Regardless of whether or not it was the right thing to do, I picked up my mobile from my desk and hit my last dialled number, springing my screen to life. Instantaneously, it started ringing.
Dread climbed its way to my throat and I swallowed it away, confident that this time he would answer. I counted to eight rings.
It went to voice mail.
“Hey, I’m either ignoring your calls or I genuinely can’t get to my cell. Either way, leave a message…”
His familiar voice sent me over the edge and the tears that had been on the brim for the past hour slid rhythmically down my face and landed on my keyboard, making light thudding noises on the plastic. I ended the call; there was no way I could leave him a message in my helpless state, and I placed my mobile back down.
I paced. I was anxious.
My mind wondered back to this morning’s fight.
He stood in front of me dressed in last night’s concert clothes – a black vintage rock top and some skinny black jeans. Starnds of hair clung to his sweaty forehead and the whites of his eyes were dangerously red. He was high. He tossed the beer bottle in the bin, sending an echoing smashing sound backstage. He purposefully walked towards me, his chilling gaze never leaving mine.
“You know what your fucking problem is, angel?” He smelt of alcohol and leather. He cupped my chin with his cold hands and stared at me venomously. “You’re just a fucking groupie.” With a flash of sarcasm his vicious tongue wrestled me to the floor and rendered me helpless.
My ring tone startled me and brought me back to the present. Please be him, please be him.
Seeing his name flash up on my screen soothed my anxiety momentarily and I answered without hesitation.
“It’s me. I’m in Studio X.”
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