Chapter 32

Richie dropped onto the sofa and leaned his head back. Every single room in the god forsaken apartment was blazing with fucking light. He reached to the end table for his shades and stuffed them on his face. He wasn't sure when he'd finally finished the bottle of Jack, but…he lifted it, peering at the completely dry bottle, he’d certainly finished it.

Jon walked through only to find his friend recovering on the sofa. Again. "Hey Fuckface."

"Seriously?" Richie winced, making sure he looked through the lenses of his shades to a far too chipper Jon. Good Christ, couldn’t he leave him the fuck alone for one morning? "Could you keep it down?"

Jon wandered over to the stereo and put on AC/DC at top volume as he wrapped his knuckles in tape. "You wanna drink all night? Fine, go recover in your room. I’ve got to work out." Jon's voice crept louder with each word. Shaking his head he pushed his hands into boxing gloves. He’d started using a trainer when the tour started kicking his ass. Keeping his endurance high had helped keep him fresh on stage and boxing was all about endurance.

He didn’t have to work out now. Hell, he wanted to go back to bed, but Richie had to stop this shit. He was going to be a fucking useless piece of shit at the Hammersmith if he didn’t get his act together. It was an important show and he didn’t have time to babysit him in London.

"You're a fuck." Richie stood and went back to his room and slammed the door. Again, memories of her slammed into him. He leaned on the door, closing his eyes, praying his belly would settle. Maybe he could spend one morning without his face in the fucking toilet.

He was looking forward to going on the road that night. London would keep his mind off of Elena. He’d been waiting for months to get to that gig, but now all he saw was a way to forget. What he was looking forward to, was getting out of this room. He banged his head against the door as a flash of her legs wrapped around his waist threatened to drive him to his knees.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He stalked across the room and gripped the edge of his dresser. He stared at his bearded face in the mirror and the dark circles that were digging deeper each day. "Get it the fuck together, man.” He bumped his toe into one of the half dozen bottles that littered the floor of his bedroom. It was taking more and more grain alcohol to get him unconscious, especially when he had to sleep here, where she haunted him the most.

Anger, white hot and overwhelming fueled him as he picked it up and hurled it against the wall. Glass shattered and the remnants of the bottle dripped down the wall.

Jon crashed through the bedroom door, one glove under his arm. "What the fuck happened?" His eyes scanning the room thinking Richie had finally done harm to himself, only to see him weaving and glass sparkling like rain drops on the carpet.

Richie pushed past him and headed for the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach as the blinding anger met with stomach acid for a very bad combination.

Jon followed him, wincing at the retching sound that kicked back a bit of his own beer from the night before. Richie had always been a bit of a drinker, but nothing like this. He’d always been able to handle liquor and know his limits. "Your fucked man, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Just leave me alone," he said and pressed the flusher. He stumbled to the sink and turned on the taps.

"No can do, Bro. You haven't been right in days, not since...." Jon's voice trailed off. "You were a total waste of space at the last interview and now this every night? Whatever has your head up your ass needs resolving, man. If this is over a chick--"

"Back off, I'm dealing." Richie stared at him from the mirror.

"Dealing at the bottom of goddamned bottle? If she’s that fucking important than go fucking get her." Jon tugged off the other glove and peeled at the tape until his hands were free again. He sure as shit wasn’t going to get back to the bag now.

His head dropped forward as he sucked in a steadying breath. "I'll be fine when we're on the road."

“Maybe you just need another bang and she’ll get out of your system.” Watching for a reaction he swallowed a smile when Richie’s tired eyes went hot.

“I said I’ll be fine!” He turned, advancing on Jon. Just the thought of her like that, like a faceless chick he’d fucked. Like the others. Rage bubbled deep in his chest. She wasn’t like that.

Jon's brow arched. He’d taken a punch from Richie before and man, he didn’t want to go there again. If that’s what it took to get his head into the game, well, he’d done far worse to get what he wanted. "What’s eating your ass so bad then?”

Richie turned away, bracing his hands on the pedestal sink. God, he just couldn’t get her out of his head. The road. The road would do it, the road had saved him on so many other occasions. That’s all he needed. He’d lose himself in the music, not in her deep brown eyes.

"LOOK at me goddammit." He had to push, even if he ended up with a busted mouth. "If she was nothing why do you spend your nights in a bottle? Why is the bed unmade still? Why do you sleep on the couch? You can’t even face your fucking room!”

Richie whirled on him. "What the fuck do you know?" His hand came back, fist clenched.

"I know you hit the bottle to make her vanish. HAS SHE?"

Richie’s arm shook with the need to lash out at him, at something. Maybe a little pain on the outside would numb his insides. "She's everywhere here! As soon as I get on the road, I'll be fine."

"I don’t fucking believe you,” Jon's voice grew stronger as he braced himself for the fist that would be coming his way.

He weaved a little, nausea rolling again as the fear closed in. His arm lowered. "She's under my skin after one night, what the hell am I going to do when she leaves? They all leave. Our life isn't for relationships, Jonny. I can see it. I can feel it...it's so good my gut aches. It would be good for a while...maybe even a year before the touring killed it. She'd rip my guts out."