Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Eddie

"Nope, no fucking way." She's crazy to think I won't have a drink or two.

The drugs—fine, I get it—but what sort of rock star would I be if I don't have some drinks after a show? And on top of that, she wants three meetings a week, and a list of other places and people. As if a shrink can help me—my mind is way too messed up.

"Eddie, be reasonable. You wanted me to comply with your conditions," she says as I storm into my room and slam the door. "Seriously, you're acting like a spoilt two-year-old."

"Have you ever heard of knocking?" I ask, as I watch her enter, not really caring that she followed me in.

"Two meetings and no shrink," she counters back.

"One meeting, no shrink, a total of five drinks, and you won't get on my back about smoking."

"One meeting, no shrink, three drinks, four on special occasions, and you'll smoke outside."

"Deal," I say, and we shake on it.

She drives a hard bargain—no wonder Mickki bought her on board. I might have met my match.

"Oh, and Eddie?" she says, stopping at my door and turning back to look at me. I've never noticed how blue her eyes are.

"Yeah?"

"Your doctor will be here in an hour," she says and walks away before I can ask what the fuck for, as the doctor only likes to stick needles in me. Plus, I'm not sick. Maybe I've got a slight headache, but I figured that's what happens when you're coming down.

I run to the door.

"Callie, this is as bad as it gets, right?" I yell out, but she doesn't answer.

I race downstairs, but she's disappeared.

Clever woman—well played.

I google symptoms of coming down while Delilah makes me something to eat. Oh God, it isn't looking good. It looks painful, and wow, no way... what have I agreed to? I might legitimately die. As I sit and ponder my upcoming doom, I wonder if anyone would even miss me. Besides Mickki, of course, but maybe he'd be relieved, as he wouldn't be burdened by me anymore. I need to remind myself why I'm doing this—for Amelia.

It mustn't have been easy for Callie to accept the car from me and agree to live here. Actually, I'm still in shock that she did. I kinda figured she'd kick up a stink and flat out refuse, so this must mean something to her, maybe more than I know. Speaking of cars, I hear one pull up, and that's my cue to disappear.

"If they ask where I am, you haven't seen me," I say to Delilah as I run from the room. That nasty doctor isn't coming near me with her bag of tricks.

We have two doctors, one for when we need to keep things quiet and under the table, so to speak, and then we have Bertha. I don't even know if that's her name, and I hide from the old witch every time she comes. I presume that's who Callie called, because Mickki wouldn't know if we could trust her with the other doctor's details yet.

When I enter my room, I realise it's a dumb hiding spot. What sort of moron goes to hide in the one place they're bound to look? I should have gone to Callie's room—she wouldn't have thought to look there. There's a light tap on the door, and I make the executive decision to hide under my bed.

"Eddie, I know you're in here," Callie says. I hear footsteps—maybe she thinks I'm in the bathroom. "I'm sorry, doctor, but if you've been here before, I'm sure you're aware Eddie can be a handful." Next thing I know, someone is pulling me by the legs. "Get out from under the bed. You're being a child."

"Am not. That witch likes to stick needles into me."

"You can't be afraid of needles if you just got a new tattoo, idiot," she says.

As if it's the same thing.

"You wanna make a bet?" I say, holding onto the bottom post of the bed. My actions may seem childish, but I'm desperate.

"I promise I won't stick you with anything," comes a male voice. Oh, thank God, it's not Bertha.

Callie lets go of my legs and I slide myself out from under the bed.

"You look a little flushed," I point out to her. "Touching me has that effect on women—don't be too hard on yourself." I enjoy making her flustered, and she is funny when she's mad.

"You sure you can't stab him with a needle? It would make me feel so much better," Callie says to Doctor Bob, and he laughs at her request.

They think they're so fucking funny.

Callie and Bob talk between themselves about how to handle my apparent come down and detox. She fills him in on my chat with Truman and our agreed conditions.

"Eddie, I've spoken with Callie, and we're going to decrease the dose of benzodiazepines you've been taking slowly, as suddenly stopping those could cause seizures or convulsions, and we don't want that. Stopping the cocaine shouldn't be deadly, but you could experience vivid dreams, get hungry more often, get agitated more easily, and suffer from fatigue and depression. If you feel any of these things, tell Callie. She can call me if she thinks you need me."

"Jesus, doc, kill me now. Just find me a bullet," I say, and Callie makes a strange sound. When I look at her, the colour has drained from her face.

"Take it back, Eddie, NOW!" she screeches at me. God damn, you'd think she was coming down and couldn't take a joke. What would she know about going through any of this?

"I'm sorry, I take it back. Chill, woman, before you have a coronary."

"Callie will give you the dosage of benzodiazepines I've set and knows when to cut it down. If she gets any trouble from you, I'll come here personally every day and give you a shot in the arse. I'll give you a sleeping pill tonight, so you get a good night's sleep, because you'll need it."

Callie and the doctor finish talking and walk from the room. Maybe this won't be as bad as I first thought. I don't want to be one of those celebrities who ends up in rehab.

I wake in a cold sweat, my hands trembling, and my heart racing. This must be one of those dreams the doctor warned me about. I thought with the sleeping pill, I'd be out cold.

Bile rises in my throat, and I barely make it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach fly out. Shit, I need to check on Callie. It was so real. She was bleeding—someone had shot her in the stomach and I couldn't reach her in time.

Stumbling to the door of my bedroom, my hands shake as I pull it open. If this is what dying feels like, it fucking sucks. I've always loved living in a mansion and having space I don't need, but I'm second guessing my life choices as I make my way through the halls. Like why the fuck did I put her all the way on the other side of the house?

I stagger through the pool room and almost contemplate jumping in and letting myself drown before I finally make it to her side of the house. At long last, I crash through her door and flick on the lights.

Callie sits up, looking petrified, and glances around as her eyes adjust.

"Oh, thank God, I thought... never mind, you're okay," I stutter out.

"Are you okay?" she says, blinking sleep-filled eyes.

"I am now, sorry for waking you," I mutter.

"It's fine. Are you sure you're okay?" she says, getting out of bed in only her singlet top and underwear. Who would have thought that under all the stiffness, she'd wear something like that?

An uneasy feeling washes over me as the cold sweats hit, and my hands tremble. When my mouth gets watery, I dash for her en suite.

Way to go, Eddie. Show the sober buddy how out of control you really are.

A light hand touches my shoulder and pulls my hair away from my face.

"Here," she says, handing me a glass of water. That's when I notice a massive scar.

"What's that?" I ask, taking her by the wrist.

Why does the thought of her being hurt make me feel all kinds of awful in the pit of my stomach? She doesn't get to answer before the unsettled feeling in my stomach is making its way into the toilet. By the time I've finished, the sun is peeking through the en-suite window.

Callie says she'll get my morning pills organised and ask Delilah to make our breakfast. I stand and look at myself in the mirror—my face is pale and I feel weak. I slowly make my way to the bed and flop down, and the welcome relief of softness, along with the scent of flowers, makes me drift off.

When I wake, I look around and panic sets in, and I can't get myself to calm down.

"Callie!" I scream. Damien and Marcus come running. "Where is she?" I continue to yell as I scramble out of the bed. "I need her."

"She went out to run an errand," Delilah says, walking into the room. "Come have some breakfast and take your pill. She won't be long."

I bend, leaning over and placing my hands on my knees. What's wrong with me? After a few deep breaths, my heart slowly falls back into rhythm. Delilah takes me by the arm, walks me into the kitchen, and sits me in front of my breakfast. I'm a lucky man. My own mother is all sorts of messed up, yet somehow, I found Delilah. Even though I pay her well, she seems to care about me.

"Sorry I took so long," Callie says to Delilah, almost as if she isn't even acknowledging me in the room.

I jump from my seat and cross the room in a flash, wrapping my arms around her, my heart pounding in my chest. What the fuck is wrong with me? The nightmares were always of Amelia, and occasionally the she-bitch was involved. But now, dreaming about Callie being shot makes me feel a certain way. I'm just glad she is here.

"Thank God you're back."

Callie steps back slightly and her brow furrows. "Are you okay? I only went to the shop quickly."

"Another bad dream."

Callie smiles at me sadly. "Those are to be expected. I want to say they'll get better, but the reality is they could be around for a while as you deal with everything. Therapy?—"

"No shrinks! I don't need someone else telling me how messed up I am."

Callie sighs. "Okay, how about you finish your food and then we can find something to keep your mind occupied? It could be a long few days."

I nod and make my way to the table to finish the food, knowing damn well it will all come back up later.

Callie sits opposite me, and she is smiling at her phone as she types away.

"You should smile more."

She looks up from her phone. "I smile plenty when the mood calls for it. You just don't give me a reason to smile."

"Challenge accepted."

Damien groans from the side of the room. "Callie, quit while you're ahead. You realise now he is going to be annoying as fuck."

"Fuck you," I say, flipping him off, and he laughs. "You can take the day off, dickhead. I'm not going anywhere for the next few days. Doctor's orders."

Damien looks at Callie as if she is the one paying him. "It's fine. If he misbehaves, you will be the first one I call."

Damien nods and leaves the room. He gets a damn salary, so he is paid even if he isn't here, and I'm sure he has better shit to do than babysit my arse while I vomit.

"So," Callie says, "what does the famous Eddie Diamond do for fun when he's at home?"

A shit-eating grin stretches across my face, and Callie shakes her head.

"Sex is off the table, remember? Even the garbage man said so."

"Truman is a wise man, though I don't know about the no sex," I say with a frown.

Callie rolls her eyes. "Abstaining from sex for a little while won't kill you. Just use your hand."

"I would much prefer to use your hand."

"I'm sure you would. Now tell me what you do for fun."

I shrug. When you remove fucking, drugs, and alcohol, it really doesn't leave much. "Listen to music, write music, and play music."

Callie stands and smooths out her skirt, then catches my assessing look. "What?"

"Nothing," I say, and I stand and follow her lead. "You know, you don't have to dress so professionally. You're welcome to be comfortable."

"I am comfortable, rock star. Now show me where the music happens and let's keep you busy until you feel like crap again."

Reaching out my hand, I keep it extended until Callie looks down and reluctantly takes it. I don't know why I feel the need to be close to her right now, but for some strange reason, it's overwhelming, and not because I want to fuck her. Obviously, if I was fucking women, I wouldn't say no if she offered, but I'm not. Truman said that not only do I use drugs and alcohol to mask my pain, I also use women.

Dragging Callie behind me, I hurry through the house, and she chuckles at how fast we move. I have a private entrance to my music studio. This house has two: one for me, and one where the band records. I decide to take Callie to my personal studio.

My arm is pulled back abruptly as we reach the stairs that lead up to the studio. "What are these?" Callie asks, pointing to the framed achievements on the wall.

"They're all my plaques, and this one is my favourite," I say, pointing to the Diamond record. "We got that for ‘Silence' selling over ten million copies."

"Holy cow! So you are really famous."

I snort and laugh. Did she seriously not know how famous we are? "Did you really just ask me that?"

She turns and slaps me in the stomach. "I get you sing, and people know who you are—I'm not an idiot. But you can't tell me many people have one of those."

I shrug. "Maybe two dozen? I don't keep count."

"Eddie, that's . . . wow."

I don't take well to situations like this. Throw me in a room with people and I can party my arse off, but standing so close to Callie in a situation this raw, where I actually have to feel... I don't know if I like it.

"Does it make you want to tickle my balls, maybe? But remember, no sex."

The laughter in her eyes is quickly replaced with the Callie who works for pain in the arse Eddie—now her I can deal with.

"Let's go listen to this music, and you can show me how you got these records. Honestly, I'm not convinced you're any good."

"We're not any good?! Take that back! We are fucking fantastic."

As we move up the stairs, Callie's chuckles float up from behind me—the evil woman manipulated me into doing what she wanted. I race up the rest of the way and wait at the top as she walks up. When she hits the last step, she looks around the room. It's nothing flash, mostly a space where I come to write music, but I have all my shit set up in case inspiration strikes. Then I can record something for Mickki and the guys to listen back to.

Normally I'm too lazy—I use an old-school tape recorder to document my idea. I pick it up from the table, rewinding it a little, and press play. "Oh, this one isn't bad. I was trying to come up with a melody—it's a song I have been working on."

Callie listens and rubs her arms. Once I click it off, she looks at me and tears well in her eyes. "That's beautiful."

"It's only a rough idea, just something I was feeling when they told me I needed to get sober."

She wouldn't think it was beautiful if she knew the lyrics for the song. Not that they are anything solid right now, just scribbles on a page, but they might all come together, eventually.

They say I'm toxic, they know I don't think clear.

Little pills, white powder

Numb me, so I have no feels.

I'm toxic, will turn your world black

Can't touch those pills, they make me numb

Please touch me, make me feel.

Contradicting, but that's me.

I'm toxic, hiding from the world

No one can see me, and the pain I feel.

Touch me, make it all go away.

I'm toxic, but she can see me

I wish she cared about the pain

Let her touch me, let her fix me.

Broken, but healing.

"I won't ever release it."

"Why not?" she asks, taking a seat on the sofa.

I shrug. I can't tell her she's getting under my skin. That slowly, day by day, I enjoy when she turns up and demands more from me. Even if she is getting paid, there is something about her—it feels like she wants this, no... she needs this.

"It's not our style. Mickki's voice isn't husky enough for the feel of this song and the lyrics are way too rough right now."

"Can I hear them?" she asks, and I look into her big blue eyes and shake my head.

"I can't bare my soul to you, not right now. But maybe one day when it doesn't hurt so much."

She nods her head, and it's like she understands. However, Callie has no idea how deep my self-hatred runs. It's so deep in my core I don't think even getting sober will fix it, but I have to try. Sasha was right, Amelia wouldn't like this version of me.

"I get it. We all have shit we keep buried inside our souls. Things we can't change." A sadness washes over her, and her demons linger. For a split second, I can see them before her mask comes back up.

"Ain't that the truth—except everything I do is captured and shown to the world. It's the price I pay for being famous."

Everything in my life happens under a microscope, for people to dissect and pull apart. Some days I wonder if it has been worth it—my fame couldn't save Amelia, and it will not save me. Maybe I would be better off throwing in the towel. I have lived my dream and look where it's gotten me? And now the overwhelming sense of joy I once felt when it came to music and performing isn't what it used to be. If I really dig deep, it's still there, but since losing Amelia, I feel I've been wearing a mask. Without the fame, what do I have? And better yet, who am I? The old Eddie Diamond was someone I liked. Amelia made me be a better man, but without her in my life, I'm no one. I'm no longer someone she would be proud of and that fucking hurts—more than I'll ever admit.