Don’t you remember what an addiction is? That’s what he was to you, and now you’re about to relapse.

Ignoring that deluded voice that knew nothing, my impulse meandered into the videos territory. It was a bad territory. I needed more alcohol. Did I have any left hiding in my barren cupboards? Probably not, but it was okay.

I’d make do somehow.

Liar.

It felt like a cement truck had settled on top of my chest when I listened to the first interview. The floodgates opened, and a tidal wave of emotions ran through me. This was a natural reaction, I reassured myself.

I let out a breath of air and quivered hearing his voice, deep and smooth, answering questions from a hair twirling reporter that giggled for no reason. She leaned over to supposedly hear him better, pouring her cleavage out in front of him in the process. He seemed entirely immune to her gestures, that signature smirk playing at his lips as he answered. His responses were often short and void of any real information. He seemed to be exceptional at dodging the hard stuff.

“Is there a moment in your life that stands out to you the most that influenced your decision in becoming a musician?” she asked, and it was her first serious question in her list of craptacular “what’s your favourite colour” type of ones.

“I never wanted to be a musician,” Carter answered, leaning back in his leather chair. “I was thrown into it.”

“By who?” she eagerly asked, looking like she’d hit the mother-load. He’d clearly never said anything this personal before.

He paused and absently scratched his jaw, his eyes moving away from hers. “By someone I don’t know anymore.”

“No names? I’m sure that person would be happy to hear your thanks, Carter.”

He chuckled sardonically. “She’d probably nuke that thanks, that’s the way she is. In all seriousness, the past should stay in the past.”

I sighed upon hearing his response. The past should stay in the past. That was what I’d been trying to do, and he just said it in the most blasé manner. At least he wasn’t denying my existence altogether. Maybe I was a fleeting thought in his life after all. He’d clearly moved on. Our past together seemed so trivial in the grand scheme of things.

The woman didn’t spare a second before she pestered him about his latest fluff. Some girl by the name of Molly Anderson. He seemed annoyed by that question, and I read him so well, noting the way he blinked rapidly and inhaled sharply.

Who was this girl?

Without shame, I opened up another tab and looked her up. Even though I felt like I wasn’t pining for him, this was still strangely hard. I swallowed a lump as the search results mirrored my expectations. She had endless long legs and large auburn curls; she was a daughter of a rich investor, and she’d only started to gain popularity after her relationship with Carter came to light almost four months ago. The gossip sites were all over them, posting up articles with images of them eating together, or in the streets together. All the photos consisted of her in some seriously fucked up outfits plucked from the late 80s. She also was an aspiring model – gasp, who would have thought it? – and her photo shoots were borderline ridiculous than they were “artsy”.

Whatever. No judgement here.

Bitch.

Dammit.

These are just natural feelings. I reiterated to myself. Totally natural.

I then gritted my teeth, forcing myself to admit she was actually gorgeous.

A gorgeous giraffe, maybe.

But, as is obvious, I was too intent on finding ways to hate her.

When I finished feeding my curiosity, only because I was tired beyond belief, I put the laptop down and went to sleep. Facing the screen, I stared at a picture of his face before my eyelids were too heavy to open.

In my semi-sleep state, I remembered him spooning me the way he used to. The way his hand roamed up and down the side of my body, and the feel of his breaths against my neck right before he kissed it. I remembered the feeling of his chest vibrating with laughter after he told me a horrible joke, and in my dream state, I tasted an alternate reality that had his lips brushing against my ear, whispering delicately, “I love you, Angel.”

In that reality, I was no longer afraid to love.

Four

Carter

There was a naked girl in my bed.

As if my night couldn’t get any more fucked up.

She was smiling up at me, her eyes shining beneath her fake eyelashes.

What the fuck?

I frowned, confused. Was I in the wrong room? No. I couldn’t have been. My shit was everywhere.

“Who are you?” I demanded, wondering for a moment if a fan had actually bypassed our security team. That would have been a first successful attempt since we’d started touring, and a little impressive too.

“Tiana,” she answered, attempting to put on a sultry tone, but in my alcohol-muddled brain, it sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

“Tiana,” I repeated, before asking, “How did you get in here?”

“Jared.”

Ah, now things were clicking together.

Fucking Jared, trying to break my dry spell. I didn’t need pussy at the moment. I needed something harder, something that could ease this tension inside my chest.

“Come on, Car,” she purred, gesturing to the bed. “You can have me any way you want me.”

Car. Why was she calling me Car? Why would anyone call me Car?

My cock shuddered in dismay as she spread her legs wide. Fuck no, it was telling me. Even that fucker had standards. I didn’t do one night stands. I didn’t know what these girls were carrying, and I’d heard way too many horror stories to want to take a dip inside that kind of Petri dish of mystery. I wasn’t that horny teenager I used to be, willing to take on any girl to pass my time. After Leah, I needed at least some kind of familiarity with the person I was fucking, which was the reason why I currently had an epic case of blue balls.

“It’s not going to happen, sweetheart,” I told her adamantly, making sure my voice was laced with sweetness so she didn’t fucking combust. Some people were unpredictable, and I didn’t want her to crumble and have it come back to bite me in the ass in some tabloid story.

“What?” She was in disbelief, before adding in a wounded tone, “But Jared said I was perfect. He said… I looked like your type.”

She looked like my type?

I took a step closer, hoping I’d see her clearly. Her hair was blonde, her body was small, her skin sun-kissed… I nearly sighed, knowing exactly what Jared was getting at. He wanted her to look close enough to Leah. And she did look like her in a very generic way, but for some reason, my body wasn’t cooperating.