Island Of Recovery

Nate’s [POV]

I rolled the window of my car down, letting some fresh air in. The planes above looked really big taking off and landing. You sort of forgot how freaking huge they were when they were flying above you.

My assistant had told me that the flight was at eight in the morning. I'd been sitting in my car for about ten minutes, watching the sun start to rise over LAX, wishing I'd got a later flight. It was six thirty in the goddamn morning; the only other time I was awake that early was when I'd been up the entire night and hadn't gotten to sleep yet.

What was I even doing here? I could have asked Dad if I could use his plane. I was Nate Stone: I didn't have to fly commercial.

I shut my eyes and leaned back against the driver's seat. In ten hours, I wouldn't have to think about this place for another three months. I'd be in a fucking suite with a hula dancer sucking me off. I'd be eating seafood and drinking rum. I'd be too far away for any of the assholes in LA to get to me.

I watched a plane take off and fly into the distance, till I couldn't see it anymore. In two hours, that would be me. I just had to wait till my flight. I'd checked in online already, and I was flying first class. Just two hours, man, I said to myself. This vacation was way overdue. I knew it was over when I tried to write a song the other day and got nothing.

Nothing. Not a word. The band didn't use my songs anymore, but fuck it, I did. The touring, the booze, the girls – it had done something. It had finally caught up with me. Yeah. That was it. Because there wasn't any fucking dope and booze in Hawai’i. I’d be fine if I just got away from it.

I checked the time again. Five minutes had passed. Fuck. Could I fall asleep? Go inside? Eat? Something? Anything other than just sit here and wait?

My phone was ringing. Still ringing. I'd ignored a phone call twice already. I didn't know who the fuck was trying so hard, but I was pretty sure you were meant to stop trying when it was obvious the person you were calling didn't want to talk to you.

Fuck, what if it was important, though? What if it was my manager? Or Dad?

The ringing stopped as soon as I reached for the phone to check who I'd been blowing off. I grimaced reading the name. Not my manager Doug. Not my father. Nope. It was Kirsten. I had her name on there as Kiki because that was what I'd called her when we were together and I'd just never gotten around to changing it to something else.

Kirsten Andrews. Sorry, Kirsten Stone: she'd kept my last name.

Hmm, I wonder what she wants, I thought cynically. We didn't have any kids together, so it wasn't that. Couldn't have been her settlement because she'd cleaned the fuck up during the divorce. I'd call five million for three years of marriage a pretty good deal. Unless the bitch wanted more, which she was not getting.

I could still hear the wedding bells. Kirsten had filed for divorce, not me. I had told myself back then that it was so many different things. She was just a bitch, she wanted my money all along, and she had met someone else. She was one of those women who used marriage to marry and then divorce even richer people. I couldn't stand thinking she thought of me as her starter husband.

There was the little thing where I was drinking till I blacked out each day, but I had been too drunk to realize that that was it. And by the time I had, and lied to her that I would stop, I had already moved on to something a little stronger.

Was there a time I ever loved her? Every time we'd had to go to court, I wasn't so sure. It had been almost five months now since the split was finalized. There was nothing I still had to say to her. There was nothing she could have said to me that I actually wanted to hear.

She'd left me a voice-mail. Delete it, the voice in my head said. Delete it because you're going to listen to it and regret it immediately. My thumb hovered over the screen as I thought about that. Yeah, Kirsten drove me crazy, and yeah, I was here at the airport because I wanted to get the fuck away from her and everything else, but since I was going anyway, what was the harm in listening to it?

I'd listen, get mad, and this time tomorrow, I'd have two naked Hawai’ian girls in my bed, drunk off my ass in the middle of fucking paradise. I'd listen, and when I got to Hawai'i, I'd throw my phone in the ocean.

Was it worth it though? What was the worst thing she could say?

I played the message. Kirsten's voice filled the car like she was in there with me. I frowned, listening; she had the bitch meter turned on high. Her voice got really shrill when she yelled.

"Nathan," she was saying in the message. She did that when she was mad at me. Talked to me like I was her kid. "Nathan, why aren't you answering your phone? You bastard, I know you have it on you. You always do." I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Bad idea. Should have deleted it.

"Where are you? You know what? I don't care. It doesn't matter anyway. Your manager's been calling me. He wants to know where you are. You can't hide, you know that, right? You remember you signed a contract, don't you?" she was saying. No, I forgot that, Kirsten; thanks so much for reminding me that I owe my next three albums to that bloodsucking label, I thought.

"I told him I didn't know where you were. I can't believe you're throwing this all away. How long were you making your music waiting for someone to sign you?

“Whatever. The band will do just fine without you. Doug taking a chance on you was obviously a waste of his time. It's sad, really. Keep hitting that bottle, babe. Go ahead and throw that dream away. What would you be without your rich daddy anyway? Nothing. Maybe Remus can dedicate their next album to you in their Grammy speech-"

I cut the message off. There was about half a minute left, but I didn't have to listen to her anymore.

Fuck.

I could feel it. It was happening. I shut my eyes and tried to stop it. It felt like hot water bubbling up from my stomach to my chest, till I felt it in my head. It felt like being in a locked room with only one way to get out.

She was right. They didn't need me. They had producers and money from a major label. They could hire anyone to write. They could hire anyone to play and just put their names on it. They could just shit out album after album and watch the money pile up. They could keep going on tour – getting high, drunk, laid. Have a great time.

I wasn’t part of Remus, not anymore. They had our sound perfected; they could swap us all out and replace us the next day and it wouldn’t make a difference. It was generic. It was stock; it wasn’t real. Obviously, they could make money with or without me. They didn’t need me.

Fuck. I couldn't think. I felt like my skin was trying to crawl off my body. I couldn't fly like this.

Good thing I came prepared. I kept my stuff in the glove compartment. I always had a kit close. My travel kit was small compared to my other one. Just the essentials. Syringe. Belt. Dope – pharma grade, of course; I wasn't trying to kill myself. Just a little something to take the edge off. It wasn't a big deal.

I quickly looked out the window, rolling my sleeve up. I belted my arm and filled the syringe. I could almost feel it already. The anticipation before the high was almost as good as the main event.

I flexed my arm, looking for somewhere to stick it. I watched the needle puncture the skin and shoot one hundred percent pure, right in my vein.

I took the belt off and leaned back in my seat, sighing. Yeah. That hit the spot. It was like that feeling when you were cold and got in a hot tub. Just like a liquid orgasm spreading all over your whole body.

Right then, I forgot everything. I wasn't at the airport. I wasn't in my car. I was in heaven. I opened my eyes, watching another plane go by. It looked so happy. Maybe if I'd gotten Kirsten on heroin, she wouldn't be such a bitch.

Time must have passed; it felt like hours, but it must have been half an hour or something. Everything moved slower when I was high. Everything was better. I had to leave, though. I had a flight to catch.

I rolled my sleeve down. I could hide being high, but the track scars were a dead giveaway. I pulled my hood up because I'd forgotten my baseball cap. Another reason why I should have fucking flown private. That way, nobody would recognize me.

I got out of my car and went to the trunk to pull my suitcase out. I left my kit in the car because I had another one packed. I'd check this bag so security wouldn't get to it. I didn't carry lighters or spoons and shit, obvious junkie paraphernalia. If they saw it, they'd see vials of clear liquid. When they read it, it would say it was insulin. Hidden in plain sight. Who wasn’t going to let a diabetic have his insulin? I'd done this so many times before.

The trick was to act natural. Don't give them a reason to think you're doing something wrong. For all they knew, you were just another miserable traveler who had to make the drive to LAX that day. TSA didn't even look for drugs like that. I'd be fine.

The high definitely helped. I got through security with no problem. I took my time with it since I still had a lot of time left before the flight. Once I was at my gate, I considered my options. I had music in my carry-on backpack. I could put my headphones on and zone out till it was time to leave. I even had a book, but it was sort of hard to read while I was high.

There was a bar, though, and getting a jump on that rum didn’t sound like a terrible idea.

Was it too early for a drink? I checked the time. Twenty minutes past seven. Yeah. It was too early. I'd just shot up, I'd probably last the flight. I sat down at the bar anyway, thinking I’d just do it. If they didn't want anyone to drink, why'd they have it open at seven in the morning, anyway?

I kept my head down, even though it was basically just me. Not a lot of people on my flight probably. Not a lot of people trying to get drunk at seven in the morning. The bartender walked up to me. It was a dude. Young guy. I nodded slightly. He smiled, telling me good morning.

"Hey," I said tightly. "Can I have a...Coke? Just a Coke. With ice," I said. The guy smiled and went to get me my drink. I rolled my eyes. Fucking Coke. Could he top that off with some Captain Morgan? That sounded more like it.

It was seven in the morning, I couldn't do that. Even I had limits…sort of. I'd drink my Coke, get on the plane, and ask for Patron. The guy came back with an icy glass full of Coke. I said thanks and paid him.

"Hey, man, you must get this all the time," he said. Oh shit. "But has anyone ever told you you're a dead ringer for Nate Stone?"

"Who?" I asked, sipping my drink.

"Nate Stone. That guy from Remus. Well, he used to be part of Remus. He left them recently. Pretty talented guy." I shrugged.

"Can't be that good if they kicked him out."

"They didn't kick him out. It was creative differences or something like that," he said. I smiled to myself. Creative differences. Thank God for good PR.

"Creative differences? Who was he? Like, their John Lennon?"

"He didn't like the direction the major label was taking the band's music. Ever heard their stuff?"

"Nope. That Nate guy sounds like a loser," I said. The bartender kept looking at me. Telling him to fuck off would be the worst thing to throw him off my scent. You didn't want fans saying they met you and you were a douche. I kept my head down, drinking my Coke.

"You know. You sort of sound like him, too," the guy said. I swore quietly. He knew. I looked at him.

"Did you like the label or independent stuff better?" I asked. The guy laughed. I hoped he’d say independent.

"I knew it was you. Where are you heading?"

"Hawai'i."

"Vacation?"

"Yep."

"Alone?" he asked. Too many questions. I was just about to answer him when I heard my boarding call. Saved by the bell.

"Yeah. Alone. In fact, I think I need to go get on that plane," I said, trying to discourage him.

"Before you go, could you sign this for me?" he asked, sliding a notebook over. I scribbled my autograph down and gave him his notepad back. I finished the soda and got up, leaving to finally get on the plane.

Maybe it was a good thing I’d gotten a Coke. If I’d been on anything stronger, I would have told him anything. Everything he asked. Why I was going to Hawai’i, why we had actually split, the name of the upcoming album where I had had no creative input. I needed to get out of there.

Ten minutes later, I was on the plane. I'd gotten a first-class ticket, but as soon as I was in my seat, I wished I'd bought the entire first-class cabin out.

I was coming down. I was about to be in this flying tin can for like eight hours. Fuck. Next time, I was flying private, no fucking excuses. Nobody would ask me shit if I got my kit out and shot up at ten thousand feet if I was flying private. My kit was in my checked bag. I was taking this flight sober unless I could drink.

What the fuck, Nate, I thought. What kind of loser can't stay clean for ten hours? I was already thinking about when I could get high again, and we hadn't even left the ground. I'd gotten high just two hours ago in the parking lot. It was the perfect opportunity to just stop and be normal for one day, and I hadn't been able to do it.

How much longer? How much fucking longer? What would it take? Did I have to die before I stopped doing this shit? I sighed. At least then I wouldn't have the choice to shoot up again.

This was about to be a long-ass flight.

I zoned out as the pilot and cabin crew made their announcements. Emergency exits are here, here, and here. The destination is Lanai Airport. Blah, blah, blah. I put my headphones on and turned on some music. I felt the plane start to move. Eight hours, and I'd be in paradise. Hula dancers sucking my dick. Palm trees and sunshine. In eight hours, I could forget everything that had happened that day.