“You’re not.”
I start patting down the pockets of his jacket and pants. He tries shoving me away when I reach the right one, which means he’s definitely hiding something he shouldn’t have. I quickly dart to pull whatever it is out, going rigid when I see the dime bag of white powder in my hands.
Rylee’s sharp breath barely registers as I stare at the drugs I’m holding. She softly says, “I think you should give those to me.”
But I don’t. “No.”
“Garrick—”
I shake the bag in front of my friend. “I thought you said you were clean. Hmm?” When he doesn’t comment, looks out the window instead, I about lose my shit. “You said you were sober, mate. Do the guys know?”
He says nothing.
“Fuck.” I grip the bag in my palm and clench it in my fists.
Rylee puts her hand on my leg. “Maybe they’re not hi—”
I laugh bitterly. “Oldest bullshit in the book, love. They’re not mine. I’m holding them for someone else. I was never going to use it. I’ve said it all before, and I’m sure he does too. We’re all a bunch of fucking liars.”
She shrinks back, and I don’t have time to feel bad about my tone before paying attention to the man whose leg has begun bouncing. “I want to know how long.”
Nothing.
“For Christ’s sakes, man!” My voice startles both the people in the back with me, Zayne’s eyes cutting to me cautiously. “If you don’t start talking, I swear to God I’ll open this bag and take what’s in it. Is that what you want? Me to throw away years of sobriety?”
He pales even more. “No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I—” Stopping himself, he tries reaching for my hand and taking it back, but I fight him on it. Between the two of us playing tug-of-war, the bag breaks and white powder goes everywhere.
On me.
On Rylee.
On Zayne.
Rylee gasps, Zayne gapes, and I stare at the powder coating my hands and floating in the air, taunting my nose. I breathe in heavily, jaw tight, head turned away from the mess, and stare at the ashen expression on my wife’s face.
“G-Garrick?” Her breath is barely audible as her eyes go to the drugs. Taking action, she uses the skirt of her dress to wipe off my skin and clothes frantically while Zayne sits there and does nothing.
Doesn’t help.
Doesn’t say a word.
I feel it.
The anger.
The rage.
The restlessness deep in my bones.
Rylee takes my face in her hands, keeping me from looking back down. “You’re okay,” she says, nodding quickly. “We’ll be home soon, and you can change and wash up. Okay? You’re good.”
My nostrils twitch.
My lungs sting.
I suddenly remember with great clarity the night at the Lazy Croc when I saw Rylee for the first time with Zayne.
I’d wanted her—wanted to take her from him. Wanted to appreciate what he clearly couldn’t. It all comes flooding back. The nervousness on her face. The way her hands would fidget by her sides or in her lap. How she wouldn’t drink whatever he’d put in front of her so I’d help get rid of it.
I watched as she followed him to the bathroom, phone in hand. I knew, deep down, what she was planning to do. And I let it happen.
Supplied the drugs.
Watched the outcome.
“We’re okay,” she whispers, rubbing her fingers over my skin while her eyes water with anxious, adrenaline-filled tears.
Zayne did that to her.
In a grim, no room for argument tone, I say, “It’s time the band called it.”
It’s not directed at Rylee, but the man sitting on the other side of me witnessing the panic attack he caused in the woman trying to keep me from making a bad choice.
“I’m done,” I add, leaning my forehead against hers and closing my eyes.
It’s only then Zayne speaks. “Okay.”
The breaking point peaked.
And we’ll all go down if I don’t stop it.
I look at Rylee’s ruined dress and frown knowing her worries the second she slid on the pristine material. “Like I said,” I tell her quietly, “at least it can be dry cleaned.”
33
Rylee
“After pictures of Violet Wonders frontrunner Garrick Matthews and drummer Zayne Gray surfaced with Matthews’ wife Rylee Simmons outside The Beverly Hilton Hotel where the Golden Globes were held, speculation began circulating the internet regarding the sobriety of Matthews and Gray. Videos taken by bystanders show the famous band members being hauled into their vehicle shortly after the final award of the night. This comes four years after Matthews’ second stint in rehab.”
Fire burns in the pit of my belly as I fumble with the remote control until the show is turned off. There’s no way people who saw any video from that night believe Garrick is the one using. Not when Zayne could barely stand on his own two feet.
It’s been a week since me and Garrick helped Zayne inside and settled into a spare room. The Australian singer set his friend in the walk-in shower clothes and all, turned the cold water on, and blocked the door so he couldn’t get out until he sobered up. Only after did he call his friends and demand they all come over for an emergency meeting.
And it didn’t end well based on the yelling coming from downstairs.
I’d hid in our room, body by the cracked door gripping the wood while the five Violet Wonders members hashed it out. Not once did I hear Zayne speak up as accusations and arguments flew through the air, cutting and slicing in every direction until a door slammed sometime later while others cursed.
The only thing I’d heard loud and clear from where I eavesdropped was Garrick’s firm statement that left little to be argued with. “This band is tearing us apart. Because of my choices. Because of Zayne’s decisions. We can’t handle it anymore. I’ll make sure a statement
