“I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
“Do you want me to check the stage door? See if anyone’s hanging around?”
“Nah, I’m good. If they are, I’ll handle it.”
No one would be waiting. There never was now, but I wasn’t bitter. I’d had a good run. A couple of songs had got into the Top Twenty, some still streamed well; I was content with my lot.
I stepped out of the door, the cold instantly hitting me.
Fuck. November had been brutal this year. Lots of cold weather and even snow. Not unheard of, but not usual up here in Liverpool, where I’d settled.
I lit a cigarette, one of the few bad habits I had these days. I’d given up the drugs a long time ago, and for a while, the drink too. While it wasn’t expected in this business, the pressure was there, and I was weak; what could I say?
I leant against the wall and sucked, watching the orange glow burn brighter. A memory shifted in my brain, but I couldn’t think why.
I had one more show here, then it was up to Scotland for five nights. I’d been at it non-stop for two months, up and down the country. Rest was the next thing on the agenda.
Duncan was right; I should probably rest my voice. I swallowed hard. Definitely a soreness there, but the hot drink later would help. Gone were the days of taking a handful of pills with a swig of vodka.
Fuck, I’d grown old fast. Thirty-eight felt more like forty-eight, but I’d never been one to look after myself. Not until the past twelve months, anyway.
I took one last drag and squeezed the glowing ember onto the floor, crushing it beneath my feet. If I’d been wearing my old boots, I’d have probably burnt my foot. I’d worn them until the soles had holes and the stitching had come undone.
Now, my boots were designer and not half as comfortable.
I looked around for a rubbish bin. Why wasn’t there one here?
I spotted one on the street, just outside the gate, and headed towards it.
“Killian?”
I stopped.
That voice. I’d know it anywhere, despite not having heard it for the last three years.
I turned towards it and looked into the eyes of a man I once loved. A man who was currently arm in arm with another man.
“Oh my God. It is you. How are you?” He looked good. Too fucking good.
But how did I answer that question? How could I put into words the pain I’d endured finding him almost dead on the bathroom floor? How did I tell him how much he’d hurt me?
So, I didn’t.
I walked right back into the theatre and to my dressing room, hot tears streaming down my face.
I’d put all that behind me, shut off the emotions that were Harvey Barton, but one word from him and I was right back there, holding him as his life ebbed away with the rivulets of blood.
I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. Anything to dispel the image from my head. Fuck honey and lemon, I needed whiskey and lots of it.
Except I knew that would do no good. I’d tried that a million times before, but nothing could remove the image from my mind.
And he had the temerity to talk to me as if nothing had happened. He’d turned me away at the hospital, ignored every call until eventually, I stopped trying.
“Fuck,” I shouted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Is everything okay, Killian?” A knock and a voice at the door. Duncan. Why did I think for a minute it might be Harvey?
I’d wiped him from my memory, got on with my life, tried to put those fleeting moments behind me. But who was I kidding? In the short time we’d known each other, we’d fallen hard, and he still took residency in my head.