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 shot 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.
Right then, I forgot everything. I wasn't at the airport. I wasn't in my car. I was in heaven. I opened my eyes, watching another plane go by. It looked so happy. Maybe if I'd gotten Kirsten on heroin, she wouldn't be such a bitch.
Time must have passed; it felt like hours, but it must have been half an hour or something. Everything moved slower when I was high. Everything was better. I had to leave, though. I had a flight to catch.
I rolled my sleeve down. I could hide being high, but the track scars were a dead giveaway. I
pulled my hood up because I'd forgotten my baseball cap. Another reason why I should have fucking flown private. That way, nobody would recognize me.
I got out of my car and went to the trunk to pull my suitcase out. I left my kit in the car because I had another packed. I'd check this bag so security wouldn't get to it. I didn't carry lighters or spoons and shit, obvious junkie paraphernalia. If they saw it, they'd see vials of clear liquid. When they read it, it would say it was insulin. Hidden in plain sight. Who wasn’t going to let a diabetic have his insulin? I'd done this so many times before.
The trick was to act natural. Don't give them a reason to think you're doing something wrong. For all they knew, you were just another miserable traveler who had to make the drive to LAX that day. TSA didn't even look for drugs like that. I'd be fine.
The high definitely helped. I got through security no problem. I took my time with it since I still had a lot of time left before the flight. Once I was at my gate, I considered my options. I had music in my carry-on backpack. I could put my headphones on and zone out till it was time to leave. I even had a book, but it was sort of hard to read while I was high.
There was a bar, though, and getting a jump on that rum didn’t sound like a terrible idea.
Was it too early for a drink? I checked the time. Twenty minutes past seven. Yeah. It was too early. I'd just shot up; I'd probably last the flight. I sat down at the bar anyway, thinking I’d just do it. If they didn't want anyone to drink, why'd they have it open at seven in the morning, anyway?
I kept my head down, even though it was basically just me. Not a lot of people on my flight probably. Not a lot of people trying to get drunk at seven in the morning. The bartender walked up to me. It was a dude. Young guy. I nodded slightly. He smiled, telling me good morning.
"Hey," I said tightly. "Can I have a...Coke? Just a Coke. With ice," I said. The guy smiled and went to get me my drink. I rolled my eyes. Fucking Coke. Could he top that off with some Captain Morgan? That sounded more like it.
It was seven in the morning, I couldn't do that. Even I had limits…sort of. I'd drink my Coke, get on the plane, and ask for Patron. The guy came back with an icy glass full of Coke. I said thanks and paid him.
"Hey, man, you must get this all the time," he said. Oh shit. "But has anyone ever told you you're a dead ringer for Nate Stone."
"Who?" I asked, sipping my drink.
"Nate Stone. That guy from Remus. Well, he used to be part of Remus. He left them recently. Pretty talented guy." I shrugged.
"Can't be that good if they kicked him out."
"They didn't kick him out. It was creative differences or something like that," he said. I smiled to myself. Creative differences. Thank God for good PR.
"Creative differences? Who was he? Like, their John Lennon?"
"He didn't like the direction the major label was taking band's music. Ever heard their stuff?"
"Nope. That Nate guy sounds like a loser," I said. The bartender kept looking at me. Telling him to fuck off would be the worst thing to throw him off my scent. You didn't want fans saying they met you, and you were a douche. I kept my head down, drinking my Coke.