I needed to grow up, but growing up meant letting go of who I’d been for the past seven years. The last time I was sober was when I was twenty. I didn’t know myself anymore. Not without the drugs. There was a stranger in my house, and that stranger was me .

The only thing I didn’t agree with him about was my parents. I didn’t need to talk to my family. My family did enough talking about me. To the press. Often. Twats.

If Blake thought it was some kind of a pivotal moment where I snapped out of it and finally understood how low I’d stooped, he obviously gave me too much credit. I knew I was in deep trouble, and that I was a piece of shit, but I still had a few more inches of abyss before I really hit rock bottom. Blake dragged the coffee table between us aside and squatted down between my legs. It felt intimate and weird, and I groaned with annoyance. He plastered his hands on my knees.

“My PI can’t track the person who sends you alcohol. Can you? Think hard.”

“It’s Bushell,” I said without as much as a blink. “Who else could it be?”

Blake shook his head, sighing. “Stop it, mate. He’s not after you.”

Bollocks, but whatever.

“Maybe it’s Lucas,” I sneered.

“You’re insane,” Blake muttered.

I decided to bend my mate a little harder, see if he could break. There was something beautiful in fucking up my own life and alienating people by choice. It gave me the illusion that I was in control. That the choice was mine.

“I don’t know, Blake. Maybe it’s Alfie. Maybe it’s Jenna. Hell, maybe it’s even you. Maybe you want me to cut this tour short so you can go back and fuck her like you’ve been planning for the past few years. Who knows? Every single person I work with wants to either fuck me or fuck me over. Some—both. Nothing surprises me anymore, other than the sheer astonishment at finding someone who doesn’t want or need anything from me. You wanted me to go to rehab? I did. You wanted me to write an album? I am. Now you want my trust? That can’t happen, Blake. Not anymore. You’ve done so much shit in the name of saving my brand, you don’t get to keep the fucking friend title.” I stood up, adrenaline running in my veins as I shoved his hands aside. These words had sat dormant inside me for far too long, I realized. Blake always wanted what was best for us . His career was intertwined in mine, and he had good intentions—Billboard hits, sobriety, and stability in mind—but he didn’t think twice or ever stop to wonder before he ran people over on his way there. Including yours truly. He’d covered so many of my scandals by dumping the blame on other people, and putting the blame on me when he fucked up things, I knew better than to think he was the same guy I’d shared a two-bedroom flat with in Clapham. We were both different. Blinded by money and destroyed by fame. Want to ruin a relationship in less than five steps? Put a few million quid between the two people and see what happens.

Blake shot up, so now we were in front of each other, panting hard, ready to yield our verbal swords. It was liberating to finally let all the shit that bubbled beneath the surface rise.

“Everything I’ve done was to help you. I saved you.” He bared his teeth.

“And I made you,” I said, dumping my lit cigarette on the floor and stomping on it. I balled his shirt and crushed our noses together. “Never forget that, Blake. Before you were Alex Winslow’s manager, you were just a loser from Watford who had to split rent three ways to live in South London. I made you, and I will undo you if need be. So I suggest you find the bastard who sends me alcohol—because by now I think we both know it’s not the hotel staff that brings it to my door. It’s who has access to a lot of people or can bribe his way with the hotel staff. And that’s the last time I hear you talk about my family. If I want to see them, I will. Right now, I’d be more worried about our relationship, mate .”

It was the last word that made his face crumple.

I slammed the door so hard in Blake’s face, I wouldn’t be surprised if his ears rang deep into 2034. Stalking down the corridor, I took deep, desperate breaths, trying to get to the break room without killing anyone on my way. I needed something strong. Or a good lay. Where the fuck was Indie, anyway?

Blake was right. At the heart of it all, I was still an addict. If there had been alcohol or coke anywhere near me, I would’ve consumed the hell out of it without even taking a moment to think it through.

Maybe it was time to call in some groupie favors.

Maybe it was time to live up to my reputation and snort my frustration away.

The only reason I stopped by Lucas’ slightly ajar door was because I heard weeping. It was soft and polite, like the person who was crying didn’t have the guts to do it all the way. I halted, my back to the wall next to Lucas’ door.

“I’m so sorry,” I heard Waitrose say, and to that, Indie cried even harder. What had he done to her? Nothing, most likely. She was crying about something else, which threw my mind in overdrive.

It was probably family-related. She’d been dealt shitty cards in life, but unlike me, she was still deep into the poker game, trying to fool people into thinking she could win. And Waitrose was the person she’d run to when sorrow found her.

The thing about flashbacks is that they really do your head in. His relationship with Fallon was the first to spring into mind. I’d been on tour, and he’d stayed in Los Angeles to help Blake and Jenna with the demos I’d left behind. He’d been there for Fallon when she’d overdosed, and when she needed to pour her little, black heart out. He’d been there for her the first time she sought out Will Bushell, and he’d been there for them when they snuck around behind my back and started fucking at the very same Chateau Marmont I stayed at these days, because I’d had to sell my L.A. apartment and couldn’t even stomach the idea of calling myself a permanent resident of that god-awful city.

“Let it all out,” Lucas said.

I leaned forward and watched them through the crack between the door and the frame. They were sitting on the same loveseat, her head pressed against his chest.

He kissed her forehead.

He kissed her forehead.

He kissed her forehead.

He kissed her goddamn fucking forehead.

“I love my brother, Luc. But I don’t like him. At all.”

“We’ll sort it out, Indie. We will.”