𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

20

Colson Baker's pov;

IT WAS TIME, WE HAD ARRIVED in San Diego and it was already 4pm. I ran my hands through my hair, gripping them tight in frustration as I stood beside Rook watching the hotel that had been booked by the team. One night, and we're out the next morning.

It had been fucking clear and simple. Leading up to it, it felt like it was going to be the easiest thing I had ever done. But now? Now my mind was fucked up and I couldn't think straight. Details floating around in my brain like wisps that slipped between my fingers but still rotated in my periphery, teasing, taunting.

"You said I was light inside out," Her words had been desperate, wanting.

Why had she remembered it? That one fucking time I let myself shut the world out and be vulnerable, only to find that someone had been there to catch it in a jar to flaunt it my face whenever they wanted to. Why the fuck had she been there? Why the fuck had I let myself out like that?

I had wrapped up that night on the studio terrace with chains and pushed it away at the back of my mind. I hadn't realized she'd remember it. Why, with Trippie taking her to recordings and being there with her night after night with drinks, music and afternoons in clubs— I hadn't thought she'd give those stupid twenty minutes a second thought.

But she had. She liked that side of me before she even knew anything about me. And what did we even talk about? Nothing important. But that doesn't matter. It is the effect of that goddamned conversation that matters somehow— without my permission, those twenty minutes have kept weighing in my brain like pieces of iron at the bottom of a lake. I wanted to tear open my flesh and pick them out.

"I'm going to go fucking insane," I muttered angrily.

Rook glanced at me, two thin streams of smoke threading into the air above from his nose as he pulled the stick out from between his lips and sighed.

"Then who'll do the job huh?" He murmured.

"She's— she's in my head, man," I let out yes desperately looking at him for an answer— a solution— anything. "Get her out. She'll fuck this up." 

Rook scoffed, getting rid of his joint as he stubbed it under his shoe. "No, man. You will fuck this up. You're dragging her along for this aren't you? She'll be more than just in your head." 

I sucked in a sharp breath though my nose, tilting my neck to hear that crack as I gazed at the fucking hotel in determination. She was probably inside now, in her allotted room for the night getting ready for the show. I could almost see her, standing in front of a mirror, doing her pretty hair, pouting those pretty lips. I wondered if she could see me. If she'd just fucking get to a window and draw the curtains, she'd see me standing out here with my insides all knotted and my brain incinerating itself in my skull. 

Trippie and his crew were already at the venue for soundcheck, and so was my crew and Dominic and Barker. But me? I was here, one foot in fucking Alabama while the other hung in the air in shitty San Diego— my pet dog Rook at my side. He infuriated me most times by the things he said, and I wanted to be infuriated right now. But by some stroke of dumb shit luck, he kept telling me things right now that I already know. 

"She's coming Rook," I spoke firmly, "She knows a lot for me to leave her with a payphone and fucking leisure time to call the cops on me while I'm doing the job. I take the mouth along so it doesn't snitch. What goddamned part of this don't you get?" 

He let out a dry chuckle. "So she's just a mouth is she?" 

I didn't respond, didn't do him the honours by looking at him to even acknowledge he had spoken.