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his escape.
Eventually, the feelings began to fade. Whether it was minutes or hours, he
wasn’t sure, but it was time to pay the piper. He’d stolen a few moments of
comfort and would now pay dearly for them.
             
The darkness of the past encroached on his momentary sanity, blanketing him in
misery. The pain of his reality clawed to the surface. There was no escape from
what he’d done, from who he really was.
    Waves of
nausea crashed over him. His back and legs ached. He felt anxious and
irritable, restless in his own skin. He wanted to die. He needed another hit.
    But he
also needed answers. Before he could give in to his craving and bang another
dose, he stumbled out into the living area of his suite. His friend and bass
player, Shortie , laid on the
couch there, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
    “Hey, Shortie ,” he greeted. “How’s it goin ’?”
    “Hey,
Jack! Welcome back to the land of the living. What a night,
huh?”
    Shortie came by
his name quite honestly. He was maybe five-foot-two on a good day, but
compensated with a six-inch tall green Mohawk.  The little man was a
wicked bass player and an all around cool guy. Though he was the typical
stoner, his drug of choice was weed, so he was usually more alert than the rest
of them.
    “Yeah,
it was,” Jackson agreed, stretching the ache in his back. “What happened?”
    Shortie chuckled. “What didn’t happen? You were fucked up as usual.”
    “Tell me
something I don’t know,” Jackson said with a rueful smile.
    “Well, the
party was off the hook, great music, hot bitches, and good shit.”
             
“I hardly consider the weed you smoke to be good shit ,”
Jackson argued.
              Shortie shrugged. “Hey, different
strokes for different folks. You like the hard shit, I like to keep things more low key.”
             
“Okay, so great party, me fucked up, you smoking dope…”
Jackson trailed off in question.
             
“The security guys came and broke up the party. Dragged that fine piece of ass
you been hittin ’ out of here, kicking and screaming,” Shortie said with a grin. “And the hottest redhead on
the planet tucked you in and kissed you goodnight.”
              Mel . She was there. He hadn’t imagined her.
              “Hot redhead?” Jackson asked, rubbing the stubble of
his jaw.
             
“Yeah, like Jessica Rabbit in a business suit and heels,” Shortie said, wiggling his eyebrows at Jackson, as he drew curves in the air with his
hands.
              If sixteen-year old Mel could hear that now. The
thought made Jackson smile, inwardly of course, outwardly would’ve hurt too
much. It was definitely time for another hit.
             
“Jessica Rabbit, huh?”
              Shortie nodded sagely. “Legs to
here.” Shortie indicated his chest height. “Tits high and tight, but more than a handful.” Shortie imitated cupping breasts in front of him. “And man,
that ass… the things I could do to that fine…”
             
“I get the idea, Shortie ,” Jackson growled, feeling
moody and hostile for no reason. It’s not like he owned Mel. Hell, aside from
last night, he hadn’t seen her in eight years.
             
“Easy, Jack,” Shortie chuckled. “She only had eyes
for you.”
             
Jackson pictured Mel’s real reaction to his stoned state, not the hazy loving one
he’d imagined while high, and shook his head. Melody was as straight-laced as
he was broken and depraved.
              “Nah. I doubt that.” Jackson chewed his lower lip. “What
was she doing here?’
             
“She works here,” Shortie gave a hell-if-I-know
shrug. “I think she’s the boss or somethin ’.”
             
Jackson glanced around the trashed hotel room, noting the tens of thousands of
dollars worth of damage. Great, the first time he saw Mel in eight years and
not only