I raise my fist to pound on the door again when it flies open. Judge stands with a phone to his ear and gestures me into the suite that he’s sharing with Lawson. Squeezing by him, I toss my duffel onto the floor and drop down next to Law on the couch. He gives me a high five and puts a finger to his lips to indicate we need to stay quiet while Judge handles whatever on the phone. I nod in understanding and drop my head back and close my eyes, my head heavy from the pills I just took but my mind feeling light. Free. This fucking tour has lasted forever. The longest eight months of my fucking life and I’m ready to be done with it. Ready to be home with Wills.

I’m jostled by an elbow in the ribs. “Yo. What the fuck, man?” My eyes bounce around a little, my vision dancing before focusing on Law.

“You high, Stone?” he asks, concern evident in his tone.

“No. Just tired.” The lie slips from my lips effortlessly. I’m so used to it now. They need to stop riding my ass. Watching me and asking every five fucking minutes if I’m using. I make every show, sing the songs, never miss a beat, so what it matters, I don’t fucking know. His eyes narrow, assessing me, trying to decide if I’m lying. Judge breaks our stare down.

“What’s with the duffel?”

I pull a cigarette out and light it, taking a drag before answering “I’m going home. Willow’s gonna be pissed that I haven’t been home yet. She hates being there alone.”

Law opens his mouth to say something when there’s a knock at the door. Blowing smoke rings, I watch Judge go and let whoever it is in. I’m not sure who called a band meeting, but we’re all here. Arrow enters the suite with chin lifts in greeting.

“You look like shit, man,” Arrow informs me, as he folds his lanky build onto the love seat across from me.

“You’re a real sweet talker, you know that?” Flicking ashes into the empty beer bottle on the table next to me, I watch him eyeball me just like Law did.

“Stone is going home…to Willow,” Judge informs them.

Ro’s head swings in Judge’s direction and then back to me. “Willow is home?” The disbelief in his voice pisses me off.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t she be? She’s pissed at me, but it’s Wills. She’ll be there.” Rising from my seat, I go to the bar and fill a glass with ice, cracking open the bottle of Johnnie Walker that Judge always requests in each of our rooms. Mine was missing this trip. It didn’t go unnoticed. I’m glad his is still full. Once I’ve drained the glass I refill it, taking it back to the couch with me. The warmth of the smooth liquor mixing with the relaxing effects of the Oxy I popped before coming down here, and I feel good. Numb. Until I look up and see them all watching me, their looks a mix between disgust, pity, shock, and trepidation.

“What? Why the fuck are you all staring at me?” I bellow. “Always fucking watching me. I’m sick of it.” Shaking my head, I take my seat, careful not to spill my drink as I fall back into the supple leather, my legs stretched out in front of me.

Ignoring my question, Ro speaks up. “Bro, she left more than eight months ago, dropped her keys off at the studio with Addy, and none of us have talked to her since. We even hired a PI who can’t find Willow,” he says carefully. “Have you heard from her at all? Has there been new news from the guy Addy hired?”

“No. I’m positive she’s there though. Where the fuck is she gonna go, Ro? This is my Wills; she wouldn’t just quit me. Her aunt’s dead; we’re her only family. She didn’t leave,” I tell him in exasperation.

“She didn’t just ‘quit’ you, Stone. You pushed too fucking far and forced her out,” he spits out. He’s still mad at me for Willow leaving. He hasn’t said it, but I know he is. His soft spot for her a little more than brotherly I think, and it’s really starting to piss me the fuck off.

“You don’t know shit, Arrow. Wills is at home. You’ll see.” I’m sure of it. She has to be.

“Stone, bro, maybe it’s time to get some help. Judge and I will set it all up, and I’ll do all that I can to fin—”

I interrupt Law and shoot to my feet, “I don’t need help with anything. Not with Wills, or anything else.” Slamming back my drink I put the glass down and scoop up my bag. “I’ll be in Austin if you need me. If not, I’ll see you in a couple weeks when we head back out.” Without another word I stalk out of the room past all of their condemning fucking looks and slam the door behind me. The walls rattling from the ferocity. Fuck them.

* * *

The car comes to a stop in front of my house at the end of Comanche Trail. Dane, my bodyguard, turns from the passenger seat. “You gonna be okay, Stone? I can stay here tonight if you want.”

Reaching for the handle with a trembling hand, I shake my head no. I just want to get inside, get my hands on Willow, and get out from under the prying eyes of Dane so that I can find my stash and pop an Oxy, maybe two, and just chill with my girl. I’d love a fucking line right now, but that’ll have to wait ’til later when my contact here in town drops some off. Can’t fly with that shit and can’t make any stops on the way home because Dane would lose his fucking mind, so I made arrangements.

“Nah. I’m good. Just gonna Netflix and chill with Wills, don’t need you around for that,” I tell him with a smirk as I step from the vehicle.

“Stone, Willo—”

“Is here.” My voice holds more confidence than I feel, but I’m all about if you believe it, it will be. And I need it to be.

I slam the door before he can say anything else and throw my hand up in a wave as I make my way up to the front door. Sliding my key into the lock, I rush into the eerie quiet of the house, the only sound the beeping of the alarm as I go to the wall to disable it. Duffel dropped at my feet, I place my guitar case down and step over it and walk into the kitchen. No Willow. From there I head into the living room, noticing that there’s a picture missing from the mantel, and no Willow. Bounding up the spiral staircase I crash into our bedroom and throw on the lights. My heart frantic, my gaze touching on everything, but seeing only the things that are missing. No book on her nightstand, no jewelry on the dresser, no picture of her parents, no music journal. Stalking to the dresser I start yanking open drawers leaving them hanging haphazardly. No panties, no shirts, no pajamas. There’s a roaring in my ears that has me unable to hear a fucking thing other than my out-of-rhythm heartbeat as I rip open the door to the bathroom. No perfume, no lotion, no brush. I move to her closet. No dresses, no pants, no shoes. No. Willow. No fucking Willow.

“No. No. No. NO!” My yells echo around the bathroom, ricocheting in all of the empty spaces and bouncing back to slap me in the face. “No.”

Determined to find her, I dash out of the room and barrel down the stairs into the basement studio and wrench open the heavy door. No custom-made Martin, just an empty stand. No laptop. Just a music-less room. No Willow. With my chest heaving, struggling to get my mind right, I slide onto the piano bench, placing my forehead to the cool, polished wood. Finally, I admit to myself what I’d already known. What I knew the moment I called and the phone was disconnected. What deep down I’d known from the moment I watched her walk away but denied because who the fuck was I without her? Willow was gone. She’d left me. And there was not one single person I could blame other than myself. Raising my head, my gaze lands on the framed picture that she put on the piano in every place we’d ever lived in. The picture that was left behind. The picture of us on the red carpet for the very first time. Our hands are locked and Willow beams up at me in pride, her smile so beautiful, the happiness radiating through the photo. And me, looking down into her upturned face, love and need reflected in my gaze, in the way I touched her. Her favorite picture, and she left it…and me.

Snatching the picture up I exit the studio and head upstairs, grabbing a bottle of too-expensive whiskey from the pantry as well as the bottle of Oxy I had stashed in the medicine cabinet of the guest bathroom. I try not to look around me, pretending like there aren’t any voids in the room. That I’m not missing anything, as I snag my guitar and collapse onto the couch. The picture in my hand feels like lead. I place it on the coffee table in front of me, sitting back I stare at it, willing Willow to walk out of it and into my arms. How the fuck was she gonna leave me? After all that we’ve been through, she fucking left me? Yanking my phone out of my pocket, I try calling her again, but again I get the same detached voice telling me that the number has been disconnected. “Son of a bitch!” I roar as I whip the phone at the exposed brick wall of the living room, watching as it shatters into a million fucking glittery pieces. With fumbling hands, I pop open the top on the pills, spilling a few of them onto the hand-scraped wood table and using the bottom of my whiskey bottle to crush them into a fine powder. From my wallet I pull out a credit card and arrange the crushed up pills into even little lines, not caring that I’m losing so much of the precious powder in the grooves and valleys of the rough wood. Tossing the card aside, I reach into the hidden pocket and wiggle out the little aluminum straw nestled there. Head bent over the table I blow through all four rails of Oxy, one after another, relishing the burn that comes just before the numbing fog.

“How you gonna do me like that, Wills?” I ask the empty room. The empty house. The empty fucking life I’m suddenly living in. Whiskey in one hand, I reach for the picture I’d brought upstairs. My vision is blurred but I don’t need to see to remember what Willow looked like in it. How beautiful her dress had been, her hair, her smile. I don’t need to see to remember us winning our first award and her showing me just how proud of me she had been. I remember all of that. The way she tasted that night in the back of the limo, and every day after. I don’t need to see shit to remember how she likes to be touched. The soft smell of her skin. All of that is ingrained on my soul. I don’t need to see…what I can no longer see.

Mind racing, trying to recall every little thing Willow, I take a long pull from the bottle in my hand. Liquid fire hits my stomach; I welcome it. I need it to forget. The part of me needing to let her memory go has me tipping back the whiskey once again, but it doesn’t make her go away quick enough. So I take another swig and then another ’til there’s only a swallow left. Limbs heavy, eyes shaky, I can still see her, hear her. With fingers that feel disconnected from the rest of me, I dig out three pills and toss them in my mouth, crunching them between my molars and shuddering from the bitter taste. Washing it away with the last drops of whiskey.

I don’t know how long I sit there just strumming and humming, falling in and out of sleep, but it seems like days when the doorbell finally chimes. Staggering to my feet I make my way to answer it, knowing it’s going to be my boy with my goodies. As I walk by the clock hanging on the wall, I see that it’s already morning. I’ve been sitting here for hours.

“What took you so long?” I ask, my tongue thick in my dry mouth.

“Sorry, dude, I didn’t know you were back in town, and I was on a run. I know how you feel about me sending anyone else. You’re gonna be really happy to see me when you get a taste of this shit though,” he says excitedly. Probably high on whatever he’s brought already.

I throw the door open wider for him to enter and head back into the living room.

“Your girl’s not here, right?” His eyes dart around the room nervously looking for Willow.

“No, wouldn’t have called you if she was,” I bite out

Ron throws his hands up in surrender. “My bad. I got something to take that edge off. You’ll be pissing fucking rainbows and shit,” he laughs at himself.

“Just lay the shit out, I’ll be right back.” My mood has gone to absolute shit, him asking about Willow bringing my reality crashing down on me. Stalking from the room, I head down to the studio to where the safe is and pull out a stack of cash. I don’t count it, he won’t either. It’s way more than I’ll owe him, but I don’t care. I just want him to give me the drugs and get the fuck out. I give him extra so he doesn’t talk to the press or anyone else. It’s the perfect setup. He makes a few thousand off of me, I score and we’re both happy. With that thought in mind, my steps are lighter as I bound up the stairs and back to where Ron is. I just need that numb and then tomorrow I can work on finding Wills.

“Holy fuck. Did you think I was throwing a party?” I laugh a little in surprise at all he has on my coffee table. Baggies filled with rainbow colored pills, pristine white powder, green buds, a brownish powder along with a few others I can’t make out in the dim light. My palms start to sweat at the sight of it all and I wipe them down the front of my jeans. Anxious to get him out of here.

“I know that’s not how you operate, but I’m going out of town on another run and I wanted to be sure you had all you would need. I brought some new shit too. You usually stick with just the pills and Yao, but you have got to try this Black,” he says nudging the bag with the weed in it toward me. Plopping down next to him, I toss the banded money at him and pick up the baggie.

“You know I don’t smoke this shit.” Holding it up to the light I see that it’s not only green but also brown and white mixed in. Like it’s been rolled in something. “What the fuck is it?”

“Bro, it’s weed laced with opium and meth. Get you so high you’ll be feeling good for days.” His face takes on a dreamy smile, like he’s reminiscing about a fond memory and not trying to sell me on some shit. I toss it back at him.

“I’m not fucking with meth. Just the blow and all the pills. You can take the rest of that with you.” I don’t need any of the other shit.

“All the pills?” Glancing at the dozen or so baggies before looking back up at me with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m heading back out in a couple weeks. Not sure when I’ll be able to hit you up again.” My leg starts bouncing, the need for him to leave stronger and stronger the more we talk. I don’t want to talk to him about this shit. I want him to drop and go. I’m not a social user. You won’t find me sharing a line with anyone. I hide away from the world to be alone with whatever it is I’m dipping into. Maybe because I know I need to hide it from Willow, from the guys. And I’ve become accustomed, maybe because in a way I feel if nobody sees me doing it, then I’m not actually doing anything wrong, as fucked up as that sounds.

I stand and gather up all the plastic bags, dropping them in a box on the end table, signaling for him to get the rest of his stuff. I start making my way to the door—I’m finished with him and now he needs to get the fuck out. He takes the hint and slides everything back into his backpack and hurries after me.

“OK, man. Just message me when you get back into town. Always a pleasure doing business with you.” With a little salute he jogs to his Hummer, climbs in and drives away. Finally.

With a steadying breath, I walk back to my couch, stopping at a painting hanging on the wall of me and Wills. It was from a shoot we did for the label. Snatching it up, I saunter over to the end table and grab one from there as well before sitting on the couch. I place the pictures next to me—I’m now surrounded by Willow. My fingers brushing over the canvas, I gaze longingly at our tangled limbs, my hands buried in her hair, and let the pain of losing her wash over me. She was mine. I had her.

Reaching for one of the little bags full of pills, I dump four tablets in my hand, not sure what they are and not caring. I toss them back, swallowing past the dryness of my parched throat. I’m ready to not feel. I don’t want to miss her; I don’t want to remember. Just want to be numb. Lighting a cigarette, I take a long drag, looking down at the picture under my hand through a haze of smoke. Slowly I trace the lines of her leg, her arm. Without thinking I begin tracing out words to our song across the canvas just like I would on her skin. The rhythmic motion of my fingers calms me. That and whatever pills I took. When I start to feel too tired to hold my head up, I grab for the bag of coke. Tapping some out on the table, I pick up the straw and blow through a few lines. I’m not ready to sleep. When I sleep, I dream about Wills, and I can’t handle that shit right now. Another smoke clamped between my teeth, I light it and go back to my tracing. After a few passes though I know something’s not right. That I’m not right. Squeezing my eyes shut I trace over and over, cigarette pinched between my fingers, trying to focus on my breathing that’s getting harder and harder. To the empty room I whisper the lyrics to the song I’m leaving behind in ashes on the canvas. Doing my best to ignore the riot I feel going on inside of me.

Fuck me. I’m done. I’m a dead man.

I should be more upset, but without Willow, I honestly don’t think I give a fuck. At least I’m not doing it with my dick in my hand. Plus, all the greats go out at twenty-seven, right? Close the curtains, baby. I can hear the fat lady singing.

* * *

There are muffled voices around me that I can’t make out. Each word slices through my head like an axe. One whack after another as I try to chase after them. My eyes dart around behind closed lids, the lights on the other side of them unable to penetrate the darkness. Even as it burns them and sends shooting pain to my already tortured brain. I can smell that I’m in a hospital although I can’t pry my eyes open to see. I can smell the death and sickness, the cloying antiseptic mixed with too sweet flowers. Not sure how the fuck I got here, but it can’t be good. I try to speak but can’t make my mouth move and give up, instead trying to block everything out and disappear back into the void. Just as I start to drift again I hear someone say, “Willow,” but I don’t have the strength to stay and try to listen to what they’re talking about. To find out if she’s here. But then I hear it again and I have to fight the pull, the darkness and quiet, no matter how much it hurts. Prying my eyes open, I blink rapidly, moaning at the pain. I try to raise my hands to cover my eyes, but I can’t. They’re being held by someone, or something. Blinking I try to bring the room into focus, but it’s like being in the middle of a fucking snow globe. Everything is fuzzy and sounds like we’re underwater. Law’s face swims in front of me. I can hear him calling for me as someone I don’t know pulls him away. I try to call out to him, but nothing comes out. And then everything slows, and quiets, and it all fades to black.

The pounding in my head is like a persistent tapping instead of the all out hammering it was before. My throat is scratchy and my mouth has to be full of cotton. The light sneaking in under my cracked lids doesn’t make me cry out in pain like it did before, so I open them slowly, bit by bit. Afraid to move my body since my insides literally ache, I scan the room without turning my head. Covered in flowers it looks like a God damn funeral home. Next to my bed Law sits in a chair, head thrown back, snoring softly, with his feet propped on the end of my bed. Nudging his foot with mine, I watch as he comes to. When his eyes land on mine, I do my best to give a small smile, but I can’t around the tube protruding from my mouth.

“Hey, man, hey. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get the nurse,” Law says excitedly. I try to move my arms to swipe at the annoying tube, but find again that someone is holding them down. Only there’s no one else in the room. Tearing my gaze away from Lawson’s face, I look down to find my wrists strapped to the bed with thick, padded leather. What the ever loving fuck? I yank and struggle, but they don’t budge, and all I do is tire myself out. With wild eyes I search for Law who stepped into the doorway to call for someone. He comes back to the bed with a man dressed in scrubs right behind him.

“You’re awake. Fucking hell. I’m so happy to see your ugly fucking ass awake.” He doesn’t look happy. I try to raise my hands again to pull the tube from my throat so I can speak, and again, there’s no give. The man in the scrubs is talking to me but I can’t hear him over the screaming in my head. He shines a light in first one eye and then the other, and still he speaks and still I can’t make out what he’s saying. I try to convince the demons inside me howling in anger to quiet, but it’s no use, and before I can bend them to my will, I feel myself slipping away again.

Weeks, days, minutes, hours…I have no clue how much time has passed, only that I’ve slipped in and out. Awake long enough to see that Willow isn’t here. Long enough for the guys to jump excitedly, the doctors to pierce my skull with their little light in my eyes, and then I’m gone. This time, this time feels different though. My skull isn’t throbbing, just pulsing. My eyes feel full of grit, my mouth and throat too. It’s clear of the tube though, so that’s a plus. Testing to see what else they’ve freed me of I flex my wrists but no luck. I’m still strapped to this fucking bed. Blinking the room into focus, I see Law sitting in the same chair next to me, looking down at his phone, and across the room Judge has himself crammed into a recliner with a small blanket, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Or me…the almost dead.

Opening my mouth, I try to speak but a weird croaking sound comes out, startling myself and Law. He looks up at me, grinning. Judge stops snoring and sits up confused.

“You gonna stay with us for more than a minute this time?” Lawson asks as he comes closer, offering me a sip of water. Taking it I nod but stop when my brain starts to rattle a bit. When my mouth is at least wet, I speak.

“Why am I tied to the bed, Law?” I ask, not recognizing my own voice it’s so weak. He looks to Judge who is now making his way over to us.

“A couple reasons, Stone,” Judge says in a sober tone. He takes a deep breath, glances away and then pins me with watchful eyes. “Did you try to kill yourself? Did you take all that shit on purpose because Willow wasn’t home?” he asks carefully. Eyes narrowed, I start to deny it and tell him to go fuck himself but don’t. I stop to think about what I was doing, and why.

“I wasn’t…I wouldn’t…I just wanted to forget.” My voice is low, my eyes already growing heavy. Pressing my head against the pillow, I look at each of them, one after the other. “I took all of them on purpose, but not to off myself.” Admitting that to them is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I know they’ve known every time I was high, but we’ve never spoken about it. They would ask, I would deny, and that was the end. Willow’s the only one that called me on my shit. Their eyes never leave my face, I can see them trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or not.

“That’s one of the reasons you’re strapped down. They weren’t sure what they were dealing with. Weren’t sure if you woke up if you’d be a danger to yourself,” Judge says grimly. I nod in acceptance. Embarrassed.

“And the other?”

They glance at each other, and then back at me, deciding something with a shared look between them. “You’ve had some mild seizures,” Judge informs me.

Again I nod, closing my eyes. “Okay.” What else can I say? Nothing. I don’t have the strength, and I know why I was seizing. I know because I can feel the need to be high even now clawing at me. Making my insides roil and my anxiety climb. The urge to lash out at them, tell them to fuck off, is so strong I squeeze my eyes tighter still. Maybe if I pretend to sleep they’ll go away. Maybe the doctor will give me something to help with the pain. Unlikely. I’m in the hospital because of an overdose, not a motherfucking car accident. But I just need…something.

“Willow.” Her name falls from my lips before I can stop myself. Cracking my eyes just enough to see them, I watch as Judge shifts from foot to foot and Law looks at the ground. She’s not here. But why would she be? She wasn’t at home. How would she even know I’m in the hospital? She changed her number. But I didn’t. My eyes pop open and I ignore the pain it causes. I feel like my whole body is tender, rubbed raw. “My phone?” I croak out quietly. Sipping again from the straw Law is offering me.

“Busted into a million fucking pieces, dude,” he tells me, face pinched.

“Judge, I need it.”

“Stone. You’re in the damn hospital because you OD’d on who knows what, nearly burnt your damn house down, and you’re worried about your damn phone?” Judge asks, exasperation and anger making his tone harsh, grating on my nerves.

“Get me the fucking phone!” I demand as sternly as I can in my weakened state, my breathing becoming labored the more pissed I get.

“Hey, calm down. We’ll get you the phone. No worries, okay?” Law soothes. He knows me. Knows why it’s so important.

“Wha-what do you mean I nearly burnt my house down?” I ask them, trying to fight my way through the fog.

“You must have been smoking. You burned through a picture and it set off the alarm and when the security company couldn’t get a hold of you, they called me since I was next on the list. They sent out the cavalry, thank fuck. We met them here.” He looks at me and I can see the worry in his eyes still. “You scared the ever loving shit out of us, man.”

I don’t get the chance to reply, ask about the house, or even apologize to Law. The door opens and a doctor I think I remember from the last time I was awake comes in.

“Ah, Mr. Lockhart, you’re awake. Maybe we can keep you that way,” he says in a jovial, irritating as fuck voice. “Gentlemen, if you’ll leave us alone for a few minutes.” The Doctor dismisses them with a smile. As they walk to the door, Lawson assures me they won’t be far.

“Judge. Get me my phone.” With clenched fists I try to lighten my tone. “Please.” He looks like he’s about to argue and then nods and stalks out.

Turning to the doctor, I watch him warily. “Can you please unstrap me? I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

He glances up from his chart, “Weren’t you though?” Head cocked he watches me.

“No. I wasn’t. It was an accident.” I don’t know how much to even say to him. How much can I tell him without incriminating myself? I vaguely remember the police being in the room one of the times I came to. Can everyone just leave me the fuck be? Changing the subject I ask what I really want to fucking know. “When can I leave?” My head is swimming now. I grind my back teeth trying to fight the nausea that’s all of a sudden got me ready to hurl all over Dr. Gold.

“Well, that’s up to you, Stone. We’ve been slowly weaning you off of the meds for the last two days since you’re clearly breathing fine on your own. Now we wait for you to keep conscious for longer periods of time and you’ll have to be evaluated by a psychiatrist. It’ll be up to them, and you, when you can be discharged.” His smile is too bright, his tone condescending, and I want to punch him in the fucking face.

“Whatever,” I mutter. Then something he said registers with me, they’ve been giving me drugs. I’m sure not what I normally score but I’ll take whatever. “Can you give me something for the pain then?” The bitterness is there in my voice no matter how I try to bury it.

“I’m sorry, no. The attending psychiatrist will be in here shortly now that you’re up and actually communicating, and they’ll be in charge of your care and your meds. We’ve been weaning you off in order to help with your detoxification. The rest is up to him.” Glaring I watch as he straightens. “You’re a very lucky young man. This could have ended worse than it did. The amount of drugs in your system should have killed you. Would have killed you had you not been brought in as quickly as you were.” When I don’t express my gratitude or acknowledge what he sees as my luck, he closes the chart in his hand and hangs it on the foot of my bed with a clang. “Do you have any questions that I can answer for you, Mr. Lockhart?” I give a curt shake of my head. “I’ll let Dr. Risa know that she can come see you now.” And then he’s gone. Shoes squeaking across the floor as he exits.

Not sure why, but I test my restraints one more time. When they don’t budge, I just close my eyes and try to quiet my racing thoughts enough to go back to sleep. Or back into a coma. At least there I was allowed some fucking drugs.

* * *

“I’ve been in here for five fucking days. I want to go the fuck home, Law,” I shout. Pacing in front of the window of the too small hospital room.

“Dude. That’s not even an option right now. You have two choices: jail or rehab. That’s it. End of story,” Lawson tells me for the tenth God damn time. “Judge busted his balls working with the record label and the lawyers to get the charges against you dropped and that’s the only bargain they’re willing to make.” Arms folded across his chest, he has his feet planted wide like he thinks he’s Billy fucking bad ass. He’s not.

“I don’t need to go to fucking rehab,” I spit, scratching at the back of my neck and the prickling under my skin. “We’re supposed to be back on tour in a few days,” I remind him. Trying a different tactic.

“Tour’s been canceled until you get your shit clean, Stone. It’s not a negotiation.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m a kid. I’m a grown ass man. A fucking rock star! I fuck who I want, I drink what I want, and I do whatever fucking shit I want.” My voice rises louder and louder until I’m yelling, veins bulging in my neck, and still, Lawson looks unfazed.

“Yeah, well, motherfucker, you’re not doing any of that now, are you? Where’s Willow, bro? You ain’t fucking her, that’s for damn sure. Can’t get any of that smooth ass whiskey you love so much in here or those fucking pills, and you damn sure can’t get any of that nose candy you’ve been trying to kill yourself with,” he bites out with a little more heat than before but still looking calm and collected as I stand here sweating and ready to throw the fuck up. “You keep living like a rock star you’re gonna die like a fucking rock star,” Lawson vows solemnly. “Now get your shit. The plane leaves in an hour. You check into rehab tonight. Judge pulled some strings, has you set up in a nice place called Paradise in Hawaii. Real fucking fancy. Has your alias and everything else taken care of already.”

“Law—”

“No other option, Stone. This is your only choice,” he interrupts. “Listen, if you ever want to get Willow back, you have got to be clean, man. I promise to hire someone different, someone more competent than the guy we have now, to find her while you’re working on you.” Holding out his hand to me he asks, “Deal?”

Turning away from him to stare out the window, still scratching at the skin that feels too fucking tight, I mumble, “Just take me to fucking Paradise.”

STONED AVAILABLE NOW: