Three Months Before
Sophia
"Sophia. Come here, gorgeous."
I blinked at the voice calling my name. Everyone called my name; it was a given.
That wasn’t me being up my own A-hole, or a look at her she’s so full of herself self-absorbed diva. It was the truth of the matter. Everywhere I went ‘Sophia’ was whispered, in shrill loud voices I wasn’t supposed to hear. When I left the gym, when I was shoving sushi in my face, when I was falling out of a club and flashing my knickers. Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.
I squinted into the crowd, recognising the voice calling my name and waved; a moronic grin smeared across my face. This party, which was as enjoyable as a wake, was about to get better—a hell of a lot better.
"Hey, Johnny." Tripping on my heels I made my way towards Johnny Fairweather. Johnny was appealingly hot. The entire world, irrelevant of sexual orientation hankered to screw him. With his chiselled jaw, piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that screamed just-got-out-of-bed-from-a-fuck-session, he made for scorching hot, front cover fodder. Together we were sublime perfection, with our matching skin and eye tones and sizzling on-screen chemistry. We’d used it to our advantage starring in a blockbuster franchise of films together and over the last five years they had made us very, very rich.
He was my boyfriend. I snorted at the thought. He was nowhere near that close to a defined role, but that was what all the teenyboppers believed after we’d been giving them red carpet gold for the last five years.
First it was his hand lingering on the small of my back. That set Twitter on fire. Then the whispered conversations in view of the camera, his lips millimetres from the skin of my throat. People wanted to know what we were whispering. It made it to the late-night showbiz news. Finally, we hit the hand holding and glanced kisses.
Hand holding is front page news and brings about an equal measure of loving and hating worldwide. Go figure.
He caught my arms as I stumbled into his space, and I snickered against his chest. That chiselled jaw, that looked better from the left angle (I don’t know why, it just did) tilted down in my direction.
The coke buzzed in my veins. Every movement heightened and electric. Even straightening from my tumble was like being yanked from the sea.
"Are you high again, Fee?" he asked, reproachfully. Tipping my chin, Johnny called me the nickname he'd given me through filming five years before. His eyes scanned my face as he scrutinised my features. I didn’t know why he was being so grouchy, he loved it when I was high. High made me free, brave, usable.
Shaking my head, I attempted my most staid expression. "Nope. There is no high to be had here." I was beyond high. Parties were only survivable if I’d sky rocketed into the stratosphere of oblivion.
Johnny groaned, and I thought he was going to bring me down—honestly, if I wanted a downer I’d just locate my mother, she was about somewhere, schmoozing and air kissing—but from under the depths of Johnny’s admonishing note was a trace of anticipation. "Come on." He wrapped tight arms around my waist. "Let's get you out of here before you are spotted and papped."
I smacked my hand against his taut chest and rocked on my heels. "No, no, I'm just starting to have fun. This party is so dull, Johnny. Why do they keep making me come to them?" I flung my arms around his neck, burying my face into his warm flesh. He smelled of Armani. I think he had it coming out of his ears—it was what happened when you were the face of the brand. He told me once he poured a bath full of the stuff just to see how many bottles he could get through.
What was that number again? Two hundred and fifty? No that’s not enough, surely? How many bottles of Armani would it take to fill a bath...?
"Fee, wake up." He lifted me away from his chest, lowering his head to inspect me better. His lips grazed a sensitive spot under my ear and with a weak hand I clipped him away. "We can have fun at mine," his hand wrapped around my wrist and jerked hard, "whatever, you need to be away from the crowds." He didn’t wait for my answer; hooking determined fingers around my elbow he guided me towards the back exit of the club. The lights were low, and I stumbled numerous times, with Johnny catching me when I nearly crashed onto the sticky floor.
"Blake, wait. What sort of fun do you have at yours?" I yanked on his hand, trying to stop his path. Blake. Blake. Blake. I frowned and my brain scrambled to engage and catch up with what was happening.
Johnny frowned. "I’m not Blake, sugar pops. Remember, he left you because he was psychotic. Now, are you coming to mine or not? I’ve got all sorts of fun."
Rooting my feet firmly anchored into the ground, I refused to move. He wasn’t Blake. I knew that. I didn’t even know why I said his stupid name, anyway. It’s because he’s the only person you ever listened to, said the jacked-up voice in my head.
My head spun, and all I wanted was to lie down. Was that too much to ask? I was just so damn tired.
"Johnny, Johnny Fairweather, you are not the boss of me." I wagged my finger, watching it track back and forth slowly in my vision. My finger wanted to lie down too, it was telling me.
Johnny’s smile transformed into a wolfish smirk. "I could be. I could spank that pert arse of yours until it's black and blue."
This was our game; we pushed, and we pushed. Two children caught in childish endeavours. "You aren’t brave enough." I folded my arms across my chest, the game initiated.
His lips lifted another inch, and I placed my hands on my hips, watching with fascination as his eyes roved over my body, darkening with a feral desire.
He leant closer, his body crushing into my space, his hot breath rushing against my cheek as he nuzzled my jaw, his stubble grazing my skin. "Let's see just what you will do for a high."
I burned with his words. The need for my next buzz igniting a deep ache within me. I knew I'd do anything for my next high because my next high was all I had. My need for sleep evaporated in a cloud of forgetful mist. High was better than sleep.
I let him lead me to a dark man in a suit who wore an ear-piece cord running from his ear into the neck of his suit jacket. A distant memory threatened to rear its ugly head. A man in a dark suit who once used to stand and wait for me. I blocked it as quick as it came refusing to allow the hazy recollection to take hold.
I could always forget.
No. I could always make myself forget.
Forget the fact I couldn’t be saved.