Page 46 of Down Beat

Like a goddamn commando, I crawl belly-flat on the carpet across to where the guys have left my phone. The light stings my eyes as I wake it, forcing me to blink away the burn.

Time to evaluate the damage. I open the Google app and punch in “Dark Tide Rey.” The results are exactly what I expected: images of me being hauled out of the crashed SUV, status updates and tweets by eye-witnesses at the bar where I assaulted the bouncer, and one picture that jogs my memory—a shot of me as I run toward the SUV.

I was going to see Tabby-cat. Holy fuck. I got blind drunk and thought it would be a shit hot idea to go see her, since she bailed early at the theater.

The swill in my stomach becomes a deathly eddy as I navigate through every damn post and every damn story on every one of the fucking trashy tabloid sites, to see if anywhere it mentions me saying where I was headed.

Steamrolling over my own reputation is one thing, but fucking ruining hers in the process is another.

My panic lessens with each story I skim through that mentions nothing about her. To be on the safe side, I google “Dark Tide Rey Tabitha” and feel instant calm when the results are the same; her name returns nothing extra.

Thank fuck for that.

I double tap the home button and swipe up through the apps to close each one, yet still when the red icon at the bottom of my shrunk Facebook page catches my eye. Fuck it. If I can’t sleep, I might as well fuck around on Facey. I thumb through to the notifications, closing my eyes a couple of times to get them to refocus. Fuck headaches. I’d eat something, maybe search out an Advil or two, but I’m not so certain my gut can take any more intrusion just yet.

Tabitha Reeves wants to connect with you.

What the ever-loving fuck? I can’t smack the notification fast enough. Messenger opens, and there, right before my goddamn eyes is a message from the little tabby-cat. Hello, kitty.

I stretch out on the carpet, head braced on bent arm, and hold the phone out to the side to read it.

Thank you for the flowers. (Tell me they were from you, right, otherwise this is awkward as hell, LOL). It was a really nice gesture. I hope I didn’t cross any lines playing your song. The audience seemed to like it ? Anyway, thanks again for an amazing opportunity. Best of luck with the rest of the tour.

The flowers. Fuck, the flowers. I forgot I’d ordered those. Damn near scared the living shit out of Pete when I demanded he get in touch with the driver and find out what the address we stopped at was, and then instructed him to order the bunch online while we played.

Yeah, I like that Pete. He’s a good sort.

I roll to my elbows, laid out on my stomach, and hesitate while the sickness eases. Sure I’m not about to make a mess of the hotel floor, I tap out my reply, grinning like a right fucking tool as I do.

They were from me, so you can stop panicking about some other creepy stalker with the initial R now. Send me a picture. I want to know that I got what I paid for.

I send the phone to black and toss it aside. She’ll be all tucked up sound asleep at this time of the goddamn morning. Fuck, so should I be. I tap the home button again to check the time. Roughly an hour and Rick will be kicking our asses into the car. Wonder if Pete can shoot out and get me a bucket for the ride?

My temporary high fades as I roll to my back and stare up at the ceiling. The press will have a field day when this latest stunt slides across their desks in the morning. Rick’s old man will have his work cut out smoothing the edges, trying to turn my goddamn tantrum into something manageable.

Whatever happens in the next few days, I know one thing for sure: I can’t keep doing this.

I can’t tumble off the damn wagon every time somebody throws shade my way, least of all me.

Because pretty damn soon I won’t recover from the fall.