Read Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) Online
Authors: Stevie J. Cole
Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3) (30 page)
I woke up to the noise of glass being swept into a tin dustpan. My eyes slowly came to focus, and I blinked against the harsh sunlight beaming in through the slit in the drawn curtains.
Savannah laid sprawled out in her bed, breathing heavily. I rose from the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom expecting to find Jag, but instead found Heather.
She glanced back as she dumped the broken pieces into the trashcan. I looked around and most of the mess had been cleaned up, but the coke remained just as Jag had left it, smeared all over the floor. My cheeks warmed. I was embarrassed, ashamed that she had seen that.
“I’ll get that cleaned up next. Not exactly sure what to do with it,” she said.
“Um,” my eyes shot over to the floor again. “I’ll—I’ll clean it up, Heather. He, uh, he just…had a rough night. He didn’t…” I fell silent. “It’s not—don’t tell anyone.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t.”
“It’s a lot to deal with. He’s fine, though. It’s, uh, not as bad as it looks.”
I was making excuses. Enabling. Ashamed.
Rubbing my hands down my face, I asked, “Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know. He just asked me to come clean this up before you woke up.”
I walked out to get my phone and dialed his number, not surprised when it went straight to voicemail.
There is no chasing someone when they aren’t running. He had stopped running, so I had to stop chasing. Whatever decision he had made the night before, that was it.
I waited all afternoon, wondering if he would come back before the show, whether he would even show up to do the concert. Two hours before he was supposed to be at the concert hall there was a knock on the door.
Each step I took seemed like a mile. Was I going to open the door to him strung out, to Lance, to Stone, to a fucking police officer?
Twisting the handle, I pulled open the door and found a bellman holding a large bundle of purple roses. He smiled, his dark eyes lighting up. “For you.” He handed the bouquet to me, bowed, then turned and made his way back down the hall whistling.
There was a card with Jag’s handwriting on it. I went back inside, set the flowers on the table, and stared at that card for what seemed like hours. Jag was avoiding me, and I didn’t want to know what that card said.
Finally, I snatched it out and opened it.
“Sorry, princess. I promised you a happily ever after, but I’m not fucking Prince Charming.”
What in the hell does this mean? Does this mean that he’s giving up? Is he on a fucking binge?
Panic swept through me like a rogue wave: hard and angry, violent and fierce.
I had signed up for this, hadn’t I? I knew damn well what I was getting into—twice! I’d hoped it would never come to this, I’d been naïve enough to think one year had cleansed him. I should’ve known better. A person can never be completely cleansed of a demon.
I paced. My eyes kept drifting back to those flowers, wondering where the hell he was, what he was doing, terrified he’d given up on us, on sobriety, and that hurt. God, did it fucking hurt!
My heart flip-flopped around, pounding its way up into my throat and down into my stomach. A thin film of sweat dotted my forehead. I literally was sick with worry.
Picking up the phone, I dialed his number and it again went straight to voicemail.
Everything within me felt like it needed to escape. At that moment everything closed in and everything seemed so wrong. I had an incredible sense of impending doom twisting through me. Tense can’t begin to describe the way I felt. I wanted to cut a way out of my own skin. I couldn’t catch a good breath, I couldn’t formulate a rationale thought. My skin was crawling, my head whirling, and my stomach knotted and kinked in ways I didn’t know was possible. I thought I was losing him again, and that made every other moment of pain I’d ever experienced seem dull and bearable.
And then, Savannah screamed. That shook me back to reality. I made my way to her crib. Her face was red and wrinkled. She needed me, and it’s hard to confess that at that moment I wasn’t certain I could handle that. I needed him, he needed me, she needed me.
Slipping my hands underneath her, I lifted her out of the bed and rested her on my shoulder, patting her back to try and calm her. The louder she cried, the more emotional I grew, the tenser my muscles became.
I tried Jag again. No answer.
There I was in a hotel room in a country where I couldn’t speak the language with a crying baby, and my international rock star of a husband had possibly relapsed into a downward spiral. I felt lost and alone and utterly disgusted.
And the longer I paced trying to console the baby, the more I tried to call him and there was no answer, the more I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t leave him because I loved him. But I had to just leave him…there.
He needed to know that I wouldn’t tolerate it. I wanted him to know I would be there for him, but I would
not
stay and watch him spiral out of control. I felt it no longer mattered what I said and that the best way I could show him I loved him was by going home where I could maintain a blissful fog of ignorance, where I could pretend he was Prince Charming, where I could respect him.
I would deal with the fall-out when the tour was over, but I wasn’t going to blow up with him. I decided that.
If he’d decided to use again, I could fight him, I could argue and threaten him, I could pitch a fit; but in the end it would be his decision, not mine. I didn’t control him. I didn’t own him. He was a grown man and he made his own decisions. The only logical decision I could make was whether I would stay with him. And I would. I would stay with him sober or high, fucked out of his mind or completely lucid. I loved him. He was my life and I refused to ever give up on him. It sounds fucked up, I know, but that was the most rational conclusion I could come to. Live in my shoes and tell me you would have done something different, and if you do, then you don’t understand what unconditional love truly is.
I loved him—love him—unconditionally.
Four hours later and no one knew where Jag was. Jules and the guys had gone on a manhunt searching for him, and all I could do was sit there and wait.
My phone rang. I was in the middle of changing a diaper and didn’t bother to look at the number. I just answered it.
“Hello?” I said, holding the phone between my shoulder and chin as I fought to keep Savannah’s legs still to fasten the diaper.
“I hope you’re fucking happy!” James snarled into the line. “When he gets home, you tell him to call me.” Then the line went dead.
My heart pounded up into my throat just from hearing his voice. That man was pure evil. He was a self-consumed maniac that knew no boundaries.
Just as I laid Savannah down in her crib, I heard the front door open.
I immediately panicked and my adrenaline went into overdrive. What would I say to him? I heard a thud, then footsteps clomping across the tile.
“Roxy?” Jag’s voice echoed down the hall. “We need to talk.”
What has he done? Oh, my God. What has he done?
The amount of shock coursing through me at that moment paralyzed me.
“Aw, fuck,” he mumbled. “Rox?”
I stepped into the hallway and he smiled.
“Where have you been?” My brow wrinkled. My chest fell with ragged breaths as I stared at him. He looked freed, he looked like a weight had been snatched off of him.
“I did what I had to do. I fucking have to keep my promise and there’s only one way that’s gonna happen, princess.” He smiled that one-sided smile that made me fall so hard for him over a year ago.
“Jag…did you, did you quit?”
He stepped toward me, grabbing me by my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. “I couldn’t do it. I can’t be that guy. I don’t wanna be that guy. This is what I want. I want normal. I want us. Fuck fame.” He pulled away, kissing me hard. “I didn’t use, I swear I didn’t do any drugs. I was tempted, shit was I tempted. I bought that shit and I almost did it, but I couldn’t. I will never do that to you and Savannah. The fact that I came so close,” he shook his head, “that told me it wasn’t worth it. Nothing is worth losing you.” Arching his eyebrows, he said, “I’m done.”
I stood speechless, staring at him, certain he was only halfway serious. “You just need to think about—”
“I already fucking quit.” He glanced at his watch and tapped the face. “Show should’ve started an hour ago. Already called James. Booked a flight back home for tomorrow.” His hands rubbed down my arms and his smile deepened.
My insides shook, not exactly sure what to do. That was monumental. Jag Steele had given up fame for love, for family, to stay sober. He had given up what he had worked his entire life for. How was I supposed to handle that?
“Jag,” I said taking his hand in mine. “You need to think this through. You can’t just make a—”
“I did.”
“Jag.”
He shook his head. “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t want to be, princess. I want to be a husband and a dad. I want to stay sober, and honestly, if I stay in that industry, if I have to go on stage night after night like that…I’m too weak, and I know that.”
I looked at him. He knew what was best. “Okay.”
Shock. Utter shock rippled through every last fiber of my being.
I watched him brush past me and stand next to Savannah’s crib. Leaning against the rail, he smiled and traced a finger over her forehead. “One day you’ll understand what I just did. And maybe then you’ll see just how much I love you.”
He pushed away and walked back to me. “This is what I’ve always wanted. This is who I want to be. I promised, and I meant it.”
Within hours it was all over the news: Jag Steele left Pandemic Sorrow in the middle of a tour.
He left with three months to go.
Maybe that was inconsiderate, maybe he let down a million fans, but, selfishly, what is the most important to me is that he didn’t let me down.
This is my life; it’s not a two-hour concert, it’s not a story with a predetermined happily ever after. And the reality of it all is that it may have only been three months, but had he stayed, those three months could have ruined everything.
That was six months ago. Six months. The other guys from Pandemic Sorrow are in the process of forming a new band, and Jag has gotten a million pieces of hate mail. People are pissed, and I get it, but I can’t be sorry. He did what he had to do. He became the man he always wanted to be.
No matter what happens, Jag has been such an icon that I know we will never have normal, and I am completely fine with that.
I finally have it, the most amazing life I could have dreamed of. A husband, a wonderful father to my child, the person who proved to me that love was real, that I am more important than a high. I am the most important thing to Jag, and that is special beyond any description.
This is a raw, gritty, very real fairy tale. It may not be perfect, but it is fucking beautiful. I have someone that loves me unconditionally; so what if he was a famous rocker who was at times a little arrogant, a little eccentric? He’s mine. He’s my happily ever after, and I’ll take that.
I’d never believed that two broken people could right one another, but we do. All of the shards fit together perfectly, divinely. We fill in those little gaps.
We’re broken, shattered, and completely fucked-up…
without
each other.
We had to fall apart for everything to fit together, for it all to make sense.
He saved me from an empty life, he gave me meaning, he made me a mother. Jag Steele made me feel worth, and somehow along the way, he swears I saved him.
I love him.
He loves me.
And both of us, for the first time in our lives, have something that isn’t broken. Our love, our daughter, our family.
It turns out the thing I swore would kill me, the person I was certain would destroy me to no end gave me a life I could have never dreamed up. A life better than fiction. A happily ever fucking after.
He gave me love and that is something not many people ever truly experience.
Do I believe he will stay sober? Yes, because he’s shown me that sometimes love is the strongest drug, the most powerful addiction that exists. He promised me he would stay sober, and I know he will for Savannah. We both want to give her a life neither of us had until we found each other. I know it won’t be easy, I know he may falter, after all, he’s
just
a guy. Like I said so many times before he is just a guy…
And, to stick with what I’d always wanted, we had a fucked up, but beautiful happily ever after.
The End
I refuse to write this in third person. It just creeps me out.
I can write an entire book, but have no idea what to tell you about myself.
I have an obsession with words. I love writing because it is an art form that can be manipulated to convey emotions, create entire worlds, and provide an escape to sanctuary. I started writing poetry as a child and never fell out of love with putting words on paper.
Now for who I am: Eccentric. I am absolutely eccentric. My favorite color is pink – sparkly, glittery pink. I love sloths because they are so unbelievably weird. Their organs grow upside down and they harbor bacteria in their fur, not to mention they move super slow. What’s not to love? I have irrational fears. The zombie apocalypse absolutely tops my list of things I am terrified of, which is why I hope to one day own a water fortress in the middle of the ocean, because we all know zombies can’t swim. And I like to imagine strange scenarios, such as that what is actually the color purple to me is not actually purple to you…I’m a special kind of crazy!
If you want to keep up with my releases, or if you just want to subject yourself to my madness you can find me on:
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