***Holden Young***
I was fucking filthy. The damp floor clung to the hem of my pants, the smell of stale cigarettes mixed with sweat and cheap booze, and my head was still pounding like someone was hammering my brain from the inside.
I didn’t know if it was the damn flickering fluorescent light or if my body was finally giving in after so many fucked-up days, but everything was spinning.
"You have the right to an attorney."
The cop said it in an automatic tone, not even looking at me while pulling my hands behind my back and tightening the fucking cuffs as if I had just committed murder.
Reality hit me in pieces.
The camera flashes outside, the shouts of people who knew exactly what they were about to publish tomorrow morning, the sound of sirens mixed with the muffled music from the club.
I was screwed.
"Hey, take it easy, for fuck’s sake." My voice came out slurred, but my patience had been gone a long time ago.
The cop yanked me by the arm, not giving a damn.
"Talk less and move."
I was dragged outside, straight to the patrol car, and before they shoved my head inside, I saw it.
My reflection is in the window of one of the parked cars.
The disheveled hair, the bloodshot eyes, the sharp cut on the corner of my mouth, still dripping.
Did the guy in the bathroom get a punch in, too? I didn’t even remember. Everything was a blur.
They threw me in the backseat, and the door slammed shut. The window wasn’t rolled up, so I could still hear the voices outside—reporters asking the obvious, some businessman in a suit talking to the press, and a woman crying for some reason.
The car took off.
The silence inside the patrol car was broken by the voice of the cop driving, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
"I’m surprised it took this long to happen."
I didn’t answer.
He chuckled.
"Rock star thinking he’s God, acting like he can do whatever he wants—this is where it always ends."
I clenched my fists, trying to ignore him. But he kept going.
"You know, funny thing… when I was younger, I used to like your covers. Thought you were talented."
He turned the wheel calmly, like he had all the time in the world.
"But looking at you now? You’re just another fucked-up guy who doesn’t know what to do with too much money."
This time, I laughed. I admit it.
"And you’re just another piece of shit with a shitty paycheck, taking your frustration out on other people."
He swallowed hard, gave a half-smile, and then slammed on the brakes suddenly. My body lurched forward, and my shoulder slammed into the partition.
"Oops," the bastard said, mocking.
I leaned back against the seat, my breathing heavy, my chest rising and falling with anger.
But I wasn’t in a position to fight. Not now.
I stayed silent at the station. There was nothing I could do, anyway.
...
"Young."
I lifted my head slowly, my vision still a little blurry, and saw a cop standing by the cell bars.
"Bail’s been posted. Get moving."
I knew that would happen. Just didn’t think it’d be this fast.
I got up with effort. My back ached from sleeping sitting up against the wall. My body was a wreck.
The guy opened the cell and yanked me out, with no gentleness at all. My wrists still hurt from the damn tight cuffs.
It was only when I reached the station’s reception area that I saw who had gotten me out.
My dad was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, with the same stern expression as always. My mom stood beside him, not bothering to hide her disgusted look.
And Cyrus was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, looking too exhausted to argue.
"We need to talk." My dad said, using that tone he always used when he wanted me to just shut up and obey.
The ride to the hotel was dead silent.
As soon as we got to the suite, my dad closed the door behind him and spoke.
"This can’t keep happening."
I went straight to the minibar. Grabbed a vodka bottle and opened it without hurry.
"And do you have some brilliant idea?"
"You need an intervention."
I stopped with the bottle halfway to my mouth and looked at him.
"An intervention?" I laughed, without believing it. "Ah, this is good. So you’re gonna send me to some luxury rehab and pretend you support me?"
"It’s not about pretending, Holden." My mom snapped, impatient. "You’ve destroyed your image."
"And now we need to fix it." My dad completed it.
"No." I took a long sip, feeling the burn down my throat. "You need to fix it. I just need to get out of here."
Cyrus, who had been quiet until then, finally spoke up.
"The tour can’t be canceled."
"Oh, of course. God forbid the money stops rolling in, huh?"
That’s when Chloe appeared, stepping out of the adjacent room with a tired expression.
"And what about me?" Her voice cut through the air. "Have any of you stopped to think about what this shit is doing to me? You brought me he, promising something else!"
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
She scoffed, crossing her arms.
"I’ve been keeping up this fake relationship for months, Holden. And now, after your fuck-up, the media’s calling me a fool."
I rolled my eyes.
"You care about that?"
"Of course I do!" She threw her hands in the air. "My name’s being dragged through the mud because of you."
Cyrus massaged his temples.
"Chloe now’s not the time…"
"Fuck that. If the tour gets canceled, I’m out." She pointed at me. "I’m not sticking around fixing your mistakes while you self-destruct."
The silence in the room was heavy.
But I was already done with this whole fucking thing.
I downed the rest of the vodka, tossed the empty bottle onto the table, and ran a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion settle in.
I looked at my dad, my mom, Cyrus, and Chloe.
And then I said the only thing that made sense at that moment.
"You’ve controlled my life this far. Figure this one out, too."
I stripped out of those disgusting clothes right then and there. My parents turned their faces in disgust while Chloe and Cyrus just shook their heads in disapproval.
I headed for the bathroom, slamming the door shut without waiting for a reply.
I meant it—I wasn’t going to waste my energy on this shit anymore.
I had nothing left.