"All I'm saying is…try the song one more time. The way we discussed."

"We discussed? When did we discuss this? Was that before or after you decided to cut the number of *my* songs on the album?"

"They weren't working, Curt. It's not personal. You keep taking everything I say…personally. I'm not criticizing *you*."

"Just my songs. Just the way I fucking sing them. Just…what the hell else is there, Brian?"

"I have to think of what's good for the record."

"You're thinking, all right, but it's not about the record."

"I don't have time for this, Curt. Just do the bloody song."

I lit another cigarette and watched my hands shake right before my eyes. I had a bad feeling that refused to go away, and acid was eating a hole in my stomach. Chainsmoking probably didn't help, but I couldn't seem to stop.

We'd been in the recording studio at Bijoux all day and most of the evening. I was tired and hungry and frustrated. Brian liked playing producer. He got off on telling people what to do. But he was starting to get on my last nerve.

I blew smoke into his face, which I admit was a bit childish, but he reacted all too predictably by pulling rank. Again. "Knock it off, Curt, and get back into the booth and finish the song. We all want to go home."

"Why don't we just skip the song and cut right to the part where we go home?"

"Fine. If you want to waste my time and yours, go right ahead. You do what you fucking want to anyway."

"I thought this wasn't about *me*."

"You think everything is about *you*, Curt. But it's not. Sometimes it's about *me*."

"Boys, boys, if you can't play nicely, I'm going to have to take away some of your toys," Jerry jumped in, eager to soothe the egos of his biggest stars before they destroyed his million-dollar empire.

"Shut up, Jerry," Brian snapped.

To my surprise, Jerry turned beet red. But he didn't say another word. He knew which side his bread was buttered on, and obviously Brian Slade held the knife.

Things didn't get much better over the next few hours. It was getting late, and the strain of all that singing was starting to wear me down. I knew I didn't sound that great. I knew I was beginning to flub the lyrics. So I stopped smoking and concentrated on drinking. Just because I wasn't doing dope anymore didn't mean I was exactly clean. Alcohol got me through more than one rough patch, and I really didn't think this was going to be worse than any other argument we'd had.

When it finally went down…I wasn't sure exactly what happened.

Suddenly we were strangers. Brian wore this cold expression that meant he was completely out of patience, and I didn't know how to reach him. At first, I was confused. I was a little bit drunk by then, and I thought, What the fuck?

"What? What?" I kept repeating myself, which I guess was pretty stupid, but then again, he wasn't answering me either.

He turned away from me, but I could tell he was chewing on his fingernails. Suddenly all those vague feelings came together and I lost it. He was getting ready to cut me loose. The little prick didn't have the balls to tell me to my face that we were through? Well, fuck him and the horse he rode in on.

This wasn't about the fucking record. Which, by the way, I had started to hate. No, it was about *us*. Who we were. What…we were.

What we were never going to be again.

"You…you…motherfucker! Ahhhhhh!" I screamed till I was hoarse. I pounded on the Plexiglas window till I had a headache. I swore up and down till I choked on the fucking words.

I wanted to tell him that he couldn't use me like that. But all that came out was an incoherent rant. I wanted to break his heart the way he was breaking mine…but I couldn't do it. How the hell could I still love him? What kind of pathetic fuck was I…that I couldn't bear to give him up…even when it was clear that he was throwing me away?

All of a sudden I wasn't drunk anymore. I was stone cold sober.

And in more pain than I knew how to deal with.

He wanted to talk. Or so he said. But that was like trying to drink Sloe Gin without the fizz. "I…" My voice shook, but I forced myself to continue. "…have a contract. I want…to be released. Now."

"Curt—"

"I…can have a lawyer here in the morning—"

"That won't be necessary," Jerry interrupted. "You're free to go, Curt."

"Fuck you," I said quietly, amazed that I had any control left.

He didn't need to tell me that he wasn't planning to renew my contract anyway. I heard lots of things that I wasn't supposed to hear. And Jerry? Well, he wasn't the swell guy he thought he was.

"Charming as always, Curt," Jerry drawled.

I shrugged into my black leather coat and gave him the finger. The son-of-a-bitch actually smiled. I think I hated him more than Brian at that moment.

When I burst through the doors downstairs, I couldn't walk fast enough getting away from that place. I was furious, and I was glad for that anger. It was virtually the only thing keeping me on my feet, and I knew it.

My boots made a lot of noise, and I guess Eton and his pals heard me coming cause they took off like a shot. Sniggering, self-righteous assholes.

That's when I heard the upstairs window behind me screech open. "Go on! Piss off then! Back to your wolves, your junkie twerps, and fuck you too!"

I didn't look back. I kept on putting one foot in front of the other. It was the only way I was going to get through this. I couldn't stop, and I sure as hell couldn't face him now. But part of me was fucking ecstatic that I finally reached him, that I finally made him feel something, too.

I knew he was angry. But was it because he didn't want to let me go after all? Or because he hated to fucking *lose* anything that belonged to him?

You see, the break-up wasn't really my idea. It was his. I just got there first.

He expected me to regret what happened. Well, I did. I think he did, too. But I wasn't about to sacrifice what little pride I had left to crawl back into his bed. We were well and truly stuck. He couldn't go forward, and I'd be damned if I'd go back to where we were.

I thought he loved me.

Sometimes I thought he did.

That was the longest night of my life. Pacing. Smoking. Not even trying to sleep. Then packing. What little shit I had that I actually wanted to take with me.

I didn't know where I was going. But it didn't matter. He wouldn't be there.

Somewhere around dawn, I called him. He didn't say anything, not one fucking word, but I could hear him breathing. "I'm leaving for the airport as soon as the limo gets here." My voice sounded scratchy like an old .45 that's been played way too much.

"I don't expect you to stop me." That was a fucking lie. I did expect him to stop me. Or at least to try. That was why I called. I wanted to warn him. This is it, your last chance, take it or leave it.

He made some kind of inarticulate noise. I struggled to maintain control. I wasn't going to cry or scream or break down. I wasn't going to beg. But I wanted to.

"You…you're not going to stop me." That wasn't a statement, it was a fucking question, and we both heard it.

"Brian…"

He hung up. The motherfucker hung up on me. I threw the phone halfway across the room and picked up my bags. I had to go now. Before I changed my mind. Before I decided that I deserved whatever he wanted to do to me.

The limo driver was a pro. He didn't even blink when he saw how red my eyes were. Hell, maybe he thought I was back on the junk. But I wasn't. I just wished I was. To float away and not feel anything…

I sank back against the leather cushions and swiped a hand over my face.

"Airport?" he asked.

"Yeah."

But not a minute later…

"Stop by Bijoux first. I got something I need to take care of."

He was there. I knew he was. I could feel him even before I saw him at the window. He was still dressed the way he was the day before. So…he didn't sleep either.

I stood there, outside the limo, chainsmoking, while we studied each other. While I waited in vain for him to come to his senses. While he memorized my face and banished me to the realm of other forgotten lovers.

Well, I wouldn't be. You won't forget me that easy, I told him with my eyes, my nerves skittering beneath the surface like severed electrical wires trying in vain to stay connected.

Maybe you won't ever forget me, I vowed silently.

Just before he dropped the curtain and moved back from the window.

I tossed my still-lit cigarette and ground it under my heel. I swept into the backseat of the limo like Scarlett Fucking O'Hara.

And then, when I was sure that he couldn't see me anymore…I cried.

Like I said, the limo driver was a real pro. He didn't say a thing. He just drove.