Decades

Hangovers and Heartbreaks

Lindsey demolished everything in Stevie's former suite. The curtains lay on the floor, bottles and glasses were broken, the lamps were smashed, glass littered every surface, and he'd drank himself into oblivion. By the time his bandmates arrived, he was lying in bed, passed out, and for the first time in hours, not destroying something. Hotel security had been called because of the noise, yelling, and glass breaking had made it sound like a domestic dispute might have been taking place. Their management team had assured the hotel that they would pay handsomely for any damages if they wouldn't press charges or leak the incident to the press.

Mick was still trying to negotiate a deal with Russell, the reporter, and trying to convince him not to press assault charges against Lindsey as well. It was a glorified shit show where Lindsey was concerned. Keeping him out of jail and out of the papers was the priority for Mick since he managed the band.

Mick didn't want to imagine how bad things were with Stevie. Christine instructed John to get Lindsey to his own room and to get him cleaned up and put to bed. Sleeping this off would be his best bet.

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She headed to Stevie's hotel on her own and left the address with John in case he or Mick were needed. When Christine arrived at Stevie's hotel, the front desk immediately gave her the key Stevie had instructed them to give her, and she rode the elevator to the top floor. Chris let herself in, but Stevie was nowhere to be found. She walked through the luxurious suite, searching for her friend. She'd gone into each room and couldn't find her there. She called her name several times and finally heard a hoarse voice call from the bedroom. She eventually found her inside the dark closet, broken. When she opened the door to the closet, the light shined on Stevie, who looked like a devastated little girl.

"Oh, baby," Christine said sympathetically, sat down on the floor beside her, and held her. Stevie's puffy, tear-streaked face was heartbreaking, and her eyes looked pained and hollow at the same time. The vial of coke she carried was clasped in her hand, empty. A half-empty bottle of brandy sat beside her.

Christine wrapped her arms around Stevie, stroking her hair and whispering that things would be okay, not believing what she was saying but trying to comfort her dear, heartbroken friend. Stevie's tears didn't stop, but she croaked out a question, "How is Lindsey? Have you heard from him?"

He was in worse shape than Stevie if that was possible. Christine hesitated to tell Stevie that, wondering if she was in the mental state to even hear about the reality of the situation. "Don't worry about anything. Lindsey will be fine. Let's get you out of this closet, darling."

Stevie refused to leave. She'd found some semblance of safety cocooned in the dark room and was unwilling to give it up to reenter the world that felt so cruel. So, Christine gathered every pillow and blanket she could find and created a makeshift bed on the floor for her. She removed the brandy bottle from the closet and, as she walked away, took a long pull herself. She couldn't do this without a little assistance from the bottle.

She brought a glass of water to Stevie and insisted she drink it. And then Christine sat down behind her, pulling Stevie's head into her lap. She murmured comforting words and stroked her hair until her anguished friend had drifted off into a deep, fitful sleep.

Time moved slowly as the bandmates remained in the darkened closet, the only light entering through the cracked door. How on earth could this be made right? Hopefully, tomorrow, things will look less bleak.

Chris was snapped out of her thoughts by the ringing phone. Stevie, by now, was sound asleep, so Christine slipped out of the closet quietly and answered the telephone in the living room so as not to wake her. "Hello," she whispered.