Part 98 (1/2)

back into the wall.

He was Stevie Nimmons. He was the greatest guitarist (Yf his

generation. He was somebody. But they had put him in a cage like an

animal. They had locked him up and walked away. Didn't they know who

he was? What he'd made himself?

He needed a fix. Oh Jesus, just one sweet fix. Then he'd be able to

laugh this off.

It was cold. It was so G.o.dd.a.m.n cold. He yanked the blanket from the

cot and huddled under it. And he was thirsty. His mouth was so dry he

couldn't even work up enough spit to swallow.

Someone would come, he thought as his eyes began to fill. Someone would

come and make it all right again. Someone would fix it. Oh G.o.d, he

needed a fix. His mother would come and tell him everything had been

taken care of

It hurt. He began to weep against his knees as the pain wracked through

him. Every breath he took seemed to hold tiny slivers of gla.s.s. His

muscles were on fire, his skin like ice.

Just one. Just one toke, one hit, one line, and he'd be all right

again.

Didn't they know who the f.u.c.k he was?

”Stevie.”

He heard his name. With eyes bleary with tears, he looked toward the

cell door. Dragging the back of his hand over his mouth, he struggled

to focus. He tried to laugh, but the sound came out in a whooping sob

as he struggled up. Pete. Pete could fix it.

He tripped over the blanket, and lay sprawled on the floor a moment as