CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

JAGGER

Tonight’s show was the hardest I’ve had, probably ever. Googling my name, and then clicking news, was probably the wrong move. Instantly, I found article after article, not about me, about McKinley.

The first one read, ‘Who’s that Girl?’ and the next was, ‘The Rock God Takes A Ride on the Crazy Train’, and my least favorite, ‘His Worst Mistake’. I fucking hate it when they use my song titles in trash articles. Each one went on to tell a short biography of my girl with few details I knew about. Most of it was brand new information, but I tried really hard to dismiss it until I could hear the words from her. There are already over a thousand TikTok videos about her, and none of them are good. Women are fucking vile. Instead of supporting a woman that has been abused for so much of her life, they call her fat, and myself a Chubby Chaser. She isn’t fucking fat, but everybody expects a rock star to be with a fucking rail thin supermodel. Or a cokehead actress. Unfortunately, people exploit weakness where they can.

I walk into the hotel room and it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Walking into the bedroom, thinking she’s asleep, I notice the bed still made and turn around and spot the closed bathroom door. Then I glance down and see a note under the door, with what appears to be blood on the bottom. Without thinking, I try to open the door but it’s locked, so using all my weight, I break it.

I stare at her lifeless body, in a tub that appears to be filled with blood, although I know it’s probably mixed with water. All the blood rushes to my ears, the pounding is deafening, and I can’t even hear myself scream.

“McKinley! No!”

Rushing to her, I pull her out of the water, and hold her in my arms when I notice the slashes on her wrists. I dig my phone out of my pocket and call 9-1-1, but I already know she’s gone. Gently, I lay her on the floor and cover her with a towel. I wrap her wrists with washcloths to try to stop the bleeding, even though I know it’s pointless.

“Baby, please don’t leave me. I love you. Please. I’m begging you. I can’t do this without you. I don’t fucking care what happened before.”

Reaching behind me, I grab the letter and take a photo of it, because I know they’ll take it as evidence.

I stare at her face. So fucking beautiful even now. This is my fault. I never should have left her. Fuck. I knew she wasn’t okay. Had I never met her, she’d not be in this state, and probably dead. Sure, maybe she’d be with that asshole still. But she’d be alive.

It guts me to leave her, but when I hear a knock at the door, I have no choice. I run out and let them in, and escort them to the bathroom, where my entire world lies on the floor. Giving them the requested space they need, I step back and wait.

They lift her body onto a stretcher, and one of the four paramedics turns to me.

“She has a pulse. You can meet us at the hospital.”

I thank them and call Jett, and a driver to take me to the ER. She’s going to be okay.

She’s not dead. Everything’s going to be okay, I repeat, at least one hundred times.