Rye

The hangover is brutal. As I open my eyes, it's as if my head has been crushed between two semi trucks. I blink, trying to somehow reset my brain and push the pain away but it obviously doesn't work. Rolling onto my back, I scramble to put the pieces of last night I can remember into a story that makes sense.

I had watched Launi leave before 'Baby Girl,' clearly her tolerance for it running thin. It was the first time on tour I had to play it without her and as I'd sat down, my chest tightened and I found it increasingly hard to breathe. It gets a little fuzzy from this point, but I think I ended up at a bar.

My eyes struggle to stay open in the light of the room. The boring comforter and generic wallpaper lets me know I made it back to a hotel. But is it my hotel? Squeezing my eyes shut again I try to remember how I got here.

Security. Yes, I had been driven back here in the SUV. Thank God. That means I'm at least where I'm supposed to be.

The soothing sound of water comes into my awareness. Someone is in the shower—but who? Sitting up, the blood pressure in my head magnifies the pounding and I have to take a minute to slowly breathe in and out to ward of the feeling of vomiting. What did I do to myself? The vibration of my phone in my pocket startles me. I want to look, but I know if I try to focus on my screen right now I'll get sick. Just the thought of it makes my stomach lurch.

Ok, security brought me to my room and someone was waiting. My hands fly to my face, searching for any signs of bruising or swelling. I don't remember getting my ass kicked, but if Launi was waiting for me and the band found out, that's exactly what would have happened. My skin is pasty, but not broken. Nothing hurts to touch.

The shower shuts off and my heart starts racing. Who had been waiting for me? The image of the crazy woman from the bus flashes in my mind and I pray I couldn't have been that stupid. My pants are on, but my chest is bare. My back is scratched. I lean forward, twisting to look over my shoulder at the red, angry marks.

Think. Think. THINK!

I glance quickly around the room, searching for my wallet and shoes, both critical to a fast escape.

"Rye, I can't go to the next show," Tinsley's voice calls from inside the bathroom.

Relief crashes over me. It's just Tinsley. What the hell she is doing here again will have to be a talk for another time. For now, I'm grateful it wasn't some psychotic groupie.

"That's ok Babe," I answer, my voice hoarse and gravely. The taste of cigarettes and whisky on my tongue.

Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and rest it against the headboard. We have a few days before the next performance and I need to clean up and get my shit together.

"I can probably meet you in Vegas," she says.

I don't answer.

"Rye?" she asks. I can hear the pat of her feet on the hard tile floor.

It nearly takes all the energy I have to lift my head and open my eyes in the direction of the sound.

"Rye? Did you hear me? I said I can probably meet you in Vegas." She stands in a robe, her hair wet as she squeezes it with a smaller towel. It's familiar and domestic and yet it doesn't feel like my life. This Hollywood actress does not belong in my hotel room in some random city while her movie is filming somewhere else. What is she doing here?

"Tinsley," I start, but then have to clear my throat. "You don't have to do that. We both have contracts."

She adjusts her stance. The easy, casual vibe from before is replaced with a defensive position. Her back is straight and her smile has morphed into a grimace. "I thought you'd want me there. It's good for the publicity."

"I don't know that anyone really cares that much anymore, Tins," I tell her.

"That's not true!" She says excitedly. She bounces onto the corner of the bed and I have to splay my hands out at my side to keep everything from spinning. "They LOVE us. My followers grew by twenty thousand last night after the post."

It's spinning. The room is actually spinning and I might be in hell. It's hot, the oppressive covers suddenly overwhelming my senses. I fight to push them off, practically ripping myself from the bed as I stand up. I don't have any interest in this conversation. I have no idea what she's talking about, but if this tour is helping her somehow that's great. I guess I don't really care if she follows us around if it is beneficial to her career. I just want her to stop talking and let me lay in the dark quiet of my room until this whisky has been burned from my body.

"Ok. I need to shower," I say, stumbling slightly before using the edge of the bed as support to make my way to the bathroom.

"Ok?" she asks curiously.

Make it stop.

I reach the bathroom door and slip inside, closing and locking it behind me. The steam as fogged up the mirror and honestly that's for the best because if I look even half as bad as I feel, I don't need to see it. I barely make it to the toilet before retching and violently trying to expel last night's bad decisions.

The phone in my pocket vibrates against my thigh and as I brace myself over the porcelain I'm reminded of the wilder years of youth when I spent many mornings just like this. I've sworn I'd never go back and yet here I am. Is it my mom calling? The band manager? My own manger? I can't bring myself to look yet. I close my eyes and the images of the first summer not at the cabin come flooding back. LA after midnight, drinking and using to try and quiet the overwhelming drive to be near Launi. That summer was the worst for my father and I. His addiction had spiraled out of control, and we had gone to blows over it. It was the first of many times my dad would put his hands on me before he passed.

Flushing the toilet, I sit back on my ass and lean up against the wall. I fought so hard to not be him, but it's like I'm following his path as if it were GPS guided directly in my brain.