? Because you look like it conquered you.”

“Nah. Just got kicked around by a bottle of gin last night.”

She snorts. “Rich-boy problems. Drink until it goes away.”

“Why are you being such a bitch?”

“Why are you being so stupid?”

“Why are you harassing me?”

“Why did you show up at
my
shop?”

I look up and see script lettering:
Righteous Ink
is painted above the door. It dawns on me that Willa works here. At a tattoo shop. Add that to the discussion about her street art feature that Violet and Stella did, and I’m starting to get a picture of her.

“I don’t know,” I confess. “I was just looking for … breakfast.”

Willa crosses her arms. “Best I got is coffee in back.”

I point to the diner. “That any good?”

“Depends on if you order eggs and hash browns or chicken-fried steak.” She raises her brow, which glints in the morning light with delicate silver balls piercing it. “Word to the wise: don’t do the steak.”

I duck my head. “Gotcha. Thanks.” I tell my legs to go and finally they start moving down the sidewalk. On instinct, I turn, and Willa’s still hanging in the door, watching me.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not always like this. Just a bad time.”

She shrugs. “It’s a new day. Don’t waste it.”

***

I’ve had two and a half cups of coffee, eggs and hash, and the pounding has mostly abated. My stomach is full but my chest is still empty.

I fiddle with the paper placemat on the Formica tabletop, tearing off little bits and rolling them into thin cylinders. I’ve amassed a pile when someone slides into the cracked vinyl booth across from me.
 

“Quite an art project you’ve got going there.”

I frown at Willa, but she ignores me and waves at the waitress for coffee.

“You done with your pity party yet?”

“No.” My voice is sullen, and I know I’m acting about six years old. But, God, don’t I deserve a
few
minutes to wallow in my misery?

Never mind. What happened last night was wallowing enough.

“Fine, then, don’t let me interrupt.”

“What are you doing here?”

“First client bailed. Ran out of coffee filters at the shop.” The waitress sets down a mug and pours coffee. Willa drinks hers black, same as me. “So what are you doing here? Besides breakfast and the poor-me routine?”