Island Of Recovery

Nate’s [POV]

I rolled the window of my car down, letting some fresh air in. The planes above looked really big taking off and landing. You sort of forgot how freaking huge they were when they were flying above you.

My assistant had told me that the flight was at eight in the morning. I'd been sitting in my car for about ten minutes, watching the sun start to rise over LAX, wishing I'd got a later flight. It was six thirty in the goddamn morning; the only other time I was awake that early was when I'd been up the entire night and hadn't gotten to sleep yet.

What was I even doing here? I could have asked Dad if I could use his plane. I was Nate Stone: I didn't have to fly commercial.

I shut my eyes and leaned back against the driver's seat. In ten hours, I wouldn't have to think about this place for another three months. I'd be in a fucking suite with a hula dancer sucking me off. I'd be eating seafood and drinking rum. I'd be too far away for any of the assholes in LA to get to me.

I watched a plane take off and fly into the distance, till I couldn't see it anymore. In two hours, that would be me. I just had to wait till my flight. I'd checked in online already, and I was flying first class. Just two hours, man, I said to myself. This vacation was way overdue. I knew it was over when I tried to write a song the other day and got nothing.

Nothing. Not a word. The band didn't use my songs anymore, but fuck it, I did. The touring, the booze, the girls – it had done something. It had finally caught up with me. Yeah. That was it. Because there wasn't any fucking dope and booze in Hawai’i. I’d be fine if I just got away from it.

I checked the time again. Five minutes had passed. Fuck. Could I fall asleep? Go inside? Eat? Something? Anything other than just sit here and wait?

My phone was ringing. Still ringing. I'd ignored a phone call twice already. I didn't know who the fuck was trying so hard, but I was pretty sure you were meant to stop trying when it was obvious the person you were calling didn't want to talk to you.

Fuck, what if it was important, though? What if it was my manager? Or Dad?

The ringing stopped as soon as I reached for the phone to check who I'd been blowing off. I grimaced reading the name. Not my manager Doug. Not my father. Nope. It was Kirsten. I had her name on there as Kiki because that was what I'd called her when we were together and I'd just never gotten around to changing it to something else.

Kirsten Andrews. Sorry, Kirsten Stone: she'd kept my last name.

Hmm, I wonder what she wants, I thought cynically. We didn't have any kids together, so it wasn't that. Couldn't have been her settlement because she'd cleaned the fuck up during the divorce. I'd call five million for three years of marriage a pretty good deal. Unless the bitch wanted more, which she was not getting.

I could still hear the wedding bells. Kirsten had filed for divorce, not me. I had told myself back then that it was so many different things. She was just a bitch, she wanted my money all along, and she had met someone else. She was one of those women who used marriage to marry and then divorce even richer people. I couldn't stand thinking she thought of me as her starter husband.

There was the little thing where I was drinking till I blacked out each day, but I had been too drunk to realize that that was it. And by the time I had, and lied to her that I would stop, I had already moved on to something a little stronger.

Was there a time I ever loved her? Every time we'd had to go to court, I wasn't so sure. It had been almost five months now since the split was finalized. There was nothing I still had to say to her. There was nothing she could have said to me that I actually wanted to hear.

She'd left me a voice-mail. Delete it, the voice in my head said. Delete it because you're going to listen to it and regret it immediately. My thumb hovered over the screen as I thought about that. Yeah, Kirsten drove me crazy, and yeah, I was here at the airport because I wanted to get the fuck away from her and everything else, but since I was going anyway, what was the harm in listening to it?

I'd listen, get mad, and this time tomorrow, I'd have two naked Hawai’ian girls in my bed, drunk off my ass in the middle of fucking paradise. I'd listen, and when I got to Hawai'i, I'd throw my phone in the ocean.

Was it worth it though? What was the worst thing she could say?

I played the message. Kirsten's voice filled the car like she was in there with me. I frowned, listening; she had the bitch meter turned on high. Her voice got really shrill when she yelled.

"Nathan," she was saying in the message. She did that when she was mad at me. Talked to me like I was her kid. "Nathan, why aren't you answering your phone? You bastard, I know you have it on you. You always do." I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Bad idea. Should have deleted it.

"Where are you? You know what? I don't care. It doesn't matter anyway. Your manager's been calling me. He wants to know where you are. You can't hide, you know that, right? You remember you signed a contract, don't you?" she was saying. No, I forgot that, Kirsten; thanks so much for reminding me that I owe my next three albums to that bloodsucking label, I thought.

"I told him I didn't know where you were. I can't believe you're throwing this all away. How long were you making your music waiting for someone to sign you?

“Whatever. The band will do just fine without you. Doug taking a chance on you was obviously a waste of his time. It's sad, really. Keep hitting that bottle, babe. Go ahead and throw that dream away. What would you be without your rich daddy anyway? Nothing. Maybe Remus can dedicate their next album to you in their Grammy speech-"

I cut the message off. There was about half a minute left, but I didn't have to listen to her anymore.

Fuck.

I could feel it. It was happening. I shut my eyes and tried to stop it. It felt like hot water bubbling up from my stomach to my chest, till I felt it in my head. It felt like being in a locked room with only one way to get out.

She was right. They didn't need me. They had producers and money from a major label. They could hire anyone to write. They could hire anyone to play and just put their names on it. They could just shit out album after album and watch the money pile up. They could keep going on tour – getting high, drunk, laid. Have a great time.

I wasn’t part of Remus, not anymore. They had our sound perfected; they could swap us all out and replace us the next day and it wouldn’t make a difference. It was generic. It was stock; it wasn’t real. Obviously, they could make money with or without me. They didn’t need me.

Fuck. I couldn't think. I felt like my skin was trying to crawl off my body. I couldn't fly like this.

Good thing I came prepared. I kept my stuff in the glove compartment. I always had a kit close. My travel kit was small compared to my other one. Just the essentials. Syringe. Belt. Dope – pharma grade, of course; I wasn't trying to kill myself. Just a little something to take the edge off. It wasn't a big deal.

I quickly looked out the window, rolling my sleeve up. I belted my arm and filled the syringe. I could almost feel it already. The anticipation before the high was almost as good as the main event.

I flexed my arm, looking for somewhere to stick it. I watched the needle puncture the skin and shoot one hundred percent pure, right in my vein.

I took the belt off and leaned back in my seat, sighing. Yeah. That hit the spot. It was like that feeling when you were cold and got in a hot tub. Just like a liquid orgasm spreading all over your whole body.