What If I Can't Forget You?

{20}

Jaime's POV

I didn't blow up again. I refused. She didn't deserve my anger. Instead, I ignored her for the rest of the day.

I suffered through hours upon hours of checking, rechecking, wiring, rewiring, Jaime-can-you-play-this and Jaime-can-you-play-that. Sound checks were all the same.

Soon enough, it was time for the show. I went through the motions just like I did every damn night. I put on that fake smile for the kids. I acted like the Jaime Preciado that fans wanted to see. The fake me.

The feeling inside me wasn't fake. It was raw, painfully real. I didn't want to feel it anymore; hell, I didn't want to feel anything anymore.

But I kept smiling. I kept playing my bass, just like every night. I wouldn't break in front of the kids. I stuffed the feeling down deep and wore my smile for them. They deserved it.

•••

The thing I think I love will surely bring me pain.
Intoxication, paranoia, and a lot of fame.

I didn't know where I was. Drinks kept appearing in front of me. Beer, vodka, rum, tequila. I downed them all. With every empty glass came a buzz that overcame the numbness of my pain.

You told me think about it-
Well, I did.
Now I don't want to feel a thing anymore.

You piece of shit, she had said. I wish I had never met you.

I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

My vision was blurry, and I could hardly walk.

I hate her, I hate her-

I fell to my knees and puked. I stayed there, on the ground. Vulnerable, powerless. Lost. Broken.

The alcohol that earlier filled my emptiness spilled out of my stomach and onto the pavement.

I remember fumbling with a steering wheel. I remember a deafening crunch of metal and the sound of shattered glass hitting a highway.

Then, black.

•••

Alex's POV

It was one in the morning. We had been searching for Jaime all over Phoenix. After the show, he had disappeared with one of the equipment vans. He wasn't answering his phone, and he had been gone for three hours. We all were worried beyond measure.

I had bit my fingernails down to their beds, and it was only when I tasted iron did I realize that they were all bleeding. Claire hung on my arm, talking constant nonsense and playing with her hair just like she always did when she was nervous. Tony sat next to us, bouncing his knees rapidly. Vic sat silently, shaking in the passenger seat. Mike drove, occasionally reassuring us halfheartedly that everything was going to be okay, everything was going to be fine.

We pulled on to the interstate. Three silent miles went by on the deserted road.

Suddenly, Mike slowed the car.

"No..." He breathed, his voice almost below a whisper.

Vic let out a soft, devastated moan. We all stared at the scene on the side of the road in horror.

A black van stood silently under the yellow beam of a beaten streetlight. The sides were crushed, the metal crinkled and jutting out. It looked like it had skidded and rolled. It was overturned, surrounded by shattered glass, and lying dangerously on its back near a steep hill next to the highway- just feet away from rolling down the slope. However, this wasn't what sparked our horror.

The World Tour symbol, once neatly painted on the side door, looked like it had been partially scraped off by the pavement. It was still visible, though, upside-down on the side of the overturned van.

We knew, then, that it was Jaime's car.