Musician!JayPark x NepoBaby!Reader
: ĚĚâ Genre: Angst, Smut, Toxic Relationship, Musician AU, Nepo Baby AU, Addiction, Tragedy, No Happy Ending
: ĚĚâ Summary: Youâre the daughter of a powerful music executiveâ gorgeous, privileged, and bored with your silver-spoon life. Jay Park is the rising star your father just signedâ talented, damaged, and running from demons you canât see yet. What starts as a reckless hookup at an industry party becomes an addictive spiral of drugs, sex and destructive love. As Jayâs status rises and his addiction deepens, youâre pulled into a darkness you canât escape. Some love stories donât have happy endings. Some people are too broken to be saved. And sometimes, love isnât enough to keep someone alive. Will any of it matter when he burns it all down?
: ĚĚâ Content warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), graphic drug use (cocaine, alcohol), substance abuse and addiction, fatal overdose, verbal and emotional abuse, degradation (sexual), rough sex, dubious consent (both parties under the influence), cheating and infidelity, toxic codependency, self-destructive behavior, manipulation, childhood trauma mentions, no condom use, graphic descriptions of drug use and overdose, character death, grief, depression, no happy ending, tragic ending.
: ĚĚâ Word count: 22.3k
: ĚĚâ Song: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey
: ĚĚâ Authors note: This fic destroyed me to write, so I hope it destroys you to read. Jay and reader are based in 2007 LAâ flip phones, paparazzi culture, and the height of industry excess. This is a tragedy about addiction, toxic codependency, and the brutal reality that love alone cannot save someone whoâs determined to self-destruct. Thereâs no redemption arc here, no happy ending, no lesson learned. Just two people who loved each other in the most destructive way possible. Reblogs, commmets, likes and feedback keep me writing, but please take care of yourselves while reading this.â¤ď¸
The party is already in full swing when you arrive, fashionably late because thatâs whatâs expected of you.
Your fatherâs label has rented out the entire top floor of some pretentious hotel in West Hollywoodâthe kind of place with marble everything and champagne that costs more than most peopleâs rent. The bass from the speakers thrums through the floor, some remix of a top 40 hit thatâll be forgotten in a month. Crystal chandeliers catch the light from the DJ booth, scattering fragments of gold across the crowd of executives, artists, socialites, and people who are famous for being famous. Youâve been to a thousand parties exactly like this one. Youâre bored before you even step off the elevator.
Your mother air-kisses both your cheeks without actually touching you, careful not to smudge her lipstick. Sheâs wearing Chanelâ sheâs always wearing Chanelâ and her smile is the same one she uses for magazine covers. Practiced. Perfect. Empty.
âDarling, you look beautiful,â she says, even though she helped pick out the dress. Black lace slip dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, red bottom Louboutins that make your legs look endless. Your fatherâs credit card swiped without a second thought at Barneys yesterday afternoon.
âThanks, Mom.â You accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, though you have no intention of drinking it. Champagne is for people who want to look like theyâre having fun. You prefer substances that actually deliver.
Your father appears at your motherâs elbow, already deep in conversation with some A&R rep whose name youâve forgotten. He notices you and his expression shifts into that particular brand of paternal pride thatâs really just self-satisfaction.
âThereâs my girl,â he says, pulling you into a one-armed hug thatâs more for show than affection. âI want you to meet some people. Come on.â
You follow because thatâs what you do. Smile, shake hands, laugh at jokes that arenât funny, let men twice your age hold your hand a little too long while their wives pretend not to notice. Youâre good at this. Youâve been trained for this your entire life.
The party stretches out before you like every other partyâa blur of small talk and stale ambition. You excuse yourself after twenty minutes, slipping through the crowd toward the balcony where you know youâll find relative privacy.
The Los Angeles skyline glitters below, smog softened by distance into something almost beautiful. You pull a pre-rolled joint from your clutchâ youâd rolled it this morning, something to take the edge offâ and light it with your Cartier lighter.
The first inhale settles something in your chest. The second makes the party sounds fade to background noise. By the third, youâre floating just enough to tolerate going back inside.
You smoke two joints in quick succession, letting the high build until the world has that pleasant fuzzy quality that makes everything bearable. When you finally return to the party, your eyes are glassy and your smile is genuine for the first time all night.
Thatâs when you see him.
Heâs standing near the makeshift stage with your father and two other men, and you know immediately heâs the rising star your dadâs been going on about all week. Some musician the label just signed, the ânext big thing,â another artist whoâll either make it or burn out spectacularly within a year.
Youâve heard the name. Seen it on some blog or another. But you werenât prepared for him to look like that.
Heâs wearing all blackâ fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that are surprisingly cut, dark jeans that sit low on his hips, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair is longer than the usual corporate clean-cut, falling into his eyes in a way thatâs probably calculated but looks effortless. Thereâs a silver chain around his neck catching the light.
He looks like sex and danger and bad decisions.
And heâs staring directly at your ass. You catch his eyes flick up when he realizes youâve noticed, but he doesnât look away. Doesnât even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead, he smirksâ slow and deliberateâ before turning his attention back to whatever your father is saying. Cocky. You hate that it works on you.
Your father sees you approaching and his whole face lights up with that particular brand of enthusiasm that means heâs about to use you for networking.
âAnd here she is!â He reaches for you, pulling you into the circle. âGentlemen, my daughter. Sweetheart, I want you to meet Jay Park. Heâs the artist Iâve been telling you aboutâ the one whoâs going to change the game.â
Jay extends his hand, and when you take it, his grip is firm, his hand warm. His eyes meet yours and thereâs something sharp in them, assessing. Like heâs trying to figure out what youâre worth.
âPleasure,â he says, and his voice is lower than you expected. Rough around the edges in a way that suggests cigarettes and late nights.
âThe pleasureâs mine,â you reply, your tone bored even though your pulse kicks up a notch.
Up close, heâs even more attractive. Sharp jawline, full lips, eyes that are almost black in this lighting. Thereâs a restless energy to him, like heâs barely containing something wild. You can smell whiskey on his breath, see the slight dilation of his pupils that suggests heâs not entirely sober.
âYour father says youâre interested in music,â Jay says, though the way heâs looking at you suggests music is the last thing on his mind.
âIâm interested in a lot of things.â You let the words hang, ambiguous and inviting.
His smirk widens. âI bet you are.â
Your father, oblivious to the undercurrent, launches into some speech about Jayâs demo, the sound heâs cultivating, the tour theyâre planning. You tune it out, watching Jay instead. The way he nods along, saying all the right things, playing the part of the grateful artist. But his eyes keep finding you, trailing down your body with an appreciation thatâs just shy of inappropriate given the setting. You wonder if your father notices. You wonder if you care.
âJayâs performing tonight,â your father says, finally wrapping up his pitch. âA few songs, let people hear what weâre working with. You should stay and watch.â
âI wouldnât miss it,â you say, directing the words at Jay rather than your father.
Something flickers in Jayâs expressionâ heat, promise, danger. He holds your gaze for a beat too long before your father is pulling him away, introducing him to someone else, someone more important.
But before he goes, Jay leans in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear. âStick around after,â he murmurs. âIâve got something youâll like.â
Then heâs gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and heat pooling low in your stomach. You need another joint.
An hour later, youâre leaning against the bar nursing a vodka cranberry you havenât touched when the lights dim and your father takes the stage.
He gives the usual speechâ thanking everyone for coming, talking up the label, building anticipation. Then he introduces Jay, and the crowd shifts, attention focusing on the stage as Jay steps into the spotlight.
Heâs ditched the leather jacket. The stage lights catch on the silver chain, on the rings on his fingers when he picks up the guitar. Thereâs a moment of feedback, then heâs playingâ something dark and hypnotic, all minor chords and driving rhythm. And then he starts singing.
His voice is raw and raspy, the kind of voice that sounds like itâs been dragged through gravel and smoke. The lyrics are explicit without being crude, sexual without being tacky. Itâs the kind of music that makes you think of sweat-slicked skin and tangled sheets and the kind of mistakes you make at 3 AM.
You watch his fingers move on the guitar strings, watch the way his throat works when he hits the high notes, watch the way he rolls his hips slightly on the downbeat. Itâs hypnotic. Sexual. Deliberate. And heâs looking right at you while he does it.
The song builds, tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally breaks on the chorus, and you feel it in your bodyâ that same tightening, that same need for release. Around you, people are nodding along, but youâre frozen, trapped in the pull of his gaze. He performs three songs total. Each one filthier than the last. Each one feeling like itâs meant for you specifically.
By the time he finishes, youâre wet and you havenât even touched him. The crowd applauds. Your father looks pleased. Jay sets down the guitar and disappears backstage, and you wait exactly ninety seconds before you follow.
You find him in the hallway outside the green room, leaning against the wall with a bottle of wine in one hand. Heâs already drunk half of it, you notice. Thereâs a restlessness to him now that the performance is over, that manic energy that needs an outlet.
âEnjoy the show?â he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.
âYou were okay,â you lie.
He laughsâ sharp and knowing. âLiar. You were eye-fucking me the entire time.â
âMaybe I was just trying to figure out what all the hype is about.â
He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between you in two strides. Up close, you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin from the stage lights, can smell whiskey and something sharper underneath. Drugs, probably. The thought should concern you more than it does.
âYouâre pretty when you lie,â he says, his voice low. âBut youâre even prettier when youâre high. How many joints did you smoke before you came back inside?â
Your breath catches. âTwo.â
âMm.â His eyes drop to your mouth. âYou got any left?â
âDepends.â You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. âWhat are you offering in exchange?â
His hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up. âWhat do you want?â
The honest answer is you. The honest answer is that youâve been wet since the moment he looked at you. The honest answer is that you want him to push you against this wall and make you forget your own name. But you donât say any of that. Instead, you lean in close enough that your lips almost brush his ear.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The hallway is empty, the party sounds muffled through the walls. Thereâs nothing but the sound of your breathing and the tension crackling between you like a live wire.
Then Jayâs hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and heâs kissing you.
Itâs not gentle. Thereâs nothing sweet or exploratory about it. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like whiskey and want. You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer even though thereâs no space left between you.
He walks you backward until you hit the wall, never breaking the kiss. His free hand finds your waist, your hip, slides down to grab your ass through the thin lace of your dress. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
âFuck,â he breathes against your mouth. âYouâre trouble.â
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of your dress where itâs ridden up. âYour daddy know youâre out here with me?â
âMy daddy doesnât know a lot of things.â
âGood.â His fingers hook under the hem of your dress. âLetâs keep it that way.â Then heâs pulling back, grabbing your hand, dragging you down the hallway. You follow without question, your pulse pounding in your ears, heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
He pushes open a doorâ a bathroom, marble and gold and excessive like everything else in this fucking hotelâ and pulls you inside. The lock clicks.
For half a second, you just look at each other. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing ragged. Thereâs a wild look in his eyes that should scare you but instead just makes you wetter.
âLast chance to walk away,â he says, but his hands are already reaching for you.
You grab his shirt and pull him in. âShut up and fuck me.â
Something in him snaps. He spins you around, pushing you forward until youâre bent over the marble sink, your palms flat against the counter. The mirror reflects both of you backâ your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, his hands already shoving your dress up over your hips.
âLook at you,â he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. âDaddyâs little girl, bent over and desperate for it.â
âFuck you,â you gasp, but thereâs no heat in it.
âOh, Iâm going to.â His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. âBut first, I want to see how wet you are.â
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You hear his sharp intake of breath when he sees how soaked you are, and it sends a bolt of satisfaction through you.
âDirty little thing,â he says, almost to himself. Then louder: âYou get this wet for everyone, or just for me?â
âJust you,â you admit, and itâs the truth.
âGood answer.â His fingers slide through your folds, teasing, and you push back against his hand. He laughs, low and mean. âDesperate already? We havenât even started.â
âThen start,â you demand, and he responds by pushing two fingers inside you without warning. You cry out at the sudden fullness, and his other hand clamps over your mouth.
âQuiet,â he commands. âUnless you want everyone at this party to know what a dirty money whore you are.â The words should offend you. Instead they make you clench around his fingers, and he notices.
âOh, you like that.â His fingers pump in and out, rough and fast. âYou like being reminded that underneath all that expensive lace and designer heels, youâre just a spoiled brat who needs to be fucked.â
You moan against his palm, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. His fingers are thick and skilled, finding that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. But itâs not enough. You need more.
As if reading your mind, he pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. You hear the sound of his belt, his zipper, and then his hand is on your hip, positioning you.
âCondom?â he asks, and thereâs a hint of hesitation there, the first crack in his dominant facade.
âPill,â you gasp. âIâm on the pill. Justâpleaseââ
âThatâs better.â He pushes inside you in one hard thrust and you both groan. Heâs bigger than you expected, the stretch almost too much, almost painful. But then heâs moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pain melts into pleasure so intense you see stars.
âFuck, youâre tight,â he grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. âTaking my cock like you were made for it.â
He sets a brutal pace, each thrust driving you forward against the sink. The marble is cold against your palms, a sharp contrast to the heat building inside you. You watch in the mirror as he fucks youâ his face twisted in concentration, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm thatâs almost musical.
Your own reflection is wreckedâ hair falling out of its careful styling, makeup smudged, lips parted as you try to stay quiet. But itâs getting harder with each thrust, each time he hits that spot deep inside that makes your whole body light up.
A particularly hard thrust makes you cry out, and his hand moves from your hip to your mouth again.
âI said quiet,â he growls. âOr do I need to give you something to keep that pretty mouth busy?â He pulls his hand away just long enough to push two fingers past your lips. You suck them obediently, tasting yourself on his skin, and he groans. âThatâs it. Suck my fingers like the good little slut you are.â
His other hand snakes around your body, finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles. The combination of sensationsâ his cock inside you, his fingers in your mouth, the pressure on your clitâ is overwhelming. You feel your orgasm building, that familiar tension coiling tighter and tighter.
âYou gonna come for me?â he asks, his voice rough. âGonna come all over my cock while your fatherâs just down the hall?â You nod frantically, unable to speak around his fingers, and he picks up the pace. His thrusts become erratic, harder, and his fingers on your clit are relentless.
âCome,â he commands. âCome for me right fucking now.â And you do.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, so intense your legs actually give out. He holds you up with one arm around your waist while you shake and spasm around him, and you feel itâ a rush of wetness that youâve only experienced a handful of times before.
âFuck yes,â Jay groans, feeling you squirt around him. âThatâs it, thatâs my girl, give it to meââ
He fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm until youâre sobbing against his fingers, overstimulated and wrung out. Only then does he let himself go, his rhythm stuttering as he buries himself deep and comes inside you with a low groan.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Youâre both breathing hard, the bathroom filled with the sound of it and the lingering smell of sex. Slowly, he pulls out, and you feel his cum drip down your thigh.
He tucks himself back into his jeans while you straighten up on shaky legs. Your reflection in the mirror is obsceneâ thoroughly fucked, makeup ruined, hickeys already blooming on your neck and collarbone that youâll have to cover up before you go back out there.
Jay meets your eyes in the mirror, and for a moment something passes between you. Recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgment of what youâve just started. Then he smirks, adjusting his shirt.
âYou should clean up. Canât have daddy seeing you like this.â The spell breaks.
You pull paper towels from the dispenser with shaking hands, cleaning yourself up as best you can. Your panties are ruined, so you ball them up and shove them in your clutch. Your dress is wrinkled but thereâs nothing you can do about that. The hickeys are going to be a problem, but youâll figure it out. Jay watches you the entire time, that infuriating smirk still on his face.
âWhat?â you snap, suddenly irritated with him, with yourself, with this whole situation.
âNothing.â He reaches for the door handle. âJust thinking this is going to be fun.â
âThis. Us.â He looks you up and down one more time. âWhatever the fuck this is.â
Then heâs gone, slipping out of the bathroom without another word, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the ache between your legs.
You wait five minutes before you follow. Long enough to fix your hair, dab at the hickeys with concealer you donât have, give up and hope no one looks too closely.
When you finally emerge, the party is still going strong. Nobody seems to have noticed your absence.
You spot Jay across the room, surrounded by industry people, playing the part of the grateful artist again. He catches your eye for just a second, and the heat in his gaze makes your breath catch.
Then someone hands you a drink, pulls you into a conversation, and youâre back in your role too. Daddyâs perfect little girl. The socialite. The trust fund baby who has everything. But underneath the expensive dress and the fake smile, you can still feel him between your legs. Can still taste his fingers in your mouth. Can still hear his voice calling you a dirty money whore.
You donât hear from him for a week. Not that you expected to. You didnât exchange numbers, didnât make plans, didnât do anything that would suggest the bathroom at your fatherâs party was anything more than what it wasâ a quick fuck between two people who wanted each other.
Still, you check your phone more than youâd like to admit. Flip it open during boring lunches with your mother, during shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, during another insufferable charity gala where you smile and nod and pretend to care about whatever cause is trendy this month.
You tell yourself you donât care. There are plenty of other guysâ actors, models, trust fund brats whoâd love to get their dirty hands on you. Youâve fucked half of young Hollywood already. Jay Park is nothing special.
Except you canât stop thinking about the way he bent you over that sink. The way he called you daddyâs little girl. The way he made you squirt all over his cock while your father was down the hall. You smoke more weed than usual that week but it doesnât help.
Itâs the following Friday when you see him again.
Your fatherâs having another industry thingâthis time itâs a showcase at some trendy club in West Hollywood, the kind of place with velvet ropes and a guest list that determines your worth as a human being. Several of the labelâs artists are performing, including Jay.
You almost donât go. But your mother insistsâ âItâs important to support your fatherâs work, darlingââ and youâre bored enough that even a shitty showcase sounds better than another night alone in your apartment getting high and watching reality TV.
You dress deliberately. A red slip dress this time, even shorter than the black one. Fuck-me heels. Your hair loose and wild. If youâre going to run into him, you atleast want him to remember exactly what heâs missing.
The club is packed when you arrive, already thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of expensive cologne. The music is too loud, the drinks are overpriced, and everyone is trying too hard. Standard LA bullshit.
Your father finds you immediately, pulling you into the VIP section where heâs holding court with various executives and artists. You accept a vodka soda from the waitress and settle in for a long night of forced conversation.
Thatâs when you see them.
Jay is standing near the bar with a woman you donât recognize. Sheâs older than youâ maybe late twenties, early thirtiesâ dressed in a crisp white button-down tucked into fitted black pants. Professional. Put-together. The kind of woman who actually has her shit figured out.
Theyâre standing close, her hand on his arm as she talks to him. Sheâs laughing at something he said, and heâs smiling back, comfortable in a way you havenât seen him before. Something ugly twists in your stomach.
âAh, there he is!â Your fatherâs voice cuts through your thoughts. Heâs waving Jay over, and you watch as he says something to the woman before heading your way.
Up close, he looks good. Too good. Black t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans that fit perfectly. His hair is slightly messy like heâs been running his hands through it. When his eyes land on you, something flickers in his expression, but itâs gone before you can identify it.
âJay, you remember my daughter,â your father says, oblivious as always.
âOf course.â Jay extends his hand like youâre strangers, like he wasnât inside you a week ago. âGood to see you again.â
You take his hand, your skin tingling at the contact. âLikewise.â
The woman from the bar appears at Jayâs elbow, and your fatherâs face lights up. âGinny! Perfect timing. Have you met my daughter?â
Sheâs even more polished up closeâ sharp features, calculating eyes, a smile that doesnât quite reach them. She extends her hand and you shake it, noting the expensive watch on her wrist, the diamond studs in her ears.
âItâs lovely to meet you,â Ginny says, her voice smooth and professional. âIâve heard so much about you.â
âHave you?â You keep your tone light, disinterested.
âGinny is Jayâs manager,â your father explains. âSheâs been instrumental in his development. Weâre lucky to have her on the team.â
âHow nice.â You take a sip of your drink, your eyes flicking to Jay. Heâs watching you with that same unreadable expression.
Ginny shifts slightly, and thatâs when you see them. Hickeys. Dark purple bruises just visible above the collar of her white shirt. Sheâs tried to cover them with makeup but the lighting in here is unforgiving. Your stomach drops.
You look at Jay, and heâs smirking. Actually fucking smirking at you. He did that. You know he did.
âWe should probably get ready for soundcheck,â Ginny says, her hand landing on Jayâs arm again. Possessive. Familiar. âThey want you on stage in twenty.â
âRight.â Jay nods to your father. âIâll see you after the set.â
âLooking forward to it,â your father says.
Jayâs eyes meet yours one more time before he walks away, and thereâs a challenge in them. A taunt.
What are you going to do about it?
You down the rest of your drink in one swallow.
Jayâs set is different from the party performance. Rawer. The venue is smaller, more intimate, and he feeds off the energy of the crowd. His voice is rough and hypnotic, the lyrics even filthier than before. He moves across the stage like he owns it, guitar slung low, every motion deliberate and sexual.
And he keeps looking at you. Not obviously enough that anyone else would notice. But you feel his gaze like a physical touch, burning across your skin, reminding you of things youâre trying to forget.
By the third song, youâre wet and furious about it.
Ginny is watching from the side of the stage, her arms crossed, her expression proud. Like she has any right to be proud of him. Like she has any claim to him at all. But those hickeys say otherwise.
The set ends to enthusiastic applause. Your father is beaming, already talking about booking bigger venues, planning a tour. Jay says all the right things, plays the humble artist, but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd. You need air.
You slip away from the VIP section, heading toward the back of the venue where you know thereâs a door that leads to the alley. You need to smoke, need to clear your head, need to figure out why the fuck you care that Jay is apparently fucking his manager.
Youâre halfway down the dim hallway when you hear footsteps behind you.
âRunning away?â Jayâs voice cuts through the darkness. You turn. Heâs leaning against the wall, backlit by the glow from the club, and he looks like every bad decision youâve ever made.
âI needed some air,â you say coolly.
âBullshit.â He pushes off the wall, stalking toward you. âYouâre pissed.â
âWhy would I be pissed?â
âGinnyâs hickeys.â Heâs close now, close enough that you can smell whiskey on his breath. âYou saw them.â
âSo youâre jealous.â
âDonât flatter yourself.â
âThen why are you out here instead of in there with daddy and all his important friends?â
You lift your chin, refusing to back down even though heâs crowding you against the wall. âMaybe I just donât want to watch you perform like a trained monkey.â
His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around your throatâ not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of what he can do to you.
âYouâre such a bitch,â he murmurs, but thereâs heat in his voice.
âAnd youâre an asshole.â
âYeah.â His thumb presses against your pulse point. âBut youâre still thinking about me fucking you. Still wet for me even though I left marks on someone else.â
He kisses you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth, tasting like whiskey and cigarettes and bad choices. You kiss him back just as rough, biting his lip, fisting your hands in his jacket. This is stupid. Your father is in the club. Ginny is probably looking for him. Anyone could walk back here.
Jayâs hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up, and you spread your legs for him without hesitation. His fingers find you already soaked, and he groans into your mouth.
âFuck, youâre dripping,â he breathes. âAll from watching me on stage?â
You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist. âNot here. Too exposed.â He glances around, then grabs your hand. âCome on.â
He pulls you further down the hallway to a door marked âStorage.â Itâs unlocked, and inside is exactly what youâd expectâ boxes of liquor, cleaning supplies, random equipment. And barely any light. Perfect.
The door barely closes before Jay is on you again, spinning you around and pushing you face-first against the wall. Your cheek presses against the cold concrete as his hands yank your dress up over your hips.
âNo panties?â He sounds genuinely surprised.
âI learned my lesson last time.â
âGood girl.â His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. âLearning so fast.â
Heâs already unbuckling his belt, the sound of his zipper obscenely loud in the small space. Then heâs pushing inside you in one brutal thrust and you both groan.
âFuck,â he grinds out. âStill so fucking tight.â
Thereâs no finesse to this. Itâs fast and rough and desperate, his hips snapping against yours hard enough that youâll have bruises tomorrow. One hand is fisted in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other grips your hip hard enough to hurt.
âThis what you wanted?â he growls in your ear. âWanted me to fuck you like the needy little slut you are?â
âYes,â you gasp, past the point of pride.
âI wanted you to fuck me.â
âAnd Iâm doing that, arenât I? Giving you exactly what you need.â His hand slides around to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. âEven though your daddyâs right out there. Even though Ginnyâs probably wondering where I went. You donât care, do you?â
âBecause youâre addicted to this cock.â
You want to argue, want to tell him heâs wrong, but he chooses that moment to change his angle and hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, feeling you clench around him. âTake it. Take all of it.â
His hand moves from your throat to your mouth, two fingers pushing past your lips.
âSuck,â he commands. You do, hollowing your cheeks, tasting the sweat on his skin. He groans, his rhythm getting erratic.
âGonna come,â he warns. âGonna fill this pussy up and send you back out there dripping with my cum.â
The thought alone nearly pushes you over the edge. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and thatâs all it takes. You come hard, your whole body going taut, and you feel him follow a moment laterâ his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Youâre both breathing hard, your legs shaking, your mind blissfully blank.
Then Jay pulls out and the spell breaks once again. You straighten up on unsteady legs, smoothing your dress down. Heâs already tucking himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair.
âYou should get back out there,â he says, his tone casual like he didnât just fuck you in a storage closet. âBefore someone notices youâre gone.â
âIâll wait a few minutes. Canât have people talking.â
Right. Because that would be bad for his image. Bad for the career your father is building for him. You head for the door, but his voice stops you.
âHey.â You turn. âThis works, right? Us?â He gestures between you. âJust fucking when itâs convenient?â
Something in your chest tightens, but you force a smile. âPerfectly convenient.â
âGood.â He leans back against the wall, and in the dim light you can see the hickeys you left on his neck at your fatherâs party the other week, already fading. âIâll see you around then.â
âYeah. See you around.â
You slip out of the storage room and make your way back to the club, your legs still shaky, his cum slowly dripping down your thigh. No one seems to notice your absence. Your father is still talking business, your mother is holding court with the wives, and Ginny is back at the bar, scanning the crowd. Looking for Jay, probably.
You grab another drink from a passing waitress and down it, trying to ignore the bitter taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with vodka.
This is fine. This is what you wanted, just really good sex when the opportunity presents itself. So why does it feel like you just lost something you never even had?
The pattern establishes itself quickly after that.
You run into each other at industry eventsâ always with your father present, always having to play the part of polite acquaintances. Jay performs, you watch, and somehow you always end up fucking in whatever private space you can find.
A bathroom at a restaurant during a label dinner.
The backseat of his shitty car in a parking garage.
Your apartment when your parents think youâre at a friendâs house.
His apartmentâ a cramped studio in a building with questionable plumbingâ when Ginny is out of town.
Itâs never planned. You donât text each other to make plans, donât call just to talk, hell you donât even have eachother numbers. You just⌠find each other. And when you do, you fuck. Hard and fast and without words beyond the dirty talk that gets you both off.
Sometimes heâs drunk. You can taste it on his tongue, smell it on his skin. Heâs rougher those nights, meaner with his words, more likely to leave marks.
Sometimes youâre high. Everything is softer then, slower, your body more sensitive to every touch. He seems to like you better that wayâ pliant and needy and willing to do whatever he asks.
You never ask about Ginny. He never asks about the actor you were photographed with last week, or the model the week before that.
Because this isnât that. This is just sex. Convenient, really fucking good sex. Thatâs all it is. Thatâs all it needs to be.
Three months in, your mother brings it up over brunch at some overpriced restaurant in Beverly Hills. âYour father tells me youâve been seeing quite a bit of Jay Park,â she says, delicately cutting her egg white omelet into precise pieces.
You nearly choke on your mimosa. âWhat?â
âDonât play coy, darling. Youâre always at the same events, youâre seen talking to him, leaving around the same timeâŚâ She gives you a knowing look. âAre you two dating?â
âNo,â you say quickly. Too quickly.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. âNo?â
âWeâre just⌠friends. Barely that. Iâm being polite because of Dad.â
âMm.â She doesnât sound convinced. âWell, if you were dating, Iâd approve. Heâs quite talented, your father says. And heâs going to be very successful. Thatâs the kind of man you should be associating withâ someone with ambition, drive. Not these vapid actor boys you usually waste your time with.â
You stare at her. âYouâd approve?â
âOf course. Heâs rough around the edges, certainly, but that can be polished. And having a successful musician on your arm would be good for your image. Make you seem more⌠substantial.â
Substantial. Like youâre a product that needs better marketing.
âIâm not dating him,â you repeat.
âBut you could be.â She sets down her fork, fixing you with that look she gets when sheâs about to give you life advice you didnât ask for. âDarling, youâre twenty-three years old. Itâs time to start thinking about your future. About building the right associations. Jay Park could be very good for you.â
For you. Not for your heart, not for your happiness. For your image. For the family brand.
âIâll keep that in mind,â you say, reaching for your mimosa again. Your mother smiles, satisfied, and returns to her omelet.
You finish the brunch on autopilot, nodding and smiling in all the right places, and all you can think about is how fucked up it is that your mother would approve of you dating Jay for all the wrong reasons.
Almost as fucked up as the fact that youâre not actually dating him.
Youâre just letting him fuck you in storage closets and leave his cum dripping down your legs while he goes home to his manager with the hickeys on her neck.
Yeah. Totally not fucked up at all.
Four months into whatever this is, and you still donât have his number. Itâs almost laughable. Youâve fucked him in more places than you can count, you know exactly how he likes his whiskey (neat, expensive), you know the sounds he makes when he comesâ but you donât have a way to contact him outside of these chance encounters at industry events. Not that it matters. You always find each other eventually.
Tonight is another one of your fatherâs things of courseâ a celebration at some exclusive club in Hollywood. Jayâs first single just hit the Billboard charts, and your father is practically glowing with pride. âI told you he was the next big thing,â he keeps saying to anyone whoâll listen, and for once you donât even roll your eyes because heâs right.
Jayâs everywhere now. Radio, magazines, MTV. The label is pushing him hard, and itâs working. Heâs still raw, still edgy enough to be interesting, but polished enough for mainstream success.
Youâre proud of him, you realize. Which is stupid, because youâre not together. Youâre not anything. Youâre just two people who fuck sometimes. Well, a lot actually.
The club is packed, bass thumping so hard you feel it in your chest. Your father has the VIP section locked down, of course, but you got bored of that scene within the first hour. The same executives, the same conversations, the same fake smiles.
So youâve migrated to the dance floor. Youâre three drinks in and feeling goodâ that perfect buzz where everything is softer around the edges but youâre still in control. The music is loud enough to drown out thoughts, and you let yourself get lost in it.
A man pulls you closeâ older, maybe forty, expensive suit and the kind of watch that costs more than most peopleâs cars. You donât know his name and you donât care. Heâs just a body, just hands on your hips as you grind your ass back against him.
You can feel him getting hard against you, and itâs gratifying in a shallow way. This is what youâre good at. Being wanted. Being desired. Being the girl everyone notices.
His lips find your neck, kissing up to your ear. âYouâre fucking gorgeous,â he murmurs, and you smile even though the words mean nothing.
Another man joins youâ younger this time, maybe early thirties, pulling you against his front so youâre sandwiched between them. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your dress.
This is dangerous. Reckless. Your father is upstairs, probably wondering where you are. You donât care.
The music shifts, something darker and heavier, and you lose yourself in the rhythm. The older manâs hands are on your hips, guiding your movements, while the younger one kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.
Reluctantly, you extract yourself from their grip, ignoring their protests as you head toward the back of the club where you know the bathrooms are. The hallway is dimmer, quieter, the bass reduced to a muffled thump through the walls.
Thatâs when you hear it. A familiar voice, low and rough, followed by laughter. You follow the sound to a darker section of the hallway, a semi-private area with velvet couches and low lighting. And there he is.
Heâs sprawled on one of the couches with three older men you donât recognizeâ industry types, probably, based on their expensive clothes and the way they carry themselves.
Thereâs a glass table in front of them, and on itâ lines of white powder, neat and precise.
Jay leans forward, a rolled-up hundred dollar bill in his hand, and snorts a line in one smooth motion. He sits back, his head tilting up, eyes closed, and even from here you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his whole body goes taut for a moment before he relaxes.
Then his eyes open and land directly on you. A slow smirk spreads across his face.
âWell, well,â he drawls, his voice rougher than usual. âLook who found the fun.â
Heâs drunk. You can tell by the way heâs sitting, loose-limbed and careless, by the glassiness of his eyes. But the coke has sharpened him somehow, given him an edge that makes your pulse quicken.
âDidnât know you were here,â you say, trying to sound casual even though your heart is racing.
âYour daddyâs party and you didnât know Iâd be here?â He laughs, the sound bitter. âThatâs cute.â
The men with him are looking at you now, their gazes sliding over your body in a way that should make you uncomfortable but instead sends a thrill through you. You recognize the lookâ hunger, want, the kind of attention youâve been craving all night.
âCome here,â Jay says, and itâs not a request. You should walk away. You should go back to the dance floor, back to VIP, back to safety.
Instead, you walk toward him.
He reaches out when youâre close enough, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you down onto the couch next to him. His arm immediately goes around your shoulders, his hand sliding down to grope your ass possessively.
âGentlemen,â he says to the men, âthis isââ He pauses, his smirk widening. âActually, I donât think weâve ever established what you are to me. What should I call you?â
âDonât call me anything,â you say, but thereâs no heat in it.
âSo mysterious.â His hand squeezes your ass harder. âThey know who you are, though. Everyone knows who you are. The execâs daughter. The trust fund baby. The girl who gets everything handed to her.â
Thereâs an edge to his words, something sharp beneath the surface, but youâre too focused on the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his hand feels on your body.
One of the men leans forward, pushing something across the table. A credit card, a small plastic bag of white powder. âYou want some?â the man asks, looking at you.
You glance at Jay. Heâs watching you with those dark, glittering eyes, waiting to see what youâll do.
âHave you ever tried it?â he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
You should say no. Weed is one thingâ harmless, relatively speaking. But cocaine is different. Cocaine is the kind of thing that ruins lives, that turns people into hollow versions of themselves.
But Jay does it. And he seems fine. And youâre so tired of being good, of being careful, of being the perfect daughter who does everything right.
âYeah,â you say. âI want to.â
His smirk turns into a full grin. âThatâs my girl.â
He doesnât let the men prepare it. Instead, he takes the bag and the credit card himself, cutting out a line on the table with practiced precision. Itâs smaller than the one he did, you notice. Considerate, in his own fucked-up way.
âYouâre gonna feel it hit fast,â he tells you, handing you the rolled bill. âItâs gonna make your whole face go numb, and your heartâs gonna race. You might feel like you canât breathe for a second, but thatâs normal. Just go with it.â
âAnd after, youâre gonna feel fucking incredible. Like you can do anything, like youâre on top of the world.â His hand slides up your thigh. âLike you need to fuck immediately.â
âDo it,â he encourages, his voice rough with want.
You lean forward, press the bill to your nose, and inhale. The burn is immediate and intense, worse than you expected. Your eyes water and you sit back quickly, your hand flying to your nose.
âBreathe,â Jay says, his arm tightening around you. âJust breathe through it.â
You do, and heâs rightâ your face goes numb almost instantly, this strange tingling spreading from your nose to your cheeks to your whole head. Your heart starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and for a second you think you might be having a heart attack.
The numbness fades into something else entirely. Every nerve ending in your body lights up at once. The music from the club, muffled before, suddenly sounds crystal clear and impossibly good. The lights are brighter, more vivid. And Jayâs hand on your thigh feels like fucking fire.
âHoly shit,â you breathe.
He laughs. âGood, right?â
âTold you.â His hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. âHow do you feel?â
âLike I could run a marathon. Like I could fuck for hours. Likeââ You turn to look at him and the intensity in his eyes steals your breath. âLike I need you right now.â
âYeah?â His fingers slip beneath your underwear, finding you already wet. âFuck, youâre soaked.â
âMy fault for being so hot? For corrupting daddyâs little girl?â His fingers slide through your folds, teasing. âWhat would he think if he knew you were down here, high on coke, letting me finger you in front of strangers?â
The men are definitely watching now, not even pretending to look away. One of them adjusts himself through his pants, and the knowledge that theyâre getting off on this makes you even wetter.
âI donât care what he thinks,â you gasp as Jayâs fingers find your clit.
âLiar. You love the thrill. Love knowing you could get caught.â He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. âYouâre such a bad girl. And I fucking love it.â
Then heâs kissing you, hard and demanding, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You kiss him back desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you donât care that people are watching. You donât care about anything except the way he tastes, the way his fingers feel inside you, the way the coke is making every sensation a thousand times more intense.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. âWe need to go. Now.â
âWhat aboutââ You gesture vaguely at the men, at the scene.
âFuck them. I need to be inside you.â He stands, pulling you up with him, and youâre unsteady on your feet for a moment before the world rights itself. Everything is so bright, so loud, so much.
Jay grabs your hand and starts pulling you toward the exit. You catch a glimpse of the VIP section as you passâ your father is still there, surrounded by people, completely oblivious to what his daughter is doing. Good.
The fresh air hits you like a slap when you step outside, and you gasp. The coke is still thrumming through your system, making your skin feel electric.
âWhereâs your car?â Jay asks, already pulling you toward the parking structure.
âMine then.â The parking structure is dimly lit and mostly empty this high up. Jayâs carâ still the same beat-up Hondaâ is parked in a far corner. He unlocks it with shaking hands, yanking open the back door and practically shoving you inside.
You hear a voice calling outâ âJay!ââ and you both freeze. Ginny is walking toward you from the elevator, her expression thunderous.
âWhat are you doing?â Ginny demands when sheâs close enough. Her eyes flick from Jay to you, and her face hardens. âWeâre supposed to be at the label meeting in twenty minutes.â
âTell them Iâll be late.â
âYou canât be late, itâsââ She stops, really looking at him for the first time. At his dilated pupils, his flushed face. âAre you high?â
âSo we have a meeting, Jay. An important one. You canât show up like this.â
Ginnyâs gaze lands on you again, and the look she gives you could strip paint. âThis is your fault.â
âExcuse me?â Youâre high enough that her hostility is more amusing than threatening.
âEvery time youâre around, he gets worse. Drinks more, uses more, makes stupid decisions.â She steps closer. âHe doesnât need you dragging him down.â
âGinnyââ Jay starts, but you cut him off.
âDragging him down?â You laugh. âSweetheart, he was doing lines before I even showed up tonight. Donât blame me for your inability to control your client.â
âHeâs not just my client.â
The implication hangs in the air, and even through the coke haze, it stings.
âThen maybe you should be a better girlfriend,â you shoot back. âBecause he certainly doesnât act like he has one when heâs fucking me.â
Ginnyâs face goes white, then red. âYou littleââ
âEnough!â Jayâs voice cuts through the tension. He steps between you, facing Ginny. âGo to the meeting. Make an excuse. I donât care. But Iâm not going.â
âI said Iâm not going.â His tone leaves no room for argument. âNow leave.â
Ginny looks like she wants to argue more, but something in his expression stops her. She shoots you one more venomous look before turning on her heel and stalking back toward the elevator.
The moment sheâs gone, Jay rounds on you. âGet in the fucking car.â
The shift in his tone sends a thrill through you. You climb into the backseat and he follows, slamming the door behind him.
For a moment, you just stare at each other, both breathing hard. Then youâre moving at the same time, crashing together in a tangle of limbs and desperation.
You climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately go to your ass, yanking your dress up around your waist. Your hands work his belt, his zipper, freeing his cock with shaking fingers.
âCondomââ he starts, but you shake your head.
âDonât care. Need you now.â
You sink down onto him in one swift motion and you both groan. The coke makes everything sharper, more intense. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and itâs almost too much.
âRide me,â he demands, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. âShow me how bad you need this cock.â
You do, lifting up and slamming back down, setting a brutal pace. His head falls back against the seat, his throat exposed, and you lean forward to bite down on the tendon there.
âFuck!â His hips buck up to meet yours. âYouâre such a needy little slut for me, arenât you?â
âYes,â you gasp, too far gone to care about pride.
His hands slide up to your breasts, yanking down the top of your dress so they spill out. He leans forward, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.
He switches to the other nipple, biting down hard enough to make you cry out. Youâll have marks tomorrow, evidence of this, and the thought makes you clench around him.
âYou like that?â he growls against your skin. âLike when I mark you up? So everyone knows who you belong to?â
âI donât belong to anyone.â
âLiar.â His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. âYou belong to me. This pussy belongs to me. Say it.â
He releases your throat and before you can process whatâs happening, his hand comes down hard on your ass. The sharp crack echoes in the small space, and the sting sends pleasure shooting straight to your core.
âSay it,â he demands, spanking you again.
Another spank, harder this time. âWrong answer.â
Youâre close, so close, the combination of the coke and his cock and the pain pushing you right to the edge. But you wonât give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it.
His fingers find your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and thatâs all it takes. You come with a scream, your whole body convulsing, and you feel him follow a moment laterâ his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Youâre both breathing hard, covered in sweat, your body still trembling with aftershocks.
Then you feel his phone buzz in his pocket, and reality crashes back in.
You climb off him, wincing at the soreness already setting in. Your dress is ruined, your makeup definitely smudged, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.
Jay tucks himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair. He looks wreckedâ pupils still blown, lips swollen, scratches visible on his neck where you dug your nails in.
âGive me your phone,â he says suddenly.
âYour phone. Give it to me.â
You pull your phone out of your clutchâ a flip phone, because this is 2007 and smartphones donât exist yetâ and hand it to him. He flips it open, punches in some numbers, and hands it back.
âThatâs my number,â he says. âText me when you get home.â
Something in your chest tightens. âOkay.â
âAnd next time you want to see me, donât wait for some fucking industry event. Just call.â
âOkay,â you repeat, softer this time.
He leans over and kisses youâ softer than before, almost gentle. âGo clean up. Iâll get you a cab.â
You text him that night, just a simple made it home.
He responds immediately: good. same time next week?
yours. your bedâs bigger.
You smile despite yourself. ok
wear that dress. the red one.
because Iâm gonna fuck you in it.
And just like that, everything changes. You trade numbers. You make plans. You start seeing each other outside of chance encountersâ though you still fuck at industry events too, because the risk is half the fun.
He comes to your apartment three times a week. Sometimes you fuck immediately, quick and desperate against the door. Sometimes you do lines first, letting the coke build the anticipation until you canât stand it anymore. Sometimes he brings his guitar and plays for youâ raw, unfinished songs that he says arenât ready but that you think are beautiful.
You learn things about him in those in-between moments. That he takes his coffee black. That heâs left-handed. That he has nightmares sometimes and wakes up swinging. That his father used to tell him heâd never amount to anything, and some part of him still believes it no matter how successful he gets.
You donât tell him about your own fears, your own insecurities. But sometimes, when youâre both high and loose-limbed and honest, things slip out. How you feel like a fraud. How everyone loves the version of you theyâve created, but no one actually knows you. How youâre terrified that if they did, theyâd realize thereâs nothing there worth knowing.
âThatâs bullshit,â Jay says one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare stomach. âYouâre more than your fatherâs name.â
âYeah. Youâre also incredible pussy.â
You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist.
âIâm kidding. Mostly.â He pulls you closer. âYouâre smart. Smarter than you let people see. And youâre funny, even if your humor is mean as fuck. And youâŚâ He trails off.
âNothing. Forget it.â
But something in his tone makes you think he was going to say something else. Something that mattered. You donât push.
The cocaine becomes regular. Not every time you see each other, but enough that you start to recognize the signsâ the way he gets when he needs it, jittery and irritable until he can get his fix. He never offers to sell you any, but you give him money sometimes anyway. Call it a contribution to his habits. Call it enabling.
Youâre not proud of it. But youâre not going to stop either.
Six weeks into your new arrangement, Jay cancels on you for the first time. Youâve just gotten home from a charity luncheon with your mother, and you text him: im home. you coming over?
The response takes twenty minutes: canât tonight. something came up.
You stare at the message, trying to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.
Thatâs it. No explanation, no apology. Just Iâll let you know. You tell yourself you donât care. You have other things to do, other people to see. Jay Park is not the center of your universe.
But you spend the next week checking your phone constantly, waiting for a text that doesnât come.
When you finally see him again, itâs at another club opening. Your father dragged you along, and you went because you were bored and maybe, just maybe, Jay would be there. He is.
Heâs in VIP with the usual crowdâ executives, other artists, hangers-on. And Ginny, sitting close to him, her hand on his thigh.
Your stomach drops. You knew they had history. You knew they probably still fucked sometimes. But seeing it, seeing her touching him like she has a right to, makes something ugly twist in your chest.
You down your drink and order another.
By the time Jay spots you, youâre three drinks in and dancing with some actor whose name you canât remember. The actorâs hands are on your waist, your ass, and you let him because you want Jay to see. Want him to feel even a fraction of what youâre feeling. It works.
Jayâs eyes darken when he sees you, and you watch as he says something to Ginny before standing up. He makes his way through the crowd, his gaze locked on you, and when he reaches you, he doesnât say a word. He just grabs your wrist and pulls.
You let him, following him through the club to a back hallway, to a door marked âPrivate.â He shoves it openâ some kind of officeâ and pulls you inside, locking the door behind you.
âWhat the fuck was that?â he demands.
âYou, grinding on that asshole like a cheap whore.â
The words hit like a slap. âExcuse me?â
âYou heard me.â He steps closer, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. Heâs drunk. Really drunk. âYou trying to make me jealous? That your game?â
âIâm not playing any game. I can dance with whoever I want.â
âNot when youâre mine, you canât.â
âIâm not yours!â The words come out sharper than you intended. âYou made that very clear when you ghosted me for a week to fuck Ginny.â
His jaw clenches. âI didnât fuck Ginny.â
âBullshit. I saw you two. Her hands all over youââ
âSheâs my manager. Sheâs always all over me. It doesnât mean anything.â
âThen where were you?â Your voice cracks despite your best efforts. âI texted you. I called. You ignored me for a fucking week, Jay.â
âI wasnât!â He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. âI was in the studio. I was working. I didnât have time forââ
âFor me. You didnât have time for me.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âBut itâs what you meant.â You cross your arms, hating how much this hurts. âWhatever. Weâre not together. You donât owe me explanations.â
âThen why are you acting like I cheated on you?â
âYou are. Youâre pissed that I didnât text you back, pissed that Ginny was touching me, pissed that I have a life outside of fucking you.â His voice is getting louder, meaner. âWhat did you think this was? Did you think because we exchanged numbers, because I fuck you in your fancy apartment, that means something?â
Each word is a knife, but you refuse to let him see how deep they cut.
âNo,â you say coldly. âI know exactly what this is. Weâre fuck buddies who occasionally do coke together. Nothing more.â
âI am acting like it. Youâre the one who dragged me in here.â
âBecause watching another man touch whatâs mineââ He stops himself, his jaw clenching.
âIâm not yours,â you repeat, but your voice is weaker now.
âArenât you?â He closes the distance between you in two strides, backing you against the desk. âYou think about me when youâre with them, donât you? Think about my hands, my mouth, my cock. Wonder if they could ever make you feel the way I do.â
âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. âYou can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know the truth. Youâre mine. Youâve been mine since that first night.â
âAnd what about you?â You look up at him, defiant even with his hand on your throat. âAre you mine?â
For a moment, something flickers in his eyesâ vulnerability, maybe, or fear. Then itâs gone, replaced by that familiar cruelty.
âI donât belong to anyone,â he says. âNot you, not Ginny, not your father. Iâm not some pet you can claim.â
The words shouldnât hurt as much as they do. âThen let go of me.â
âI said no.â His other hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up. âBecause even though you piss me off, even though youâre a spoiled brat who thinks the world revolves around her, even though I should walk away right nowâ I canât.â
His fingers find you wet despite everything, and he laughsâ low and bitter. âYou hate me right now, donât you? But your body doesnât care. Your body knows who it belongs to.â
âI donât hate you,â you whisper, and itâs the truth. You wish you could hate him. It would be so much easier.
âYou should.â He pushes two fingers inside you, rough and fast. âIâm not good for you. Iâm not good for anyone.â
âYou will.â But even as he says it, heâs kissing youâ hard and desperate, like heâs trying to punish you or himself or both. You kiss him back just as hard, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though heâs right. Even though this is toxic and destructive and wrong.
He spins you around, bending you over the desk, and you hear his belt, his zipper. Then heâs pushing inside you with no warning, no preparation, and you cry out at the stretch.
âThis what you wanted?â he growls in your ear, setting a brutal pace. âWanted me to fuck you like I hate you?â
âYes,â you gasp, even though itâs not true. But hate is easier than whatever this actually is.
His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling your head back. âSay my name.â
âThatâs right. So everyone knows whoâs fucking you. So that asshole out there knows youâre mine.â
Youâre crying now, but youâre not sure if itâs from pain or pleasure or the emotion of it all. Everything is too muchâ his cock inside you, his hand on your throat, the words heâs saying, the words heâs not saying.
âTouch yourself,â he commands. âMake yourself come on my cock.â
Your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit, and the added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge. But something is different this time. The pleasure is there, but itâs tangled up with hurt, with anger, with feelings you canât name.
âYes you can.â His voice softens slightly, and somehow that makes it worse. âCome for me, baby. Show me youâre mine.â
The endearment breaks something in you. You come with a sob, your whole body shaking, and you feel him followâ his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Youâre bent over the desk, his body covering yours, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulls out, and the loss feels like more than just physical.
You straighten up on shaky legs, not looking at him. Your makeup is definitely ruined now, your dress wrinkled, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.
âWe shouldââ you start, but your voice cracks.
âYeah.â Heâs tucking himself back into his jeans, not meeting your eyes either. The silence is awful.
Finally, he speaks. âI wasnât with Ginny. Not like that.â
âI mean it. Whatever we are, I wouldnâtââ He stops, running a hand through his hair. âI wouldnât do that to you.â You want to believe him. But youâre not sure you can.
âIt doesnât matter,â you say, even though it does. âLike you said, weâre not together.â
âI should get back,â you say, moving toward the door.
âWait.â He catches your wrist. âTomorrow. Come over tomorrow.â
âPlease.â The word costs him something, you can tell. Jay Park doesnât say please.
âOkay,â you whisper. He lets go of your wrist, and you leave without looking back.
The next day, you show up at his apartment like nothing happened. Like he didnât verbally eviscerate you. Like you didnât cry while he fucked you. Like this is normal.
He answers the door shirtless, his hair messy like he just woke up. âHey.â
You expect him to pull you inside, to kiss you, to skip straight to the sex. Instead, he just looks at you for a long moment. Then, quietly: âIâm sorry.â
The words shock you more than anything else he could have said. âFor what?â
âFor last night. For the things I said. Forââ He stops, his jaw clenching. âFor being a fucking asshole.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
You donât know what to say to that, so you donât say anything.
âCome in,â he says finally, stepping aside. You walk into his apartmentâ still shitty, still cramped, but more familiar now. Thereâs a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, a guitar propped against the wall, papers scattered across the coffee table that you recognize as lyrics.
âYou want something to drink?â he asks.
âItâs two in the afternoon.â
âSure. Whatever youâre having.â He pours you both whiskey, neat, and hands you a glass. You sit on his ratty couch and he sits next to you, close but not touching.
âI wasnât with Ginny,â he says again. âI was in the studio. Weâre recording the album and itâs been⌠intense. I lose track of time when Iâm working. I didnât mean to ignore your texts.â
âYeah. I did.â He takes a drink. âIâm not good at this. At whatever weâre doing. I donât know how to balance everything.â
âThen maybe we should stop.â The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication.
âIs that what you want?â he asks quietly.
No. God, no. But you should want that. You should want to walk away from this toxic mess before it destroys you both.
âI donât know what I want,â you admit.
âYeah. Me neither.â He reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. Itâs such a simple gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything else youâve done together.
âI like you,â he says, not looking at you. âI know Iâm shit at showing it, and I know I say terrible things when Iâm drunk, but I do. Like you, I mean.â
Your heart clenches. âI like you too.â
âSo maybe we just⌠keep doing this? Figure it out as we go?â
âWhatever this is.â Itâs the most honest conversation youâve ever had. No pretense, no games. Just two fucked-up people admitting they canât stay away from each other.
âOkay,â you say softly. He finally looks at you, and thereâs something raw in his eyes. Vulnerable.
Then heâs kissing you, and itâs different than before. Slower. Softer. Like heâs trying to tell you something he canât say out loud.
You kiss him back, your free hand coming up to cup his face, and when he pulls you into his lap, itâs gentle. Careful.
You make love that afternoon. Because thatâs what it is, even though neither of you would call it that. Itâs slow and sweet and terrifying in its intimacy.
And when you come, gasping his name, heâs looking right at youâ really seeing youâ and you think maybe this could be something. Something real. Something more than just sex and drugs and destruction.
But deep down, you know better. This isnât a love story. This is a tragedy waiting to happen.
And youâre both too far gone to stop it.
Eight months in, and you canât remember what your life looked like before Jay Park.
The days blur together nowâ a haze of cocaine and whiskey and sex that feels both like everything and nothing at all.
Youâve stopped going to most of your motherâs charity events, stopped pretending to care about the socialite circuit. Your friends have stopped calling, stopped inviting you places, because you always say no anyway.
Thereâs only Jay. The high. The crash. The cycle.
Your father still loves him, still talks about him like heâs the future of music. The single dropped two weeks ago and itâs climbing the charts. Thereâs a tour coming upâ twenty cities, sold-out venues, the kind of exposure that turns rising stars into superstars. Your father is so proud. So blind to whatâs actually happening.
Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he sees the way Jayâs hands shake in the morning, the way his eyes are always slightly glassy, the weight heâs lost. If he notices the way youâve changed tooâ thinner, quieter, more hollow.
But he doesnât say anything. Because Jay is making him money. Because youâre an adult. Because itâs easier not to know.
Itâs a Thursday night when your father mentions the studio. Youâre having dinner at some expensive restaurant in Beverly Hillsâ you, your parents, and a few executives from the label. Youâve barely touched your food, moving it around your plate while your mother shoots you disapproving looks.
âJayâs in the studio tonight,â your father says casually, cutting into his steak. âWorking on the album. Heâs been there every night this week.â Your heart skips.
You havenât seen Jay in three days. Heâs been distant lately, canceling plans, not answering texts until hours later with vague excuses about work.
âHeâs very dedicated,â one of the executives says. âThatâs what I like about him. Real work ethic.â
âAbsolutely,â your father agrees. âHe knows what it takes to make it in this business.â
You push your food around your plate, thinking about Jay alone in the studio. Probably high. Definitely drinking. Working himself into the ground because thatâs what he doesâ burns bright and hot until thereâs nothing left.
âYou should stop by,â your father says, and it takes you a moment to realize heâs talking to you. âHeâs been asking about you.â
Your mother gives you a look. âIs there something going on between you two?â
âWeâre friends,â you say automatically.
âFriends.â Your motherâs tone suggests she doesnât believe you, but she doesnât push. She never does. As long as youâre discreet, as long as thereâs no scandal, she doesnât care what you do.
After dinner, you tell your parents youâre meeting friends. They donât question it. They never do.
You drive to the studio with your hands shaking on the wheel, and youâre not sure if itâs anticipation or withdrawal. You havenât done a line since yesterday morning, and your body is starting to feel itâ that restless, itchy feeling under your skin, that need for more.
The studio is in a nondescript building in North Hollywood, the kind of place youâd drive past without noticing. Youâve been here before, enough times that the security guard just waves you through.
You find Jay in Studio B, the door slightly ajar. You can hear music bleeding outâ something dark and hypnotic, layered with his voice. You push the door open quietly.
Heâs sitting at the mixing board, his back to you, headphones on. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the equipment and a single lamp in the corner. There are empty bottles scattered aroundâ beer, whiskey, you canât tell in the low light.
And on the table next to him, the telltale signs: a credit card, a razor blade, a small plastic bag of white powder.
Heâs high. You can tell by the way heâs moving, slightly too fast, slightly too focused. His hands fly across the board, adjusting levels, replaying sections, completely absorbed.
You watch him for a moment, and something in your chest aches. This is what he loves. Not you. Not the sex. Not even the drugs, really. This. The music. The creation. The one thing thatâs his.
Youâre just a distraction.
âJay,â you say softly.
He spins around, pulling off the headphones, and his face goes through several expressionsâ surprise, pleasure, guilt. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight.
âHey,â he says, and his voice is rougher than usual. âWhat are you doing here?â
âMy dad told me you were working. I wanted to see you.â
âYeah?â A slow smile spreads across his face. âMiss me?â
He gestures to the couch against the wall. âCome here. Listen to what Iâm working on.â You walk over, your heels clicking on the floor, and sit down. He brings his laptop over, settling next to you close enough that you can smell himâ cigarettes and whiskey and that sharp chemical smell that means heâs been doing lines for hours.
âThis is the new track,â he says, hitting play. The music fills the roomâ dark, atmospheric, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tight. The lyrics are about addiction, about need, about wanting something you know is destroying you.
Itâs about you. Or maybe itâs about the drugs. Or maybe thereâs no difference anymore.
âWhat do you think?â he asks when it ends.
âYeah?â Heâs looking at you intently, his pupils so dilated his eyes look black. âYou think so?â
âYeah. But it feels like somethingâs missing.â
âThatâs what Iâve been trying to figure out.â He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. âIâve been listening to it for hours and I canâtââ
Itâs impulsive, born of three days without him and the ache in your chest from the song. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. When you pull back, youâre both breathing hard.
âI have an idea,â he says, his voice low.
Instead of answering, he stands up and pulls you with him, leading you toward the vocal booth. Itâs small, soundproofed, with a microphone in the center and foam padding on the walls.
âWhat are we doing?â you ask, but you already know. Your pulse is racing.
âAdding whatâs missing.â He positions you in front of the microphone, his hands on your waist. âYou trust me?â
âYes.â And itâs probably the most stupidest this youâve ever said in your life.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through your dress. You can feel him getting hard against your hip.
âShh.â He reaches past you and presses a button on the interface. The recording light comes on, a soft red glow. âJust let me.â
His hands are everywhereâ your breasts, your waist, sliding up your thighs. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, his fingers finding the edge of your underwear.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs against your lips. âLet me hear you.â
This is insane. Youâre in a studio, in a professional recording space, and he wants toâ his fingers slide inside you and you gasp, your head falling back. The microphone picks up everythingâ every breath, every moan, every wet sound his fingers make moving inside you.
âYouâre so wet,â he breathes, his voice low enough that youâre not sure if the mic will catch it. âAlready so ready for me.â
âPlease,â you whimper, past the point of embarrassment. He turns you around, bending you slightly forward so youâre braced against the mic stand. You hear his zipper, feel his hands lifting your dress, pulling your underwear to the side.
Then heâs pushing inside you, slow and deep, and you both groan. This is different from your usual frantic fucking. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deliberate and controlled. One hand is on your hip, the other reaches around to play with your clit, and every sound you make is crystal clear in the booth.
âThatâs it, baby,â he murmurs, his lips against your ear. âGive me everything. Let them hear how good I make you feel.â
Your moans are breathy, desperate, obscene. The knowledge that heâs recording this, that heâs going to use this in his song, should horrify you. Instead it makes you wetter.
âJay,â you gasp. âOh god, Jayââ
âSay my name,â he demands, his fingers working your clit faster. âSay it louder.â
His rhythm picks up slightly, still controlled but more urgent. You can hear the wet sounds of him moving inside you, can hear your own desperate whimpers, and itâs so intimate and exposing that you feel tears prick your eyes.
âIâm close,â you warn.
âCome for me. Let me record you coming on my cock.â
The combination of his words and his fingers pushes you over the edge. You come with a cry, your whole body shaking, and you feel him follow moments laterâ his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Youâre both breathing hard, the only sound in the booth other than your racing hearts.
Then Jay reaches past you and stops the recording. He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum start to drip down your thigh. Youâre too shaky to stand on your own, so he holds you up, his arms around your waist.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
âYeah. That wasââ You donât have words for what that was.
âCome listen.â He leads you out of the booth, pulls you down onto his lap in the chair at the mixing board, and pulls up the recording.
Your cheeks burn as you hear yourselfâ the moans, the desperate way you said his name, the wet sounds of sex.
âItâs perfect,â Jay says, already working on integrating it into the track. His hands move across the board, isolating certain sounds, layering them with the music. It should feel wrong. It should feel like heâs using you. Instead, you feel something else entirely. Something warm and terrifying in your chest.
âI love you,â you whisper.
His hands still on the board. The words hang in the air between you, heavy and impossible to take back.
âWhat?â His voice is careful, controlled.
âI love you,â you repeat, turning to look at him. âIâm in love with you, Jay.â
For a moment, his expression is unguardedâ raw and vulnerable and something that might be fear. Then it shutters closed.
âYouâre high,â he says.
âIâm not. I havenâtââ You realize heâs right. You havenât done a line tonight, but the comedown is making you emotional, making you say things you shouldnât. âThat doesnât change what I feel.â
âYou donât love me.â Heâs already pulling away, physically and emotionally. âYouâre addicted to me. To this. Itâs not the same thing.â
âWell, itâs not for me.â The words are sharp, cutting. âWe fuck. We get high. We have fun. Thatâs all this is.â
âI have to work.â Heâs standing now, practically pushing you off his lap. âYou should go.â
âYeah. I need to finish this track and youâreââ He gestures vaguely. âYouâre distracting me.â The dismissal stings more than any of the cruel things heâs said before.
âFine,â you say, grabbing your purse. âIâll go.â
âGood.â Youâre halfway to the door when he speaks again. âDonât take this the wrong way,â he says, not looking at you. âBut I donât do relationships. I donât do love. If thatâs what youâre looking for, you should find it somewhere else.â
You want to scream at him. Want to tell him that itâs too late, that youâre already in too deep, that he doesnât get to decide how you feel. Instead, you just leave.
Jay doesnât call. Days pass. Then a week. Then two.
Your phone stays silent except for texts from your mother asking where you are, from old friends youâve been ignoring, from people who donât matter.
You try not to care. You tell yourself itâs better this way, that you needed the distance, that maybe this is the universe giving you an out.
But every day that passes feels like dying a little. You stop eating. Your mother notices, makes comments about you looking too thin, but sheâs secretly pleased. Thin is good in her world. Thin is fashionable.
You canât sleep. You lie awake at night staring at your phone, wondering if heâs thinking about you, if heâs fucking someone else, if the song he made with your voice is finished yet.
You start going out more, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things.
Parties. Clubs. Men who look at you like youâre something to consume. But nothing helps.
Your father announces the tour dates. Twenty cities. Starting in two weeks.
âYou should come,â he says over breakfast one morning. âFor the first few shows, at least. Show your support.â Your mother gives you a look. She knows. Maybe not everything, but enough.
âI donât thinkââ you start.
âI insist,â your father says. âJayâs been asking about you. And itâll be good exposure for you. Networking opportunities.â
Because thatâs all that matters to him. Exposure. Networking. Using you as a pretty accessory for his business dealings. You want to say no. You should say no.
âOkay,â you hear yourself say. âIâll come.â
The drinking gets worse. Not yoursâthough thatâs gotten bad too. Jayâs.
You hear about it through your father, who hears about it from Ginny, whoâs trying to manage a man whoâs actively trying to destroy himself. Heâs showing up to rehearsals drunk. Missing promotional appearances. Getting into fights with the band.
âHeâs under a lot of pressure,â your father says, making excuses. âThe tour, the album, all the expectations. He just needs to blow off some steam.â
You wonder if your father would be so understanding if he knew about the cocaine. About the whiskey for breakfast. About the way Jayâs been spiraling sinceâ since you told him you loved him.
This is your fault. You pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now heâs self-destructing because thatâs what he does when things get real.
You want to call him. Want to text him. Want to show up at his apartment and make sure heâs okay. But you donât. Because he made it clear he doesnât want you.
So you do what you do bestâ you self-destruct too.
The tour kicks off in San Francisco, and you fly up with your father and a few label executives on a private jet. Your mother stayed homeâ she hates rock venues, hates the crowds and the noise and the lack of sophistication. You wish youâd stayed home too.
The venue is massive, thousands of people packed in, the energy electric. Jayâs opening act goes on first, and you watch from the VIP section with your father, drinking expensive vodka and pretending to care.
Then Jay takes the stage.
The crowd goes insane. Screaming, pushing, a wave of bodies surging forward. And Jayâ well, he looks like shit.
You can see it even from a distance. Heâs too thin, his movements slightly uncoordinated, and when he starts singing you can hear the roughness in his voice that comes from too much whiskey and not enough sleep.
But heâs electric. Raw. Dangerous. The crowd loves it.
Your father is beaming. âHeâs incredible,â he says, having to shout over the music. âThis tour is going to make him a star.â
You just nod, your eyes locked on Jay. He hasnât looked at the VIP section once, hasnât acknowledged your presence.
The show is ninety minutes of controlled chaos. Jay prowls the stage like a caged animal, his guitar an extension of his body, his voice rough and hypnotic. The new single gets the biggest reaction, and when it playsâ when you hear your own moans layered into the trackâ your face burns.
No one else knows itâs you. But you know. And somewhere, Jay knows.
After the show, thereâs an after-party at the hotel. You consider not going, but your father insists. âJust for an hour,â he says. âMake an appearance. Itâs important.â
The party is in a suite on the top floor, already packed with band members, crew, hangers-on, and groupies. The music is loud, the air thick with smoke and perfume and the particular energy that comes after a successful show.
You get a drink from the barâ whiskey, neat, because thatâs what Jay drinks and maybe if you drink enough of it youâll understand him better.
Youâre on your second when you see them.
Jay and Ginny. Theyâre in a corner, standing close, her hand on his chest. Sheâs saying something and heâs laughing, and thereâs a familiarity between them that makes your stomach turn. You should look away. You should leave. But you canât move.
Jayâs hand slides down to Ginnyâs ass, squeezing, and she leans up to whisper something in his ear. Then theyâre moving, heading toward one of the bedrooms off the main suite.
Your father is across the room, deep in conversation with some producer. He doesnât notice when you set down your drink and follow Jay and Ginny.
You shouldnât do this. You know you shouldnât. But you need to see it. Need to confirm what you already know.
The bedroom door isnât fully closed. Through the crack, you can see them. Jay pushes Ginny against the wall, kissing her hard. His hands are already yanking up her skirt, and sheâs fumbling with his belt. Itâs rough and fast and nothing like the way he touched you in the studio.
âFuck,â Jay groans as Ginny sinks to her knees. âJust like that.â
You should leave. You should turn around and walk away and pretend you never saw this.
But youâre frozen, watching as Ginny takes him in her mouth, watching as Jayâs head falls back and his hand fists in her hair.
âThatâs my girl,â he murmurs, and the endearmentâ the same one heâs used with youâ breaks something inside you.
Tears blur your vision. You turn and run, pushing through the party, ignoring the calls of people asking if youâre okay. You make it to the elevator, to your own room two floors down, before you completely fall apart.
You cry so hard you canât breathe. Great, heaving sobs that feel like theyâre tearing you apart from the inside. He doesnât love you. He never loved you. You were just convenient. Just another warm body. Just another distraction.
Thereâs a knock on your door. You ignore it.
âI know youâre in there.â Itâs not Jay. Itâs some guyâ one of the executives you met earlier. âYour father sent me to check on you.â
You wipe your face, trying to pull yourself together. When you open the door, the man takes one look at you and his expression shifts from concern to something else.
âRough night?â he asks, stepping into your room without being invited.
âYou donât look fine.â Heâs olderâ forty, maybe forty-fiveâ handsome in that distinguished way that comes with money and power. âYou look like you could use some company.â
This is a bad idea. You know itâs a bad idea. But youâre hurting and angry and desperate to feel anything other than the pain in your chest.
âYeah,â you hear yourself say. âI could use some company.â
He kisses you and you kiss him back, trying to lose yourself in it. Trying to forget Jayâs hands on Ginny, Jayâs voice calling her âmy girl,â Jayâs complete indifference to your existence.
The manâ you donât even remember his nameâ pushes you back onto the bed. His hands are confident, experienced, but wrong. Everything is wrong.
When he pushes inside you, you close your eyes and try to pretend itâs Jay. But it doesnât work. It feels hollow. Empty. Like youâre going through the motions of something that used to mean something.
He comes quickly, and you donât come at all. He seems not to notice or care.
âThat was great,â he says, already pulling his pants back on. âWe should do this again sometime.â
âYeah,â you lie. âDefinitely.â
He leaves and youâre alone again, feeling worse than before. Used. Dirty. Desperate.
You take a shower, scrubbing your skin until itâs red, trying to wash away the feeling of hands that werenât Jayâs. It doesnât work.
You fly home the next morning without saying goodbye to anyone. Your father calls, asks if youâre okay, if something happened. You tell him youâre sick, that you need to rest. He believes you because itâs easier than the truth.
Back in LA, you lock yourself in your apartment and donât answer the door for days.
Your mother calls. Your friends text. Even your father stops by once, but you pretend youâre not home. You just want to be alone. To wallow in your misery. To figure out how to breathe without Jay.
Itâs been three weeks since you told him you loved him. Three weeks since he pushed you away. Three weeks of silence.
Youâre starting to think this is how it ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper. With him on tour, living his life, while you fall apart in your expensive apartment.
Your phone buzzes. You almost donât check it. But something makes you pick it up.
Itâs Jay: where are you
Your heart stops. Then starts again, racing: home
You run to the window, and there he isâ leaning against his car in the street below, looking up at your building. Even from here you can see how bad he looks. Thin. Exhausted. Wrecked.
You should tell him to leave. You should block his number and move on with your life.
But youâre already running down the stairs, your heart in your throat, because despite everythingâ despite the pain and the drugs and the destructionâ you love him. And you know this is going to kill you.
Youâre shaking when you open the door.
Jay is leaning against the frame, and up close he looks even worse than he did from the window. His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. His face is gaunt, cheekbones too sharp, and thereâs a tremor in his hands that wasnât there before. Heâs wearing the same clothes from the showâ ripped jeans, a black t-shirt that hangs off his frame.
He looks like he hasnât slept in days. He probably hasnât.
âHey,â he says, his voice rough.
âWhat are you doing here?â
Instead of answering, he reaches up and cups your face with both hands. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch achingly gentle. His thumbs brush away tears you didnât realize were still falling.
âI brought something,â he says, his eyes searching yours. He pulls a small plastic bag from his pocket. White powder. Enough for a whole night. Thatâs his peace offering. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just drugs.
You should slam the door in his face. Should tell him to fuck off and never come back. Instead, you step aside and let him in.
He walks into your apartment like he owns it, like he hasnât ignored you for three weeks. He goes straight to your coffee table, pulls out his wallet, and starts cutting lines with practiced efficiency.
You watch from the doorway, your arms wrapped around yourself.
âAre we going to talk?â you ask.
âAbout what?â He doesnât look up.
âAbout the fact that you ghosted me for three weeks. About Ginny. Aboutââ
âI donât want to talk.â He finally looks at you, and the intensity in his gaze steals your breath. âI want you.â
Three words. Thatâs all it takes.
You cross the room and he pulls you down onto the couch, kissing you hard and desperate. His hands are everywhereâ your face, your neck, your waistâ like heâs trying to memorize you through touch.
You kiss him back just as desperately, fisting your hands in his shirt. Youâve missed this. Missed him. Even though you hate him, even though heâs destroyed you, youâve missed him so much it physically hurts.
âI saw you,â you gasp against his mouth. âIn San Francisco. You and Ginny.â
His hands still for just a moment. Then heâs pulling back to look at you.
âThat was nothing,â he says. âShe doesnât mean anything.â
âSo?â His hand slides up your thigh. âIâm here now, arenât I? With you.â
Itâs manipulation. You know itâs manipulation. But you want to believe him so badly that you let yourself.
âI only want you,â he murmurs, his lips finding your neck. âYou know that, right?â
âShh.â His hand slides between your legs, and he goes very still.
Youâre not wearing underwear. You havenât bothered with them since you got home, too depressed to care about anything. But thatâs not why heâs frozen.
His fingers slide through your folds and he pulls back, his expression dark.
âYou fucked someone else,â he says flatly.
Your heart stutters. âJayââ
âYou fucked someone else.â His voice is rising. âAfter you saw me with Ginny, you went and fucked some other guy.â
âYou donât get to be mad about that. You donât get toââ
âWho was it?â Heâs standing now, towering over you. âTell me who it was.â
âI donât even know his name.â
Something flashes in his eyesâ hurt, maybe, or rage. Itâs hard to tell.
âSome random guy,â he says, his voice dripping with contempt. âYou let some random guy fuck you.â
âLike you care. You were fucking Ginny!â
âThatâs different.â
âHow is that different?â
âBecause Ginny knows what sheâs getting into. She knows what I am. She doesnât expect more.â He steps closer, and thereâs something dangerous in his expression. âBut youâ youâre supposed to be different. Youâre supposed to be mine.â
âI canât be yours if you wonât be mine!â
âI told youâ I donât do relationships. I donât do love. I made that clear from the beginning.â
âYou did,â you agree, your voice breaking. âBut I fell in love with you anyway. And you knew. And you kept coming back. You kept using meââ
âUsing you?â He laughs, sharp and bitter. âBaby, youâre the one who gives me money for coke. Youâre the one who spreads your legs the second I show up. Donât act like youâre some victim here.â
The words hit like a slap.
âFuck you,â you whisper.
âYeah, thatâs what youâre good for, isnât it?â His hand wraps around your throatâ not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of his power. âBeing pretty and available and desperate for my attention. Take away the money and the tight pussy and what are you? Nothing. Youâre nothing without me.â
You should push him away. Should tell him to leave. But his words have hit something true and terrible inside you. Because heâs right. You are nothing without him. Youâve let yourself become nothing.
âI hate you,â you say, but thereâs no conviction in it.
âNo, you donât.â His grip on your throat tightens slightly. âYou love me. You said so yourself. And thatâs your problem, not mine.â
âBedroom. Now.â You go.
Because despite everythingâ despite the cruel words and the manipulation and the knowledge that this is destroying youâ you still want him. Need him. Canât breathe without him.
Heâs gentle at first. He lays you down on the bed, his hands tender as he undresses you. He kisses every inch of exposed skinâ your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His touch is almost reverent, like youâre something precious.
âI missed you,â he murmurs against your skin. âMissed this.â
You want to ask if he missed you or just missed fucking you, but youâre afraid of the answer.
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss slow and deep. When he pushes inside you, he does it carefully, watching your face. âOkay?â he asks, and itâs the most considerate heâs been in weeks.
He starts to move, still slow, still careful. Itâs almost like making love. Almost like he actually cares.
But then his rhythm changes. Gets harder. Faster. His grip on your hips turns bruising.
âYou let him touch you here?â He thrusts particularly hard and you gasp. âLet him fuck this pussy that belongs to me?â
âDid he make you come? Did you moan his name the way you moan mine?â
âNo,â you gasp. âNo, it wasnâtâ it didnât feel like thisââ
âGood.â His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. âBecause youâre mine. Say it.â
He fucks you harder, rougher, and the gentleness from before is completely gone. This is punishment. This is him reminding you who you belong to. And you take it. Because you want it. Because some fucked-up part of you needs this.
When you come, itâs intense and devastating, and youâre cryingâ from pleasure or pain or the emotional wreckage of it all, youâre not sure. Jay follows moments later, burying himself deep and groaning your name.
For a long moment, you just lie there tangled together, both breathing hard. Then he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you.
âWe should do a line,â he says, like he didnât just fuck you into oblivion.
You do lines at three AM on your bedroom floor.
The coke hits hard and fast, sharper than usual. Jay must have gotten better quality. Or maybe youâre just more desperate for it now.
âThis is good shit,â you say, your heart already racing.
âOnly the best for you.â He grins, but it doesnât reach his eyes. You do another line. Then another. The room gets brighter, sharper, every sensation heightened. Jayâs hand on your thigh feels electric.
âCome here,â he says, pulling you into his lap. You straddle him, and heâs already hard again. The coke does thatâ makes him insatiable, makes him able to go for hours.
This time when he fucks you, itâs different. Slower. More intense. Youâre both high enough that every touch feels magnified, every sensation almost too much.
âI canât do this without you,â he murmurs against your neck. âIâve tried. I canât.â
Your heart clenches. âJayââ
âIâm serious. These past three weeks have been hell. Iâve been drinking more, using more, and nothing helps. Nothing makes it better except you.â
Itâs the closest to a love confession youâve ever gotten from him. And even though you know itâs probably the drugs talking, probably manipulation, you cling to it anyway.
âI need you,â he continues, his hands gripping your hips as you ride him. âI know Iâm shit at showing it. I know I fuck everything up. But I need you.â
âI need you too,â you gasp, and itâs the truth. As destructive as it is, you need him like air.
âPromise you wonât leave me.â
âPromise you wonât fuck anyone else.â
âGood.â His hand slides up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. âBecause youâre mine. And I donât share.â
The irony isnât lost on youâ he doesnât share but he still fucks Ginny. But you donât say that. You just kiss him and lose yourself in the feeling of him inside you, the high making everything feel possible.
You come together this time, both crying out, and in that moment you almost believe this could work. That love and need and desperation are enough to build something real on. Almost.
You wake up around noon, your head pounding and your nose burning.
Jay is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over your waist. In sleep, he looks younger. More vulnerable. The harsh edges of his face softened. You watch him for a moment, your chest aching with a complicated tangle of love and resentment.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from your mother: Lunch today? We need to talk.
You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Jay. In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.
Youâve lost weight. Too much weight. Your face is gaunt, your collarbones too prominent. Your eyes are hollow, dark circles permanent fixtures now. Your skin looks gray, dull. You look like an addict. Because you are one.
The realization hits you like a punch. Somewhere along the way, this stopped being recreational. Stopped being fun. Now you need it. Need the high to feel normal. Need Jay to feel whole. Youâre addicted to the drugs and to him, and youâre not sure which is worse.
Thereâs a knock on the bathroom door. âYou okay?â Jayâs voice, rough with sleep.
He opens the door anyway, leaning against the frame. Heâs naked, unselfconscious, and even nowâeven knowing what he is, what this isâyou want him.
âMy mom texted,â you say. âWants to have lunch.â
âSo she probably knows somethingâs wrong.â
âI canât just avoid her forever.â
âWhy not?â He steps into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around you from behind. In the mirror, you can see both of youâtwo hollow-eyed ghosts clinging to each other. âStay here with me instead.â
âI have to leave for the tour again in three days.â His lips find your neck. âI want to spend every minute with you until then.â
Your stomach drops. âThree days?â
âYeah. Two more weeks of shows, then Iâm back.â Two more weeks. Two more weeks of him being gone, of you falling apart, of wondering if heâs fucking Ginny in every city.
âIâll come with you,â you blurt out.
âOn tour. Iâll come with you. My dad already suggested it anyway.â
Heâs quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around you. âThatâs not a good idea,â he says finally.
âBecauseââ He stops, seeming to struggle for words. âBecause Ginny will be there. And the band. And I wonât be able to focus on you. Iâll be busy and stressed and Iâll justâIâll fuck it up.â
âSo youâd rather I stay here? Alone? Wondering who youâre with?â
âI told you, Ginny doesnât mean anything.â
âThen why canât I come?â
âBecauseââ His jaw clenches. âBecause I donât want you to see me like that. On tour. Using. Drinking. I donât want you to see how bad it gets.â
âItâs already bad, Jay.â
âIt gets worse.â The admission hangs between you, heavy with implications.
âLet me help you,â you say quietly. âLet me be there for you.â
âYou canât help me.â He pulls away, running a hand through his hair. âNo one can help me. This is just who I am.â
âThatâs not trueââ
âIt is true!â His voice rises. âIâm fucked up, okay? Iâve been fucked up since I was a kid, and no amount of love or support or whatever the fuck you think you can give me is going to fix that.â
âIâm not trying to fix youââ
âYes, you are. Thatâs what you do. You see broken things and you think you can fix them, make them better, save them. But I donât want to be saved.â
âThen what do you want?â
âI want to feel good. I want to not think. I want to fuck and get high and make music and not have to deal with feelings or futures or any of that shit.â Each word is a knife, but you force yourself to stand there and take it.
âAnd what about me?â you ask. âWhat do I get?â
âYou get me. When Iâm here. When I can be.â His expression softens slightly. âThat has to be enough.â
For a moment, something like fear flashes in his eyes. Then itâs gone. âThen leave,â he says flatly. âIâm not keeping you here. You can walk away any time.â
But you both know thatâs not true. He is keeping you hereâwith promises and manipulation and the way he touches you like youâre the only thing in the world that matters. âI canât leave,â you whisper.
âI know.â He pulls you back into his arms. âThatâs the problem.â
The next three days blur together in a haze of cocaine and sex and moments of almost-tenderness that feel like torture.
You skip lunch with your mother. She calls you repeatedly but you donât answer. Your father texts asking if youâre okay. You lie and say youâre fine. Youâre not fine.
You and Jay exist in this bubbleâyour apartment, your bedroom, your bathroom. You order food you donât eat. You do lines at all hours. You fuck until youâre both exhausted and then do it again.
Heâs insatiable. Always wanting more. Always needing you. And you give him everything. Because this is all you have. These three days before he leaves and youâre alone again.
On the second night, youâre both coming down from a high when he says it.
âI think about you when Iâm with her.â
Youâre lying in bed, tangled together, sweaty and exhausted. âWhat?â
âGinny.â His voice is quiet. âWhen Iâm with her, I think about you.â
You donât know what to say to that. It should make you feel better, but it doesnât. âWhy do you fuck her if youâre thinking about me?â
âBecause sheâs there and youâre not. Because itâs easier than feeling what I feel when Iâm with you.â He traces patterns on your bare shoulder. âBecause Iâm a coward.â Itâs the most honest heâs ever been.
âTell me you wonât fuck her anymore,â you say. âPromise me you wonât.â Silence. âJayââ
âI canât promise that.â
âBecause Iâll break it. Because when Iâm on the road and Iâm drunk and high and lonely, Iâll take whatâs available. And I donât want to lie to you.â At least heâs honest. Thatâs something, you suppose.
âI hate this,â you whisper.
âI know. I hate it too.â
âBecause Iâm fucked up. Because this is all I know. Becauseââ He stops, his jaw clenching. âBecause if I let myself actually be with youâreally be with youâIâll destroy you. Iâll pull you down with me until thereâs nothing left. And you deserve better than that.â
âLet me decide what I deserve.â
âYou canât see it. Youâre already halfway gone.â He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. âYouâve lost weight. Youâre using more. Youâre pulling away from everyone who cares about you. Iâm destroying you and youâre letting me.â
âSo leave. If you care about me at all, leave.â
âBecause Iâm selfish. Because even though I know Iâm bad for you, I canât give you up.â
You kiss him then, desperate and needy, and he kisses you back just as hard. You fuck again, slower this time. Almost gentle. And when you come, youâre both crying.
The third day, Jay leaves for the airport at dawn. Youâre still asleep when he gets out of bed, but you wake to the sound of him moving around the room. âDonât go,â you murmur.
âStay. Just one more day.â
He sits on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and cups your face. âIâll be back in two weeks.â
âPromise.â He kisses you goodbyeâsoft and sweet and heartbreaking. Then heâs gone.
You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling hollowed out. Your phone buzzes. A text from Jay: I left you something in the bathroom
You drag yourself out of bed and find it. An eight ball of cocaine. Enough to last you a week if youâre careful. Longer if youâre not.
Thereâs a note too, scrawled on a piece of paper: Donât do it all at once. And donât fuck anyone else. -J
You should flush it down the toilet. Should call someoneâa friend, your mother, a fucking therapist. Instead, you do a line right there at the bathroom counter. Then another. Then another. Because Jay was right. Youâre already halfway gone. And you have two weeks to fall the rest of the way.
The two weeks pass in a blur of white powder and empty promises you make to yourself. Youâll be careful, you tell yourself each morning. Youâll only do a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to get through another day without Jay. But careful becomes careless becomes desperate becomes the only thing keeping you functional.
The eight ball Jay left you should have lasted two weeks. It lasts nine days.
You measure your life in lines now. Morning line to wake up. Afternoon line to feel normal. Evening line to go out. Late night line to sleep, except you never actually sleep anymore. You just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, your heart racing, your mind spinning with thoughts of Jay.
Is he thinking about you? Is he with Ginny? Is he using as much as you are? Your phone stays silent though. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
Your father texts you updates you donât ask for: Jay killed it in Chicago. The crowds are insane. Heâs going to be huge.
Your mother calls repeatedly. You let it go to voicemail. When you finally listen to the messages, her voice is tight with concern: Darling, we need to talk. Please call me back. Your father and I are worried.
You go out to clubs some nights, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things. Other people. Men buy you drinks, pull you onto the dance floor, press their bodies against yours. You let them kiss youâsloppy, drunk kisses that taste wrong. You let their hands wander, let them think they have a chance.
But you never take them home. Never let it go further than kissing. Because despite everything, youâre still his. He told you not to fuck anyone else, and even though heâs probably fucking Ginny every night, you keep that promise. Itâs the only thing you have left.
Day twelve, you run out of cocaine. The crash is brutal. You sleep for sixteen hours straight, wake up feeling like youâve been hit by a truck, and immediately start calling the number Jay got his supply from. The dealer doesnât answer. You call six more times before you accept that heâs ghosting you.
You try to get through the day sober. You manage four hours before youâre tearing your apartment apart looking for anythingâold baggies, residue, something. You find nothing.
Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is a stranger. Youâve lost at least fifteen pounds. Your cheekbones are razor-sharp, your eyes sunken and hollow. Your skin has that gray, papery quality youâve seen on actual addicts.
You are an actual addict. The realization should scare you more than it does.
Your phone rings. Your father. âHello?â
âSweetheart! Iâve been trying to reach you.â His voice is bright, oblivious. âJayâs last show is tomorrow night. Iâm flying out to see it. You should come with me.â
âItâs in LA. At the Palladium. Itâs going to be incredible. The label is throwing a huge after-party.â He pauses. âJay asked if youâd be there.â
Your heart stops. âHe did?â
âWell, Ginny mentioned it. Said Jayâs been distracted, not himself. Thought seeing a familiar face might help.â
Ginny mentioned it. Not Jay. Of course. âIâll think about it,â you say.
âDonât think too long. I can have a car pick you up at seven.â
After you hang up, you stare at your phone. Jayâs last show. Tomorrow night. Which means heâll be home the day after. You just have to make it one more day.
You donât go to the show. You tell yourself itâs because you look too awful, because you donât want him to see you like this. But the truth is youâre terrified. Terrified of seeing him with Ginny. Terrified of the way he might look through you like you donât exist. Terrified that two weeks apart has made him realize he doesnât need you at all. So you stay home and try to sleep and fail.
Around midnight, your phone buzzes. Itâs your father: Show was incredible. Jayâs a star. See you at the after-party? You donât respond. Another text, an hour later: Are you okay? Youâre worrying your mother and me.
He shows up at noon the next day. Youâre not ready. Youâve barely slept, havenât showered, are wearing clothes youâve had on for two days. But when you hear the knock on your door, you know itâs him.
You look through the peephole just to be sure. Jay is leaning against the wall across from your door, his eyes closed. Even from this distance you can tell heâs fucked up. His clothes are wrinkled, his hair a mess. Thereâs something defeated in his posture that youâve never seen before.
You open the door. His eyes snap open and land on you, and something in his expression breaks.
âHi,â he says, his voice wrecked.
âHi.â You stare at each other for a long moment. He looks terrible. Worse than terrible. His face is gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, and thereâs a tremor in his hands that makes your stomach drop.
âCan I come in?â You step aside. He walks past you into the apartment, and you can smell whiskey on him. Itâs barely noon and heâs already drunk.
âHow was the tour?â you ask, your voice small.
âIt was fine.â Heâs not looking at you, his gaze distant. âGood crowds. Good shows.â
âMy dad said you were amazing.â
âYour dad says a lot of things.â The bitterness in his tone is new.
âI missed you,â he says suddenly, finally looking at you. âI missed you so fucking much.â
Your chest tightens. âYou didnât call. You didnât text. Nothing for two weeks.â
âBecause every time I picked up the phone, Iâd think about what Iâd say. And every time, I realized there was nothing I could say that would make this okay. That would make us okay.â He runs a hand through his hair. âWeâre not okay. You know that, right?â
âBut I still canât stay away from you.â
He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you, hard and desperate. You kiss him back just as desperately, tasting whiskey and cigarettes and something darker underneath.
His hands are already pulling at your clothes, and you let him. Because this is what you do. This is all you have.
You fuck right there against the wall, fast and rough and joyless. Itâs mechanical, going through the motions. Like youâre both just trying to feel something, anything.
When he finishes, he pulls out immediately and tucks himself back into his jeans. âI have to go,â he says.
The words hit like a slap. âWhat?â
âI have meetings. Label stuff. I just wanted to see you first.â
âThatâs it? You fuck me and leave?â
âWhat did you expect?â His tone is harsh. âDid you think I was going to stay and cuddle? Tell you I love you? Thatâs not who I am.â
âI know who you are.â Your voice is shaking. âIâve always known.â
âThen why do you keep expecting more?â
âBecause Iâm an idiot. Because I love you. Because I keep hoping that maybeââ You stop, blinking back tears. âNever mind. Just go.â
He doesnât move. âI should go,â he says, but he sounds uncertain now.
âI will.â But still he doesnât move. He just stands there looking at you with something that might be regret or might just be exhaustion.
âI have to make a stop first,â he says finally. âThen Iâll come back. We can talk. Really talk.â
He kisses you one more timeâsoft, almost gentleâand then heâs gone. You slide down the wall and sit on the floor, feeling emptier than youâve ever felt in your life.
Hours pass. Then more hours. It gets dark. You text him: where are you? No response.You call. It goes straight to voicemail.
Around eleven PM, you canât take it anymore. You need to see him. Need to know heâs okay. You drive to his apartment, your hands shaking on the wheel. His car is in the parking lot. The lights are on in his window.
Relief floods through you. Heâs home. Heâs fine. He probably just passed out or forgot to charge his phone orâ youâre halfway up the stairs when you see her.
Ginny is leaving his apartment, pulling the door shut behind her. Her hair is messed up, her shirt buttoned wrong. She freezes when she sees you. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
âHeâs not well,â Ginny says finally, her voice careful. âYou should go home.â
âIâm serious. Heâsâheâs not himself right now. Give him space.â
âI said get out of my way.â
Something in your tone makes her step aside. You push past her and open the door.
The apartment is dark except for the light from the bathroom. Music is playing softly from somewhereâone of Jayâs tracks, the one with your moans layered in.
âJay?â you call out. No response.
You walk through the apartment, your heart starting to race. Something feels wrong. The air feels wrong.
The bathroom door is ajar. You push it open. Jay is on the floor, his back against the bathtub, his eyes half-closed. Thereâs a needle on the floor beside him, a tourniquet still tied around his arm.
Your brain stutters, trying to process what youâre seeing. âJay?â
His eyes flutter open, unfocused. When he sees you, he smilesâslow and sad and so fucking broken. âHey, baby,â he slurs. âYou came.â
You drop to your knees beside him, your hands shaking. âWhat did you do? Jay, what did you take?â
âEverything.â His hand comes up to touch your face, the movement uncoordinated. âAll of it. Felt good.â
âHow much? Jay, how much did you take?â
âDoes it matter?â His eyes are already closing again. âWanted to feel good. Wanted to stop thinking.â
Terror claws at your throat. You fumble for your phone, hands shaking so hard you can barely hold it. âIâm calling 911ââ
âNo.â His hand catches your wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. âNo hospitals. No ambulances. Just⌠just stay with me.â
âJay, you need helpââ
âI need you.â His eyes open again, and thereâs a clarity in them that wasnât there before. âI love you. Did I ever tell you that?â
The words youâve been desperate to hear for months, and theyâre coming now. Like this. âDonât,â you choke out. âDonât do this. Donât say it nowââ
âI love you,â he repeats, his thumb brushing your cheek. âIâve loved you since that first night. Since you let me fuck you in that bathroom. Since you looked at me like I was worth something.â
âThen let me help you.â Tears are streaming down your face. âLet me call for helpââ
âToo late.â His breathing is getting shallower. âItâs already too late.â
âItâs not. Itâs not too late. We can fix thisââ
âYou canât fix me.â His hand falls from your face, landing in his lap. âNo one can fix me. Iâm too broken.â
âYouâre not brokenââ
âI am. Iâve always been.â His eyes are glazing over now, his words starting to slur together. âMy dad⌠he was right. Iâm worthless. Nothing. Just like him.â
âThatâs not true.â Youâre sobbing now, clutching his hand. âYouâre talented and brilliant andââ
âIâm an addict.â The word is barely a whisper. âJust like him. I became everything I hated.â His breathing is getting slower. More labored.
âIâm sorry,â he murmurs. âFor everything. For using you. For not being able to love you the way you deserved. Forââ He coughs, and it sounds wet, wrong. âFor not being strong enough to choose you over this.â
âYouâre choosing now,â you beg. âYouâre choosing now. Just let me callââ But his eyes are closed now, his chest barely moving.
You grab your phone with shaking hands and dial 911, but even as youâre talking to the operator, giving them the address, begging them to hurry, you know. You know itâs already too late.
You cradle his head in your lap, your tears falling onto his face, and you watch the boy you love slip away. âI love you,â you whisper. âI love you, I love you, please donât leave meââ
His chest rises one more time. Then stops. The music is still playing. Your voice, moaning his name, layered over dark beats and his rough vocals. A monument to what you were. What you did to each other.
The paramedics arrive seven minutes later. They try. They really try. But Jay Park is already gone.
The funeral is three days later. Itâs huge. Industry people, fans, press. Everyone wants a piece of the tragedy. The rising star who burned out too soon. The cautionary tale.
Your father gives a speech about Jayâs talent, his potential, his bright future cut short. He doesnât mention the drugs. Doesnât mention the drinking. Doesnât mention how he enabled it all in pursuit of profit.
Your mother sits beside you in black, her face carefully composed. She squeezes your hand once, and thatâs the extent of her comfort.
You sit through it all in a numb haze. You havenât slept since that night. Havenât eaten. Youâre running on empty and coffee and the small amount of cocaine you managed to score yesterday. You needed it. Needed something to get through this.
Ginny speaks too. She talks about Jayâs dedication, his artistry, his complexity. She cries. Real tears. You wonder if she loved him too. If he told her he loved her before he died. Youâll never know.
When itâs over, people approach you with condolences. They know you were close to him. Your father made sure everyone knew his daughter was friends with his star artist. Friends. Like thatâs all you were.
âIâm so sorry for your loss,â they say, over and over. You nod and smile and thank them mechanically. None of them know. None of them understand.
You didnât just lose Jay. You lost the only person who understood the worst parts of you. The only person who saw you completely and wanted you anyway. You lost everything.
A week after the funeral, your father calls you into his office. You know whatâs coming. Youâve been avoiding this conversation, but itâs inevitable.
Heâs sitting behind his desk when you arrive, and your mother is there too, perched on the couch. They both look at you with matching expressions of concern that donât quite reach their eyes.
âSit down, sweetheart,â your father says. You sit. âWe need to talk about what happened,â he continues. âWith Jay.â You say nothing.
âThe police found drugs in his apartment. A significant amount. And theyâre investigating where he got them, who supplied him.â Your fatherâs jaw tightens. âThey asked if you knew anything about his drug use.â
âWhat did you tell them?â
âThat you were friends. That you might have known he partied, but that you werenât involved in anything illegal.â Of course. Protecting the family reputation. Always. âBut we need to know the truth,â your mother says, her voice careful. âWere you involved with Jay? Romantically?â
You could lie. You should lie. But youâre so tired of lying. âYes,â you say. âWe were together. For almost a year.â
Your motherâs face tightens. Your fatherâs expression goes carefully blank. âWere you using drugs with him?â your father asks.
âAre you still using?â
You donât answer. You donât have to. They can see it in your face, in your weight loss, in the hollowness of your eyes. Your mother makes a small soundâdisappointment or disgust, youâre not sure which.
âThis is unacceptable,â your father says, his voice cold. âDo you have any idea how this looks? My daughter, involved with an artist who overdosed? Using drugs? If this gets outââ
âIf this gets out, youâll look bad,â you finish. âThatâs what youâre worried about. Not me. Not the fact that I just lost someone I loved. Just your reputation.â
âThatâs not fairââ
âIsnât it?â You stand up, your hands shaking. âYou pushed him. You knew he was using, you had to know, but you pushed him anyway because he was making you money. You worked him until he broke.â
âThatâs not trueââ
âIt is true! You saw what you wanted to see. You ignored all the warning signs because Jay Park was going to be a star, and thatâs all that mattered.â
âYou donât get to blame me for this,â your father says, his voice rising. âYouâre the one who chose to get involved with him. Youâre the one who started using drugs. Those were your choices.â
âYouâre right. They were my choices. And I have to live with them.â You head for the door. âBut so do you.â
âWhere are you going?â
âWeâre not finishedââ
âYes, we are.â You leave before they can stop you.
You find yourself at the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. Jayâs grave is in the back, under a tree. The headstone is simple: his name, his dates, and a line from one of his songs: âBurned bright, burned fast, burned out.â Itâs depressingly fitting.
You sit down on the grass beside his grave, your back against the headstone. From your purse, you pull out a small bag of cocaine. The last of your supply. You cut a line right there on top of his grave, using a credit card and the smooth marble surface.
âI love you,â you whisper to the stone. âIâm sorry I couldnât save you. Iâm sorry I wasnât enough.â You snort the line. The burn is familiar, almost comforting.
The high kicks in slowly. That familiar rush, that feeling of everything being okay even when nothing is okay.
You lean back against the headstone and close your eyes. You should get clean. You should get help. You should choose to live instead of slowly killing yourself the same way Jay did. But you wonât.
Because without him, you donât know how to be anything else. Without him, youâre just empty. Just going through the motions. Youâre too far gone. Just like he was.
The sun is warm on your face. The drug is warm in your veins. And for a momentâ just a momentâ you can almost pretend heâs here with you. That youâre both okay. That love was enough.
But it wasnât. It never was.