Ian

In all my years, I’ve had plenty of really shitty nights. I’ve had nights full of drugs and booze and strange places. I’ve had nights that bleed into weeks that all blur in my memory because I was so blasted. But nothing really holds a candle to last night. Because for the first time, I’m faced with a completely devastating loss and I can’t turn to my familiar coping mechanisms.

So the first thing I did when I got up to my room was call Serge. I had to tell him how tempted I was. How much I wanted to just drown in a bottle or take that baggie of bullshit and do something with it. But we both know that I wouldn’t be calling him if I were actually planning on doing anything like that. Calling him is my last line of defense against those demons coming back. And Serge’s is the only voice that can silence the devil in my head whispering “if you’re going to be punished, you might as well do the crime.”

But that was hours ago. Serge told me to hold strong, that things will all work out, all that uplifting crap that should make me feel better but doesn’t at all. And then I was left alone with my thoughts for the next six hours. Watching Atlanta at night out my window, knowing how easy it would be to just walk onto the street and get any damn thing I pleased in this city. But I never leave the room. I glance toward the mini-fridge more than once, but Merrill’s too smart; he always gives the hotel instructions to empty the mini-bar. And I appreciate it. Because five years of sobriety or not, I’m still weak. I’m still struggling, wishing for something to ease the all-consuming pain of losing Chelsea.

I tried to text her, tried to call her, but I’m sure she’s got her phone off. At this point, mine’s off too. Every tabloid and news outlet is running the story of my fall off the wagon and her broken heart. No one seems to give a damn about the truth or my broken heart. But I should have expected that. Junkies never get the benefit of the doubt. Guilty until proven innocent. Not that there’s ever any proof to provide. So, basically, I’m always guilty. Forever. For the rest of my miserable damn life.

So why do I care about being sober again?

There’s a harried knock on the door at about seven. The sun’s just coming up and I still haven’t slept—or even really tried—and I brace myself for the worst. It’s got to be Merrill here with the bad news. The tour’s canceled, the label’s dropping me, he’s dropping me, who knows really? I wouldn’t even be surprised if he tries to shove me back into rehab, but that just makes me angrier.

The knock comes again, rattling the door in its jamb. Guess I’ve got to face the music.

I shuffle over and open the door, but it’s not Merrill’s short, bespectacled face greeting me. It’s Serge, looking just as tired as me, but concerned, not broken.

“You good?” he asks, looking me in the eye.

I nod. “I haven’t touched anything.”

He grins and wraps me in a big bear hug. “Attaboy.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as hell to see him. He’s my best friend and my partner in sobriety. If anyone can get me through this hell, it’s him. But I don’t know how he managed to cross the entire country since I called him.

He shrugs, looking a little sheepish. “It was only nine thirty on the West Coast when you called. There was a ten forty-five out of LAX and I booked it right away. Four and a half hours later, here I am.”

I shake my head, still not really believing it. “But isn’t this going to be rough for you? Being around all this?”

“Let me worry about me. Are you gonna invite me in, or what?”

It’s only then that I realize we’re both still standing in the doorway and I step back, letting him in.

We head into the living room area of the suite and I put on the coffee pot. We both look like we could use it. Serge sinks into one of the couches and sprawls across it with a groan.

“Man, I swear plane seats get more cramped every time I’m in one.”

I shrug and he laughs.

“Right, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

“It’s been a while,” I admit, pouring us both a mug of black coffee. “Sorry, I don’t have anything to put in it.”

He shrugs. “Gotta be better than the instant shit at the civic center.”

“Jesus, they only give you instant? Remind me to make a donation. That’s a travesty.”

He chuckles and waits for me to take a spot on the other couch before he levels me with that look, and I know we’re about to have a talk I don’t really want to have, even if I need to.

“So, tell me everything that happened.”

I blow out a long breath before launching into the story of Chelsea ambushing me in my dressing room with what she found.

“And it wasn’t yours?”

“Hell no,” I say, too defensive, but Serge just nods and I relax. He actually believes me. It’s so nice to have someone actually be on my side. To actually take me at my word. He accepts me because he knows I’ve got no reason to lie to him. Serge and I have been to the deepest depths of rock bottom together and there’s no shame or judgment between us.

I’m so fucking glad he’s here.

“And this girl? What about her?”

“What about her?”

“Well, is she worth fighting for?”

“That and more,” I say. “I’m in love with her, man. I can’t… The thought of not having her…” My voice cracks and I choke back tears. We may have been through some shit together, but Serge doesn’t need to see me bawling my eyes out at sunrise.

“All right,” he says, conviction in his tone. “Then we need to find out how the hell that shit got in your bag.”

“I don’t know. It seems weird, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe it was hotel staff about to be caught with it, or a roadie?”

I shrug. It’s plausible, for sure, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t really think many hotel employees are off shooting up heroin in their downtime. Mostly because it would make their job impossible. Maids are more likely to take uppers to make their work faster, not the other way around.

And I can’t think of any reason why a roadie would be near my bags. They stay on the bus while we take the jet. I guess it could have happened while they were unloading or something, but I don’t know. Nothing about the situation makes any sense.

I want to think it was an honest mistake, that someone stashed something without thinking about it and now I’m taking the blame for it. But I can’t help but feel like it’s targeted somehow. Like someone was trying to get me out of the picture. But who? Someone worried I’m damaging Chelsea’s reputation? Someone thinking she deserves better? Or someone trying to take me down a peg? Maybe even someone trying to sabotage my comeback?

It’s all possible, but now I’m starting to sound paranoid to myself and that kind of thinking isn’t good for me.

“Is it possible it was leftovers?” he asks carefully.

I sigh. “I mean… anything’s possible, Serge, but I don’t think so. You know we were always more careful with shit than that. I wouldn’t just leave a needle and shit lying around in my suitcase in a Ziploc bag.

“Do you still have the stuff she found?”

I shake my head. “No way. You know I couldn’t keep it around. Even if it would give us some clues. Too dangerous.”

He nods. If anyone can understand the siren call of addiction, it’s Serge. “It could help, but it also could set us both off, so it’s for the best.”

“Hey man, don’t put yourself at risk for me. If you need to get back home and stop thinking about all this, I understand. You’ve come this far. Don’t let me be the thing that brings you down.” I still remember all too clearly waking up in a jail cell, being told that my friend OD’d. That’s all they told me. All anyone would tell me. And I knew I was the reason he was dead. I knew I was the one that scored that night, I was the one that convinced him to take another hit when he said he was good, and I was the reason he was dead.

When Merrill finally bailed me out and told me Serge was recovering in the hospital, it was like he’d come back from the dead. And that was enough to make me change my act. I’d made a million promises to anyone that was listening that as long as Serge pulled through, I’d never touch the shit again. I’d go to rehab, I’d actually work the program, and I’d be the guy my friend needed me to be to keep him alive.

And I did. I went through with all of it—a first for me really—and I’m not going to let him try to throw it all away in the name of helping me. I don’t want him going through the staff and crew and trying to pick out heroin users that might have planted the stuff. Because once you find another addict, it’s only one small step to using again.

Serge looks at me for a long time, sitting back on the couch while I’m working through all this in my head. He’s totally silent, like he’s listening to every word I’m thinking, and knowing him, he probably already knows what’s going through my head. We know each other like that. Living and touring and doping with someone for fifteen years has that effect.

“I’ll be all right,” he finally says, draining his coffee and dropping the mug on the coffee table between us. “But not without some creamer for that swill. I was wrong—it’s pretty awful.”

I look down at the mug in my hand and realize I’ve hardly drunk any of it. And when I bring the mug to my lips, I can’t really tell what it tastes like. It’s like chalk and I have trouble swallowing it. Maybe I don’t need coffee after all.

“I think they’ve got some kind of continental breakfast downstairs. Bill whatever to the room, I don’t care.”

“You’re not hungry?” he asks.

I know what he’s really trying to do. He’s trying to get me out of this room, out of my self-pity, but I just shake my head. I don’t really want to move. Getting up to answer the door is as much as I’ve done since I got back here last night, and now that I’m on the couch, staring out the big windows as the city slips into its morning routine, I feel stuck. Because if I move, if I go on with my life, that means I’m accepting that it’s real. That everything that happened between me and Chelsea is over and there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe if I just sit here long enough, refusing to accept it, it won’t be true anymore.

I know how ridiculous that is, but that’s where my mind’s at right now.

“All right, well, I’ll be back soon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I arch a brow at him, almost managing a smirk.

“Me now, not past me,” he says sternly with a friendly glare.

“Don’t worry, I know how to behave. Contrary to popular opinion.”

That makes him look sad and I feel instantly guilty for spreading my misery to him. But he leaves without another word and then he’s gone for a long, long time. So long, that I finally manage to take a brief nap with the early-morning sun bathing me.