Page 72 of Spark of Obsession
The thumping background beat of the bass swallows my volume, making my throat sore as I repeat my words. I catch my balance and snatch my arm away. I rub at the soreness and turn to stand eye to eye with douchebag Russell. His polished appearance makes him look extra smarmy.
“You owe me five hundred dollars, bitch,” he sneers.
“For wha—”
“For all my stuff you broke when you tossed it out of the window.”
How dare he! He best be glad I didn’t toss it into the river. The only thing that stopped me was the guilt over pollution. “You owe me that in storage fees, asshole. Call it even,” I say with a shrug.
His eyes move down my body and settle on the patch of exposed skin on my stomach. I tug on my halter top to try to conceal my body more. Sweat beads on my forehead.
“Quit being so creepy!” I yell over the music, and his eyes finally meet mine again.
“Why didn’t you dress sexy while we were together?”
Ew. “Because we were barely together, you ass.”
“And when we were, you were such a prude.”
“Get out of my way!”
“Remember, Angie, five hundred dollars. Not a penny less.” He bumps shoulders with me as he moves past. “I’ll see you around,” he calls blindly.
I stare at Russell’s back as he disappears into the crowd.
I make a dash toward the ladies’ room and slip ahead of a group of oblivious girls waiting in line. Once inside, I dab my heated skin with a dampened paper towel. After washing my hands, I fish the plastic-wrapped pill from the side pocket of my skirt. I check the time.
Three minutes.
My mind races for a way out. I am in need of sturdy ground—a platform to hold the weight of my decisions when I am too stressed to stand on my own. Each breath that slips into my lungs feels like a bomb waiting to go off. The vibrations of the noisy crowd penetrate through the walls. They want a show, and I am part of the next act.
With the added knowledge of Russell lurking in the audience, my anxiety rises tenfold. Without a doubt, he’ll be watching and wishing me to fail.
Two minutes.
I look down at the tiny pressed-powdered pill in my palm, rolling it with my thumb. I slide it across the trails of veins that pop with color through the pale clammy skin of my hand. My mouth dries and then salivates at the memory of the rush of relief that will soon follow. With no time to think, I toss the pill into my mouth and bite down hard and manically, a sure method to jumpstart the calming effects in record speed. I wash the nasty bitter taste down with handfuls of cupped water from the faucet, scowling at the chemical taste of the tap water.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, disgusted. Helpless.
I don’t even recognize this girl. It is like she is someone else, someone I’m not sure I like. She is the weak one. The lost girl who free-falls into the flames.
I slip out of the restroom, thankful that all of the occupied stalls stayed occupied during my desperate visit. I find Zander on stage and squeeze my way through the sea of people. I join him as he tunes his guitar and gives directions to a few of the night’s helpers. He gives me a reassuring smile.
I stare out into the crowd, my toes contracting at the fear of making a total ass of myself. It has been over four years since I have done anything remotely theatrical—and I wasn’t even the one with the talent. Nope, that was James. He was the actor and the star. I tagged along and had fun making memories with him, but it was more of a hobby for me than a passion. When he died, so did a part of me.
“Oh, come on, Ang. You know that the music teachers make everything a popularity contest. But audition anyway. For me. It will be fun, I promise. We can be the Dynamic Duo.”
That was James. Always trying to include me. Always supporting me and trying to make me smile. I still don’t know how I made it this long on my own without him.
The panic rises with the bile that erupts from my slow-churning stomach. I instantly regret the pig-out session of greasy, gooey, heart-attack-inducing food. The buzz from the spiked tea and pill gives me fleeting courage as the alcohol still filters through my system.
I want to crumble at the memories flowing rapidly through my brain; nothing is capable of shutting off the flashbacks. Not time. And definitely not a pill.
Guilt seeps in at the mere possibility that I could actually enjoy myself. I wrestle with the desire to keep some things sacred. I want to lock it away in an airtight box, never to be exposed again. But here I am. Touching and tainting the abandoned joy with the newness of a different time—knowing that an element is missing, never to be replaced or replicated.
God, I miss James.
I blink slowly at the layers of people awaiting the show. It feels like my head is submerged underwater, as my ears endure the echoing hollowed out sound. I can only hope it is a sign that the pill is working. Above all others is Claire’s high-pitched squeal, cheering us on at full volume. Her wild enthusiasm becomes my focus. I turn to Zander who starts playing the introduction. His eyes lock with mine, as I perch farther on the end of the wooden stool. The track lighting illuminates the sheet music resting on a makeshift podium. A worker kneels down in front of my microphone stand and adjusts it with ease. It is go time.