Ch.29: You Know What You Did

There was a tiny asshole in my head, kicking my skull. I opened my eyes, moaned as sunlight skewered my aching brain, and promptly shut my eyes again. After a couple of minutes had passed, I cracked open one eye, letting it adjust to the light, before opening it a little further, then a little further. I did the same with my other eye.

The sun was freshly risen, judging by the angle of the light, and the birds were obnoxiously loud. Normally I loved all animals, but with the constant trilling piercing my battered brain, I wanted to punt-kick the birds out of the trees.

Apparently I'd fallen asleep on the terrace last night – or rather very early this morning. I was pretty sure the bastard birds had been singing even as I crashed.

Groggily, I lifted my head.

I lay on a rattan sofa, my cheek pillowed on my arm. My skirt had ridden up almost to my ass, and my feet were bare. I had no memory of taking off my shoes and no idea where they were now.

Behind me, Mark of Cain's bassist was slumped in a padded seat, his head hanging on his chest. I winced on his behalf. He'd have a hell of a stiff neck when he woke up.

Bracing my palms on the sofa, I pushed myself into a sitting position.

Jude lay on the ground nearby, curled on his side, his head resting on a cushion, an empty bottle of whisky still clutched in one hand. Sunglasses covered his eyes, saving his eyes from being stabbed by the morning sun. Obviously a man of experience.

At least fifteen other people were asleep on the roof, scattered around like broken dolls. Elle was curled up in a chair not far away, her blond hair hiding her face. One of the Skyclad women, now fully naked, was nestled against a man wearing what looked like lacy panties. The sound engineer I'd met last night was slumped sideways in another chair, his head hanging off the arm, his mouth open. Darius Keller was in the seat next to him, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his hands behind his head, his face tilted to the sun. Even fast asleep, he looked like he was prepping for a photo shoot.

Empty bottles and glasses were everywhere, along with countless sticky patches where drinks had been spilled, glass bowls of cigarette butts, and various articles of clothing and abandoned shoes. I still didn't see mine anywhere.

I stretched my arms over my head, working out the knots in my back and shoulders. I'd initially refused weed last night because I'd wanted to keep a clear head, but once Elle and Jude had started smoking, it was only a matter of time before I joined them – not because I was easily influenced by the people around me, but because I didn't feel the need to hold back if no one else was. At some point during the joints and the shots that Elle had talked me into, everything had got a bit fuzzy.

But I regretted nothing.

I'd had fun, and Jude's friends seemed to have welcomed me into their circle with no problems.

I gazed at him as he slept on the ground of his rooftop terrace, sunglasses hiding his eyes, his ringed fingers still wrapped around that whisky bottle. He'd lost his leather blazer last night, and his tattoos looked like paintings under the sun.

He was still the hottest thing I'd ever seen, and the connection that had formed between us was like nothing I'd expected, but I couldn't forget what had happened last night.

What did Darrell have over him?

Jude was famous for his drugged and drunken exploits, so what could he possibly have done that he wanted to hide?

When was a good time to bring it up again, and what would I do if he still refused to talk about it?

Before I could dwell on that though, I really needed to pee.

I made my way to the stairs, carefully stepping over or around sleeping bodies. Someone had at least cleared up the bottle that Darrell had smashed.

More people were asleep inside the loft – on the floor and the sofa, even on the breakfast bar, but it suddenly struck me that there was no sign of Tasha anywhere. I felt a niggle of worry. She'd been in her element last night, mingling with Jude's friends as if she'd known them all her life, but now I wondered if I should have kept a closer eye on her.

I called her.

The phone rang a few times before she answered. "Yeah?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

"Tash? Where are you?"

"Camden?"

I heard the creak of bedsprings as she shifted position.

"Oh shit, didn't I tell you?" Tasha said.

"Um . . ." I thought back, racking my hungover memory. "I honestly don't know."

Tasha laughed. "Obviously I'm not the only one who hit the tequila too hard."

I half-chuckled, half-grimaced. "Seriously, though, where are you?"

"I might have gone home with Oliver Wallis."

"Wait, that reality TV guy? Isn't he a bit preppy for you?"

The bedsprings creaked again. "I had a lot of tequila," Tasha said.

"As long as you didn't drunkenly marry him."

Tasha snort-giggled. "Hell no. That's your thing."

"And you're sure you're okay?" I said.

"Other than being hung-the-fuck-over? Yeah. I'll probably head home soon."

"Are you going to see Oliver again?" I asked.

She made a noncommittal noise. "I don't think so. We had fun, but he's not really my type, you know?"

"Not enough of a rockstar?" I teased.

"Exactly."

We said our goodbyes, then I ended the call, and looked around the loft again.

The only one awake was Cole Roth, slumped against the wall, staring at the half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. Purple shadows of exhaustion ringed his eyes.

I moved closer to him. "Did you get any sleep?"

Cole blinked, as if he'd only just noticed I was there, and took a long swallow of vodka. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," he said.

I crouched in front of him, finally spotting one of my shoes, kicked into a corner by the sofa. "Are you okay?" I said.

Cole looked blearily up at me, and something shifted in his eyes, like broken pieces sliding together.

"Cole?" I prompted when he didn't answer.

"Do I know you?" He frowned. "I feel like I know you."

"We met last night. I'm Camden."

"Right, right, Jude's wife." Cole tilted the bottle to his lips again.

"Coffee's a better morning drink," I advised.

"Speak for yourself."

"Seriously, are you okay?"

His eyes bored into me, his hand tight around the bottle, then he smiled, wide and hollow. "I'm fucking fine."

I'd never heard anyone sound less fine.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked.

Cole stared at me a moment longer, his eyes churning, then he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and swayed, bracing one hand on the wall.

"Nah, I should get home. There's coke to snort and groupies to fuck," he muttered.

I couldn't tell if he was trying to get a reaction out of me, but I didn't give him one. It wasn't until Cole stumbled out of the front door, vodka still in hand, that I realised he wasn't wearing any shoes.

My heart wobbled.

Sometimes rockstars could make their vices seem exciting, interesting, even glamorous, but when you got up close and personal with it, you realised it was just sad.

Cole had looked like he was breaking.

Darrell was already broken.

It hurt to think that Jude could have wandered down this dark road too.

I was almost at Jude's bedroom when I realised I could hear running water and people giggling coming from the main bathroom. Curiosity got the better of me – I pushed open the door and peeked inside.

Eric, Jude's drummer, sat on the closed toilet, watching three models who'd crammed themselves into the shower, giggling as the water sluiced over their slender bodies. They all wore bras and panties, but those were translucent under the water, and from the way they ran their hands over themselves and each other, they knew it.

"Camden," one of the models cried.

I must have met her last night but I couldn't recall it.

"Come join us," she urged, beckoning.

Eric beamed at me.

"Uh, I was just looking to pee," I said.

Eric immediately got up from the toilet, strangely gallant despite the situation.

"Thanks, but I'll go next door," I said.

Eric shrugged and sat down again.

I backed out of the bathroom and closed the door, leaving them to it.

I really hoped that no one was in our bedroom, but I opened the door carefully, just in case.

Then I froze.

My fingers slipped from the door handle, and the door slowly swung the rest of the way open.

Every piece of underwear I owned had been pulled from their drawers and slashed to ribbons, and those ribbons were strewn across the furniture, the floor. Cammie-Bear, who'd found a home on Jude's nightstand, lay on her side, her head ripped off, stuffing spilling from her neck.

And across the mirror on the wall, a message had been scrawled in the dark red lipstick I'd worn last night.

You know what you did.