Leed Three Mornings After Ashlynn's Double Date With Cam
"Leed. Leed. Bloody hell, Leed. Wake up!"
Riley pounds me on the chest. I smack at him like annoying gnat.
"Fuck off."
"I will not fuck off. Get up."
I sift through the tequila haze. I lift my head off the couch and smack my lips. Pretty much everything north of my shoulders feels like sandpaper and everything south feels raw meat that's been through a grinder. My eyesight is blurry, too.
Benders are fucking murder on a body. Especially a diabetic body.
Some kind of equipment that sounds like a jackhammer erupts nearby and cracks what's left of my brain. "Fuck," I groan, putting my hands to ears and shooting a resentful eye to the cleaning crew bustling around this trashed out trendy club.
The horrific noise is a floor polisher. I snort. This place is more in need of a pressure washer. The immediate vicinity of the VIP smells like a garbage can spoiling in the sun, and even with blurry vision I see half eaten sushi pooling in trays of spilled drinks, smeared lines on the table, and a chic passed out on the opposite couch from me--in her own vomit.
LA clubs are a fucking disaster in the light of day.
I lay my head back on the sofa and close my eyes again, against the god-awful fluorescent lights.
Someone kicks my foot aggressively. "You heard the man. Get the fuck up, brother."
I laugh weakly. They are taking turns sobering me up each morning. Fun times. Preacher's on duty today. A mix of righteous indignation, tough love and daddy-guilt. But at least there will be cheeseburgers. Adam's hangover cure always involves grease.
I slide off the couch on my knees in front of the table, briefly consider scraping up the coke for a little pick me up, but I'm more drunk than hungover and to be honest I'd rather stay that way. I bypass the coke and reach for the tequila on the table, only to find Adam plucking it from my hand. "No fucking way, dude. No more day drinking at rehearsals. We haven't had a clean run-through yet. The fucking Grammy's are in two days, Leed. You gotta get right."
"Fuck you, Preacher. Who died and made you Lord of Leed?" I laugh at my own lame-ass joke.
I guess the guys are tag teaming today, because Bodie comes strolling through the club, with Marley picking her way behind him, eyes wide. She's seeing the drugs everywhere, but her face remains passive. Bodie, on the other hand, ignores the drugs and grins widely.
"Ease up, Adam. I got this." Bodes reaches out a hand to me. "Come on Big Dawg, I got the boards in the truck."
I eye Bodie lazily. Life is fucking crazy. Three months ago, I had my shit together and Bodie was a straight-up junkie. Now, I've been drunk for five weeks and Bodieâwell he's still getting his fix, but methadone treatment is not the same as a heroin haze. He's on a regimen. He's alert, healthy and composed.
And he wants to go surfing. We haven't done that in years.
When we first came to LA, Bodie and I went full on So-Cal. We had the money and the enthusiasm to do it. We would throw down at the clubs all night, hotel a couple of honies who knew the game far better than we did. Before sunrise the girls would already be gone, and Bodie and I were on dawn patrol out at Zuma Beach.
It was the place where we put our crazy rockstar lifestyle in perspective. The place where Bodie and I became more than just bandmates. Straddling those boards, waiting for the perfect wave, we finally talked about all the things we'd written each other when he was in juvi. The things we were too shit-cool to talk about when he got out and we started hanging out in Athens, working at his uncle's bar. We talked about our shit pasts, our frustrations, our poverty, our burn to break out of the traps that seemed like steel, and how the newfound money and fame didn't erase that burn like we thought it would.
Surfing with a brah is better therapy than a thousand hours on some shrink's couch. I reach up and grip my hand around his thumb. He jerks me up easily.
"You're so fucking skinny, how can you be that strong?" I mutter.
"I'm just mean as fuck, I guess," he says lightly, but his eyes shoot to Marley and she looks away.
I wonder if he thinks he's being "mean" to her. Asking her to put up with Arabella definitely isn't the nicest thing. Arabella has been in Uber-bitch mode hanging around rehearsals. Her movie got canceled and she's about to get canned at the label too, she just doesn't know it yet, but the thing that's making her so bitchy is that she's not getting any love from the media and she's losing Instagram followers by the day.
Yeah, she's running around rehearsals screeching into her phone like a banshee, and the only one she's nice to is Bodie. She's all over him again, I think because she's running scared. But she's still drinking and druggin' and she hates Marley for standing like a force field between Bodie and Arabella's party plans. And Bodie is trying to mediate between them, of course.
They aren't the only ones that Arabella makes tense. I feel guilty as fuck everytime I look at Arabella, and then there's Adam. He looks at Arabella like she murdered his dog instead of perpetrating a wakeâup-blow on him. Her presence makes him growly as a fucking bearâto everyone except Mac and Lennon.
Or maybe he's just losing his edge. Maybe he's gotten too used to the LA of the South, and he's having trouble getting his real LA rock star game back.
Predictably, Adam begins to protest Bodie's surf plan. "Fuck no. There's no time for surfing. Matt has called an extra practice before our rehearsal time at the Staples Center today."
That shouldn't surprise me. This very unusual performance we are rehearsing is a big deal, and I know I've been fucking it up during the run-throughs. Matt is a perfectionist like Trace and I've been pissing him off, not giving a shit about my mistakes. But to be perfectly honest, I'm not that worried about the live performance. I can sing Matt's goddamn song...there isn't a person on the fucking planet couldn't sing it. It's iconic. The show will be fine...as long as I'm sober by then.
But.
Matt del Marco.
You don't blow him off.
I run a hand over my grimy face. "Ok, fine, lets go to rehearsal. Riley is there a hotel somewhere where I can grab a quick shower?"
"Fuck no. I already told you we're going surfing, you'll be clean enough when we're done. Marley's got your shit in the truck." Bodie jerks his head and grabs Marley by the hand, walking ahead like the discussion is over. He's acting weird. He's acting more like Traceâall in charge and shit. I wonder what kind of shit's been happening in the A to cause the change.
"What the fuck am I supposed to tell Matt?" Adam says in exasperation.
Bodie swings around, walking backwards. "Tell him Soundcrush doesn't fucking answer to him. Tell him it's our time now, and we are not his opening act. Tell him we'll be at our contractually agreed-upon rehearsal for the Grammy's, but he can fuck right off until then, as far as I'm concerned." Bodie pulls out his phone and raises an eyebrow at Adam. "Unless you want me to tell him?"
"No need. I'll handle Matt." Riley says coolly. "It's better for Leed to have one clean run-through this afternoon than a sloppy morning set that just pisses Matt off more."
"Finally, someone talking sense," I say, picking up a warm half bottle of light beer and taking a swig, just because I need to swish my mouth. Adam jerks it out of my hand and shoves me. "What the fuck is wrong with you Leed? You are better than this. You can't just...self-destruct like this."
I look down at my shoulder. The mild throb of where Adam tagged me is just like everything else...an excuse to feel anything but the absence of Ashlynn.
"Do that again, because I would love to fucking lay you out, Brother. You've been pissing me off all week."
I pick through the selection of left over beer that litters the table. Ah. A nearly full Corona.
"Beach breakfast," I grin at Adam and turn the bottle up. Adam makes a sound of disgust and squeezes his temples. Poor bastard, he doesn't do well on no sleep. Between early morning press tapings, the late-night club appearances, Lennon's middle of the night feedings, and losing what little sleep is left worrying about Cain Gannon running around LA talking complete shit about Mac to any disreputable fake-journalist that will listenânot to mention the deception required to walk a line between letting John Rourke manage Gannon and our new back-up security checking up on John Rourkeâ Adam is at the limit of his bullshit tolerance.
I know that, and yet I keep chugging the Corona, because I am at the limit of my pain tolerance. I finally understand what Ashlynn has been through. Sometimes, oblivion is the only way you can survive.
Riley squeezes Adam's shoulder. "Let them go. I will handle Matt. But Leed, do try to get sober out there on the break-line, yeah? Or if you can'tâdo us all a favor and drown?"
"Fuck you, Riley," Bodie says, but I put a hand on Bodie's chest.
"Jesus, calm the fuck down, Bodes," I say wearily. "Riley is just joking."
"Of course," Riley says dryly, and pushes Adam in front of him. "Marley-darling, you'll come with us, please? Adam could use a good talking down by a professional."
She nods and gives Adam a smile. He groans and bumps her shoulder. "He's probably right. Since we don't have a practice this morning, can we do one of those guided relaxation things? I need a fucking happy place."
"You bet," she pats him on the shoulder. I'm not too drunk to glare at their backs or notice that Bodie is doing the same.
Then we're alone in the quiet club. I tag his shoulder. "Don't worry. Preacher ain't gonna side-piece your girl. And if he does, Mac will literally go Sweeney Todd on him...hack him into little pieces, make sausage of him and eat him for breakfast...and then...problem solved for both of us. You get your girl back, I get my Mac and Cheese."
He flashes his bright whites. "She ain't my girl, man. You know I'm still with Arabella."
"What I don't know is why." We're getting in his truck now. He passes over a sack over breakfast burritos and a clear cup of what looks like a Bloody Mary to-go. I sigh in relief and sip, then swallow with disgust. "What the fuck, there's no vodka in this."
"Jesus Christ, you fucking sot--Adam is right, you know. You've got to sober up," Bodie threatens me with a breakfast burrito. "Eat."
Two hours later, I'm still drunk from last night but the salty sea, the punishment of a dozen drunk wipe-outs, and the high of ripping one good run have brought me back up to functional drunk.
Now we're passing on our waves, floating in the glass, and Bodie is beating out a rhythm on his board. "I know you're gutted over Ashlynn, but what's the end game, here?"
I don't want to tell Bodie about what Dev, Trace and I have planned. He's got less room to maneuver legally than the rest of us, because of his juvi record. Plus, I just can't bring myself to ask him to risk jail again.
But it doesn't matter, anyway. What I'm planning to do after the Grammy's is now only an attempt to right things for Ashlynn. It's not about the two of us anymore.
See, I already fucked my end-game.
I turn my face up into the sun, trying to accept that its shine is the poor substitute I'm going to have to learn to live with. I have the sudden realization that it's not all that different than Bodie and his methadone. If he can live without his strongest desire, so can I.
"Naw, she won't take me back now," I say. "Not after Sophie."
"You don't know that," he reasons. "People fuck up. People forgive. It wasn't exactly cheating, if you were broken up."
Are we broken up? On a break? What did she say--taking a breather? Is it real? It is just for show until we find some way to deal with Von? What is she thinking about the whole Megan Davis tragedy right now? Is she waiting for me to somehow make it right?
I don't fucking know. All I know for sure is it felt like I cheated. I grip my board because the hazy memory of what I did two nights ago throws my world into spin.
Clubbing has been a misery for me, and the worst torture has been fending off the girls while I'm completely drunk off my ass. Four days ago, I got so wasted I almost hoteled Sophie Marin, but the talisman that I've been carrying constantly to remind me what I'm fighting for finally kicked in. When she started unzipping my pants in the limo, I was staring at Ashlynn's sunflower keychain, and my heart was filled with the most peaceful sense of home.
I knew in that moment Ashlynn was my home, and I couldn't let Sophie wreck that.
I put Sophie off me and out at her hotel. I passed out in the limo on the ride back to Calabasas.
But then, the next morning, there were pictures of Ashlynn and Dr. Why-Wont-He-Just-Fucking-Die-From-His-Cancer on their way to dinner, with her parents.
One big happy family.
He had his arm wrapped around her, shielding her from the paps, but the way she was looking directly into the camera in that pink dress, her look of anger, and the way she had her arm wrapped around himâI knew she was sending me a message. A response to my press statement and the pictures of me with with Sophie.
She was giving me the big public send off. She was choosing him.
And you know what? I couldn't blame her at all. He's the better choice for her. He will give her stability, the family she wants, a house in the suburbsâa beautiful life. She will feel like the good girl she is. With me, the shadows of her past life will always be cast upon the walls of every stadium, every club, every bar, every scene I have to live in.
Still, I couldn't let it go. I had to know for sure. I hounded Kat all day at rehearsals to call Ashlynn and find out what the fuck was up with her date with Cam. Kat tried to play dumb but my repeated harassment of her pissed Trace off so bad that he went off, telling me the truth in the process.
"Goddammit Leed...leave Kat alone! She doesn't want to tell you, okay? So I'll do it. Ash spent the night at Cam's place. The security guys called me this morning with concerns about the lack of security there. SShe's still there. I'm sorry, I don't like it worth a damn either, but she's a grown-ass woman and you handled this wrong, man. I warned you not to fuck with her heart and now you have. Her fucking Cam? That's on you."
I didn't think it was possible to get even drunker and not pass out, but I rose to the occasion. Later that night, I lost her sunflower keychain, somewhere in the string of clubs. And then...I found Sophie. My home was already wrecked, and all my days doomed to gray, so what the fuck did it matter anymore?
Six minutes of meaningless sex with Sophie was all it took for me to realize, it did still matter. My love for Ashlynn mattered. It doesn't matter what a press statement says or what Ashlynn is doing right now with Cam, I still love her and I betrayed that love by being weak, by succumbing to a moment of relief with someone I don't even like, much less love.
I put Sophie out at her hotel again, and that limo ride home...I didn't pass out. I kept drinking. It's been thirty six hours now that I've been reeling drunk and the truth is, it doesn't help.
No, it doesn't help. I felt the same reeling drunk as I feel right now, rising and falling on the swell of the ocean. I feel like a burning vessel, adrift and doomed to sink into ashes.
Bodie reaches over from his board and squeezes my shoulder. "You can fix this, Leed. If you get steady, things will look different."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
I don't believe that at all, but what I do believe nowâafter some serious effortâit's impossible to drink your way out of hell.
So I'll learn to live with the burn. I'll sober up for the guys, for the Grammy's, for the sake of Matt del Marco's blood pressure, and for the shit that's gonna go down after.
I definitely need to be sober for that last bit.
Then I can get drunk again.
Aw man. Leed has really messed up. Can things get any worse? Can Ash forgive him for having sex with Sophie?
Hmmmm....let's check in and see what's on Ashlynn's end. Did she really stay at Cam's place? I hoping to give you a double update when I finish the edit on the next chapter that's pretty much written already....Predictions?