Page 50 of Rebel

“I’m going to find Beck,” he mutters, slamming the door.

I watch my best friend storm away, his words repeating in my head.

Am I truly that much of an asshole?

I don’t mean to be. I just am the way I am because of everything that’s happened. I have to be to survive. Or is that just another excuse like drugs? Fuck if I know, but it hurts a whole fucking lot.

Trav and Kolt have stood by me no matter what, and I never wanted to hurt them or let them down, but I have time and time again. He’s right. I don’t have the drugs to blame anymore. In group therapy, we are taught to take control of our actions, not to blame the drugs, and to take responsibility for the hurt we caused. I thought I had done that, but maybe not.

Can they ever forgive me for being an addict?

I thought so, but maybe I was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble to Kolton.

“You’re always sorry, Chase.” He peers up at me. “Just stop doing dumb shit, okay? We are too old for this. You are too old for this. When you came back, you told us you were going to make better choices. Show us that person—the person we became friends with in the first place. The one who had dreams that brought us here, who tracked down every producer and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Show us the person who created Dead Ringers, not the asshole who keeps breaking it apart.” He gets out of the car too, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts and aching heart.

Can I ever be the person I was before?

I can’t change what I’ve done, but they are right. I can change my future. I don’t want to keep hurting the people I love, but I also can’t be the Chase they want. I’m just different now, and most of the time, I don’t really like myself either, but each day is a day to be better and move forward.

Maybe it’s time I stopped dwelling on the past and do that.

I just hope they can give me one more chance. I probably don’t deserve it after all the shit I’ve put them through, but I hope they will.

The brutal truth is, no one else gives a single fuck about me. Only Trav and Kolt ever did. Everyone else looked at me and saw what they could use. My own family never even fucking cared, but those two idiots did.

I can’t afford to lose them, so if that means trying to be a better person, I will be for them, starting now.

Pulling out my phone, I send two text messages.

BigDickEnergy: I’m sorry to both of you. I’m going to do better. I promise.

BigDickEnergy: I’m sorry, Beck. It was fucked up that we made that pact. We are idiots, but we honestly didn’t mean anything malicious by it. If you’re going to be angry, be angry with me, not Trav and Kolt. I’m sorry.

TWENTY-FIVE

Fuck!

I want to scream. I want to hit myself. I’m such a fucking idiot. I let them suck me into their lives, make me laugh, and kiss me. I let them make me forget why I’m here. They had me questioning everything.

At least they showed their true colors now. It was a stark reminder of the very reason I changed my name, my hair, and my style then packed up and moved here—not to mention, it’s also why I fucking joined their band.

It wasn’t to fuck a rock star, that’s for sure, but as angry as I am, I’m glad they told me. I’m glad I realized before I was sucked in deeper. My mind is clear again, and revenge makes my heart beat. It’s what kept me alive when I had nothing left.

When I got the news and wanted to join her.

When I was completely alone.

Now, once again, it’s my constant companion and the reason I keep moving. Fuck Dead Ringers, and fuck their stupid fame. No matter what they think, they won’t be making it to the tour. This isn’t their last shot, it’s their bitter ending, and before I’m done with them, they will look into my eyes and know who I am.

They will realize who did this to them.

Willa Leroy.

The sign proudly declares it. I don’t know when I decided to come here. I visited it the moment I stepped foot in the city, but not since then. I didn’t want to be pictured here and have to face questions, but fuck that. I don’t care. Let them see.

This grave is bigger than the one back home. Here, it’s pure granite with her name, and flowers and gifts are scattered across it. Back home, it’s worn stone, hewn by hand and made to match my mother’s, which is next to it. The empty plot between them is reserved for me.