25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Toby

I f I'd know that a trip to the grocery would end up on the front page news of every tabloid known to the industry, I would have done it sooner.

Because not only is the asshole with the ugly mug that got too close to Anna on the front page but so is the swing I took at him.

Serves him right. Little bitch.

It has, however, put a damper in the evening because the woman I'd rather have my hands on is the one who's currently pacing around the living room with her phone braced between her head and shoulder as she taps away at a tablet.

Guess you can't take me anywhere.

I have no idea what she's doing, why it's taking so long, and I'm only listening to every other word she says into the phone.

Instead, I'm imagining those same lips around my dick, making me come again.

It's the only thing stopping me from reaching for the whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge. I wanna be sober for the feel. I wanna be clear for the touch. I wanna be here, on this planet, for the taste.

If only my trembling hands would get the memo.

"This would be less boring with some Jack. Or Coke. Possibly both, maybe one of each." I smooth my hands over the flat surface of the countertop I'm perched against, where I've been ignored for the last several hours.

Dinner went just fine, where I caught a few sneaking glances from Ms. Prune who was pretending not to enjoy the attention and the food, but that disappeared the moment her damn phone rang.

Since then, she's been strictly professional. Almost overly so with how much she's pretending I'm not here. Including the scowl she's throwing my way for the comment I shrug against.

Fine.

Let's see how well that phone call fares against a few rounds of practice riffs.

Anna's back is to me when I land my ass back in the stool, my six string in my grip, and a pick pinched between my teeth.

Plucking a few notes after replacing the string I'd popped, I rotate the tuning pegs until the sound is just right, the melody already playing in my head. I follow its lead, my raw fingers moving on their own, the song filling the space.

Calmness washes over me, smoothing against my skin and easing the tension in my muscles. A warmth fills my veins when I let my body go, my mind clear, my head bobbing along with the beat.

It's peaceful for a moment. Tranquil for a few more beats.

Like the cabin always used to be.

Used to.

Then the tension bleeds back into my chest as memories crash into me, my mind flashing, and my throat closes in on itself.

My strums become aggressive, the cords reverberating back an angry strain in a sound that's way too decent for what I'm doing to the instrument.

It only pisses me off even more.

I wrap my hands around the neck of the guitar, preparing to destroy the last worldly possession my pops left me against the marble counter, when my eyes fly open and a stunned Anna fills my vision.

"Jeffers …"

My ears ring with the sudden silence, and my heart pinches in my chest at the look staring back at me.

"Don't," I growl.

Her intense gaze is enough to bring me to my knees.

I'm shaking.

That warmth I was feeling becomes almost boiling beneath my skin and a bead of sweat rolls down my temple.

"We need to flush your system." The words are cold, distant, and everything that her eyes aren't. "Drink this."

Did she have that in her hand the whole time?

Gone is Anna's phone and tablet, replaced by a sports drink she thrusts in my direction. I'm shaking my head when my vision decides that it would prefer the vignette filter, the edges darkening until all I can see is her.

"Toby. You're gonna need this." The chilled bottle is pressed into my bare sternum until I accept it, the other clutching the last lifeline I have left of my dad. "Slow sips."

When did I end up on the couch?

My stomach rolls when I lift the sugary drink to my lips and catch a whiff. "There's no alcohol in this."

Anna scoffs, her deft fingers tipping the bottle close enough that my only options are to drink or wear it. I take a sip and almost spit it right back out.

"Hair of the dog works better," I grunt.

"That's exactly what has gotten you into this mess, Toby. Jesus." She mumbles something else I can't make out but then says, "How many times have you felt like this?"

I snort. "Every twelfth hour I don't have whiskey in my hand."

She lifts my trembling arm until the plastic hits my lips again. I swallow down the berry-flavored shit even when my stomach wants to reject it and tightens against the way the air has changed.

Even sick, I can sense it. Just like I did that night.

Except, Anna doesn't say anything like my bandmates did. She doesn't tell me it's just stage jitters or adrenaline. She doesn't dismiss it with a back pat and a ‘ go get 'em '.

She doesn't hand me a shot and tell me bottom's up.

No, her reaction is far worse.

Because it feels too much like sympathy .

"Don't you have a phone to answer?" I snap.

She doesn't hesitate. "Not right now. Now drink again and stop being a grump."

Grumbling, I take another reluctant sip of the cool blue liquid that tastes weird without vodka in it.

"Good. Now tell me how bad this has gotten before."

"What?" Her question makes my brain hurt and it's already starting to pound in my skull.

"What else has happened when you ignored the shaking?"

Is it that bad?

"Um …" I raise a hand to swipe at my brow, but the bottle bumps my nose, and I nearly drop it. "I normally would have had a drink by now. And not this shit." I lift the bottle and tilt it, the liquid sloshing.

"Crap. Okay," Anna mutters and wraps a towel around my dripping wrist. "Think you could eat something?"

"We just ate, Prune." I roll my eyes, but that makes the room spin and my head pound. "Just need to sleep it off."

"Toby, this is not just a hangover."

I sigh, flop back against the cushion, and slide my eyes closed. "Pretty bad hangover. Hair of the dog works for that." My tongue dries and feels too big for my mouth, to which I raise the sports drink to my lips even though I know what's really coming.

My upper body pitches forward, the back of my throat burning despite the chilled drink, and my abdomen clenches.

A different kind of plastic is shoved under my chin and my body takes the opportunity to purge everything left in my stomach.

The sound and the smell surround me, pulling more heaves from my guts until there's not even bile left.

I cough as chills take over and spit into the bin in my lap.

"Think you're done for now?"

Oh, Anna's here. She's such a prune. She's gonna hate this.

"Super sexy, right, Prune?"

She hums half-heartedly before I feel her touch against my shoulder, circling around my upper back.

It's nice enough that I zero in on the motion, allowing it to settle my racing mind and my rapidly beating heart.

Until another wave of nausea takes over me, and I hunch over the small bathroom trashcan with more garbage coming out of my mouth.

Yet, her hands stay, and I hear whispered words coming from her lips. Lips I wish I could kiss, but I know that she'd freak the hell out if I did.

Why do I want to kiss her so bad?

Stunned and tensed, I'm not ready for the next wave that hits me like a freight train, ripping its way out of my gut and splashing into the already half-filled can.

"Fuuuuuck."