Lola's fingers tighten around mine, like she can sense the direction of my thoughts. I squeeze back and we start up the stairs, running into Turner as we hit the second floor. His face is red and he's panting like he's run a marathon. He tries to smile at us, but he looks closer to tears than he does joy.
“This place is wicked awesome,” he says, sniffling and brushing hair from his forehead. “Killer. I picked out my and Naomi's room. It's the one at the end of the hall with the black bedspread and a bathroom ten times the size of my mother's trailer.” With a salute, Turner moves past us and back down the stairs, calling out for Trey.
I take a breath and pull Lola along with me, down a hallway with cream colored marble floors and metal sconces on the wall. It's all so … sterile. We're going to have to figure out a way to make this place feel like a home, all twenty-five thousand fucking square feet of it. Our footsteps sound loud against the floors, like intruders, bums breaking into the back window of an empty house for the night. I get a sudden flash of memory, a fuzzy blur of myself doing just that, getting high in the back bedroom of some poor fuck's three bedroom house. I was such a blight on suburbia after Asuka died. If it hadn't been for Travis … I might not have even survived that time period in my life.
“I'm feeling … overwhelmed,” I whisper as Lola lets go of my hand and opens one of the many doors that border this antiseptic fucking hallway. She glances over her shoulder at me, breath coming in small spurts. Maybe I shouldn't have let her walk up those stairs?
“Ain't the only one,” she whispers as she raises an eyebrow and turns back to face the extravagant splendor of the bedroom. Holy fuck. I run my fingers through my hair, try to take in the four poster bed, the balcony doors framed with more curtains that I've ever seen in my fucking life, a pair of couches near the fireplace and a bathroom door that's thankfully closed. I don't know if I could handle much more than this in one go around. “There's a bloody living room in here,” Lola says, pausing in the doorway that separates the front half of the bedroom with the back. There's a pair of white doors that Lola slides experimentally from the walls with a mumbled curse under her breath. Shit. Suburbia would've worked just fine for me.
I move across the room, trying to count the dozens of footsteps that it takes me to get to the balcony and open the doors. I'm staring down at the pool now, at Turner stripping off his T-shirt and Trey sitting in his wheelchair nearby.
“This is ridiculous,” I say and they both look up at me. Turner grins, but his face still holds that inner pain that I hope to fucking Christ doesn't morph into the soul drenching melancholia that I used to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “I feel like a jewelry box and a Pottery Barn fucked and had an illegitimate baby – and then it threw up this house. What the hell is all of this? Do people really live in places like this?”
Turner shrugs.
“This place is, like, ten times swankier than a Pottery Barn, Ronnie. Get used to it. You're famous now.” And then he dives into the pool and I sigh, lifting my chin up and gazing across the admittedly small piece of property. The entire mansion sits on less than an acre, taking up most of it in its sprawling arms. Guess that's the price we pay for location, location, location, eh? I curl my fingers around the intricate metal bannister of the balcony and try to catch a glimpse of the street. How long until people find us here? Until they start running celebrity home tours past our front gate?
“Oh, sorry.” I turn and find Josh retreating out the door. “Didn't know you guys where in here.” He pauses a moment and looks at Lola, lying sprawled across the massive bed. I glance up and catch his blue eyes, gesturing him back into the room.
“Stay for a minute,” I say and he swallows hard, sweeping blonde hair back from his face. He scoots past Lola like he's afraid of her and pauses next to me, looking down at Turner in his boxer shorts with a scowl. “I'm sorry about all of this,” I say and Josh raises his eyebrows, blue eyes confused. Fuck. He's so young. Way too young to be dealing with all of this crap. He's not even twenty-one yet. I should've said no when Milo presented him to us as a possible candidate for bassist. At that point in my life though, I couldn't have cared less. Hell, I can't even remember our first meeting. I was probably high.
The crook of my elbow throbs, remembering the sweet kiss of the needle. I have to squeeze my fingers tighter around the railing to hold back the craving. Now that we're not on tour, that we've finally gotten some answers to our questions, I feel lost. Like, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Where do I go from here? I'm not used to real life, not even one coated in candy like this. I need to get out of here for a while.