Chapter 1
"You're never fucking there for me!"
"What the shit! I come home every damn night to see you, and you're always 'busy'!"
Screams and curses echoed through the bright, expensive Californian home, the sunlight gleaming through the spotless windows, filling the room with brilliant light. The house was a mess, with broken items strewn across the cream-colored carpet and overturned furniture sticking out against the light surface of the walls. A glass figurine went sailing through the air, only to collide with the opposite wall and shatter to pieces.
"Would you just stop destroying everything and listen to me?" A deep, smooth, male voice said, calmer than before. "Why?" Spat a different voice, female this time. "Tell me why the fuck I should listen to you, Dj. You've done nothing but lie to me during this whole damn relationship."
A young man with messy black hair and striking blue eyes sighed, raising a hand to wipe it across his face tiredly. "I haven't been lying," he said, his voice quiet and exhausted, "You knew damn well I was sleeping with somebody else."
A sandy-haired woman stood across from her adversary, her arms crossed in front of her surgery enhanced chest, gray-blue eyes staring him down. "You shouldn't have done it in the first place, idiot!"
Dj sighed hopelessly and rolled his silver gray hued eyes. "Don't act like such a fucking saint, Tiffany. I know all about the affairs you had." The corner of his pierced lip twitched in a small, triumphant and satisfied smile as he saw her expression turn stony and cold. "Oh yeah, I knew all about the different guys you were haulin' into our bed, Tiff. I knew about all of them. I didn't think you'd do the fucking mailman."
"Oh, shut up Dj! You're such a prick," the blond woman exclaimed, storming across the room, gathering her things that were haphazardly placed. Then she stopped and whirled around, pointing an accusatory finger in Dj's direction. "You! You fucked that stupid little brunette slut! What, did she have bigger boobs than me, or something?"
"Trust me, Tiff," the boy said with a lazy drawl, "That wasn't nearly the case. I mean, you went fucking overboard, no girl has bigger tits than a crazy bimbo like yourself." Tiffany stopped and stared at Dj with wide, shocked eyes. "Fine. Fuck it, I'm out of here."
Dj felt a sudden stab of regret, but said nothing more than a cold, "Fine."
Tiffany gathered her things and stuffed them into an oversized blue and gray duffle, her stiletto heels clacking noisily on the hardwood floors as she stormed towards the door. "Don't bother calling me, asshole." She growled, raising her elongated, fake-nail adorned middle finger to the air as she haughtily crossed the stone driveway to her black Porsche.
Dj watched her go with an emotionless expression, waiting until her sporty little car had disappeared down the road before closing the white door and bee lining for the liqueur cabinet. He jerked the door open and stared into it, his hands starting to shake. He whispered the names of the different alcohols under his breath before finding a square bottle of Jack and yanking it from its holder. The warm brown liquid sloshed in the container and Dj shuddered with anticipation, popping the lid off and raising the glass to his lips. The alcohol slithered its way into his mouth, pouring over his tongue and down his throat. The taste was sharp and bitter on his taste buds and burned his throat like liquid flames, but he didn't care.
The pain was comforting.
It erased everything else, the shock of Tiffany's departure, the argument, and the night before. It erased the painful childhood memories of a wild, rebellious, out of control teen who had seen too much. It erased the memories of his mother, who had always been disappointed in her son.
It erased everything.
Dj felt comforted by this fact, and raised the bottle to his lips again. Before he knew it he'd gone through more than his body could handle, and he reacted by throwing up the contents of his stomach into the stainless steel sink. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles were white.
Then the tears started to come.
They burned his eyes and slid down his warm, red cheeks, and he couldn't help but feel angry, abandoned, and more importantly, alone. What have you done? His mind screamed at him hysterically, and Dj's damp eyes flicked about as he tried to decipher the answer to the question that his brain demanded to know.
Tiffany was all Dj had; he was the black sheep of his family and his only friend was the bottle of liquor he held loosely in his hand. As he sat there in deafening silence on the kitchen floor, heavily inked arms resting lightly on his denim-clad knees, he decided, no! He wasn't going to be alone tonight. No, he wasn't going to let Tiffany's words go to his head!
He stood drunkenly and set the half-empty bottle of Jacky D's on the marble counter and staggered up the bright stairway with the dozens of uniquely designed guitars lined up on the alabaster walls. As he pulled on clean clothes, his eyes caught sight of the gold-framed picture of him and Tiffany that had been taken with them in a park, and he felt a sudden rage build up in his chest. He grabbed it and flung it against the wall, the sound of shattering glass reaching his ears. As he left the bedroom, with its once-comforting band posters and messy bed-sheets, he felt his black-rimmed eyes start watering again. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he hissed, plucking the little metal keys from the glass bowl on a corner in the kitchen.
He reminded himself to get rid of it, since Tiffany had been the one to buy it and place it in their home. As he slid gracefully into the shiny black car, his hands resting on the ebony leather wheel, he couldn't help but feel sharp pangs of regret. He had been out of line, he realized while he backed out of the garage and started driving down the road towards town, and he should beg for her to come back...
No!
His grip tightened, his hands turning white. He wouldn't give in. He wouldn't. It was all her fault, after all. She was the one who started this whole dramatic scenario. Tiffany had never needed him to come home at the end of the day; she was well enough off. And, come to think of it, Dj didn't want to come home to see her, anyway.
Several hours - and bars - later, and Dj found himself in the raunchy part of downtown L.A., where sex and drugs ruled with an iron fist. The young man, however, could care less. Maybe a little hit and a quick rebound fuck would do him good. With a heavy hart, Dj paid his way into a small strip club, heading straight through the writhing bodies and towards the bar. He sat down on a stool, the bright, colourful strobe lights flashing and pulsing in time with the booming music. Dj's body reacted to the heavy bass line thudding deep in his chest with little flipping and jolting feelings, which he promptly ignored. He had one word on his mind at this point: Alcohol.