Just go. Don’t say it.
Because I’m no lawyer, but I know that actually saying half of what I came over here to say is admitting guilt.
Just walk away.
And I’m about to, I swear. I’ve turned, my hand is on the doorknob, and I’ve got every intention of flinging it open and storming away to get rip-roaring drunk when I hear the snicker behind me.
“Maybe try sucking his dick yourself sometime, and my man here wouldn’t have to go find it somewhere else.”
My hand freezes on the doorknob, and slowly, I stop caring.
Slowly, I start to smile.
The four of them look at me like I’m nuts as I turn back with the big fake grin on my face, my eyes sparkling sweetly.
Don’t say it, please don’t say-
“Oh, Max? Jayson? But the way.” I plaster the sweetest smile I can possibly muster up across my face.
“You guys really need better smoke detectors in your practice space.”
They both frown at me curiously before Jayson’s eyes suddenly go wide.
“What the fuck did you do!?”
I turn, not even hearing them screaming at me, and still smiling as I walk right out the door.
It’s a certain kind of smile - one I’ve never felt before. It’s the kind of smile you get after you tell the guy who fucked you over that you just burned his shitty band’s shitty little practice space along with all of their shitty gear to the fucking ground.
And I have to say, it feels great.
Chapter Two
Sierra
I’m buzzing as I shove my way out of the backstage hallways of the small venue. My blood roars in my ears, the alcohol coursing through my veins as I push my way through the heavy crowd towards the bar.
The Rusty Duck is one of those shitty little dive bars that’s found itself in an area on the edge of gentrification. I mean, it’s still really shitty, it’s just pulling hipsters willing to brave the dicey neighborhood to come see terrible bands play here.
Bands like Jayson’s.
I suddenly hate how crowded the place is, disgusted with all these idiots for coming here to see that jackass play music. I ignore the voice inside that reminds me the I was one such idiot who trotted her way out to crappy little dives like this to positively moon over Jayson playing guitar up on that stage.
I scowl, shoving my way through the mass of tattooed, ironic hipsters until I can get to the bar, my pulse racing.
I need something to drink. Literally anything to drink. I’d take turpentine right now if they had it. I just need something to take me back down, to calm the roaring storm pounding through my head.
I’m practically panting as I order the shot of Jameson, wincing as I take the whiskey back and tap the bar for another.
And it’s not just Jayson - or the insane bout of arson I’ve just committed about an hour and a half ago.
Well, okay, it’s partially Jayson. But if it were just him that’d provoked me to light the fire, well, that’d make me a bit of a psychopath. And I don’t care enough about him to be that girl.
It’s more than him.
And it’s not just finding myself aimless and on the brink of flunking out of grad school because I stopped going to classes - the grad school I worked my ass off to get into, I should add.
It’s not just that suddenly, I have no idea what I’ve been doing with my life. It’s not just the feeling that the rest of my friends and my family have and are moving on with their lives. I mean, shit, at least I used to have Rowan, my oldest brother and the resident family fuck up. But he’s married now for Christ’s sake, with a baby on the way and his life in order.
So really, it’s not just one thing at all. It’s everything, and finding that fucking text message with a picture of that girl’s fucking tits with her mouth hanging open asking to swallow my boyfriend’s jizz was the breaking point.
One last bit of someone screwing with me.
I’d gone to their practice space - this shitty free-standing garage out in Allston - to corner him. I’d gone there to make him fess up to being a piece of shit to my face. But the place had been empty, of course, because they were at the show here tonight.
At the show and getting his cock sucked, apparently.
But the rest of their gear was there. So was the bottle of vodka. So was the pack of cigarettes - Joey’s, their drummer, judging from the brand, with his little black plastic zippo lighter sitting next to it.
And so was the old gas tank off to one dusty corner.
I swear, I’m not that girl.
I’m not a psycho.
I’m not that crazy bitch who does crazy shit like this.
But you can only take so much. You can only get so deep into that quarter-life-crisis that when the snap comes, it comes hard. And when it does, you break.