Blake Kennedy typed with shaky hands, hoping one of the four people in the online chat room would respond. There hadn’t been any talk amongst them since he signed on five minutes ago, and he’d begun to worry they wouldn’t reply.

This was his last option. His only option. He didn’t know what else to do. He had no one to turn to. No one to trust. And if he didn’t pull his shit together soon, his life wouldn’t be worth living.

Modaroo: I’m here. How can I help?

He rested his fingers against the keypad. The tattoo marking his right-hand knuckles mocked him in thick black, broken text–Reckless. No shit. He should get “moronic” splayed across the other hand.

Lost: I need a distraction. I can’t go back again. I just want someone to keep me company until the burn wears off.

The demons were overtaking him, clawing, enticing—almost succeeding at dragging him back to the dark side. He huffed out a breath and wiped the sweat of exhaustion from his forehead.

The anonymity of the internet was his only solace. Support meetings weren’t an option, neither was rehab. If the paparazzi or anyone in the public found out about his problem, he would be booted from Reckless Beat and disgraced in front of a worldwide crowd.

Modaroo: I can do that. I’m quite adept at chatting about inconsequential things until I put people to sleep. It’s a female thing.

He gave a half-hearted laugh, and the noise came out stuttered, maniacal. This was good, though. It was a start. The pounding agitation in his chest even wavered, igniting a spark of hope.

Lost: So you’re a female and enjoy staying up late chatting in drug addiction support groups? Are you a moderator or an abuser?

Modaroo: Yes, I’m female. One of, if not the most stunningly brilliant females you will ever encounter. But no, I’m not a late night person. I love my sleep. I assume I’m on the other side of the world to you. I live down under 😉 And yes, I’m a moderator.

Blake’s cell phone vibrated on the couch cushion beside him with an incoming call. He rushed to grab it, to smother the miniscule noise. The laptop teetered on his thighs, threatening to fall.

“Shit.” Clutching the phone in one hand and the laptop in the other, he closed his eyes, breathed deep, and waited for the buzzing to stop. Each passing second tempted him, pulled at him, demanding he answer. His demons knew who was calling. He didn’t need to glimpse the screen to verify.

Seconds later, sweet relief rushed through his veins. He passed the first test. If he could ignore the calls, maybe he could overcome everything else. First thing in the morning, he would change his phone number. For now, though, he would turn the damn thing off.

He glanced across the hotel suite toward Mitchell Davies’ open bedroom door. The lead guitarist must have sensed Blake’s restlessness after tonight’s performance and had started asking questions. Questions Blake didn’t want to answer, or couldn’t answer, if he wanted to keep his position in the band. He’d only been part of the team for eight months and already he’d fucked up. Big time.

Lost: Yeah, I’m in the States. It’s three a.m. here, and I’m so fucking tired. I just want to sleep, but the crazy-ass nightmares won’t quit.

So tell me about Australia. What’s it like down under?

He needed to stop thinking about it. To stop turning every thought process into something that related to the white powder destroying his life.

Modaroo: Withdrawal can be nasty on your mind and body. Just remember, it’s all temporary, and it WILL get better. Do you have someone locally you can depend on?

And what’s it like down under? Pretty darn awesome. At the moment, the weather is hot, the air con is cold, and the beach is looking mighty fine.

Blake ignored her question. He had no one. Not a single soul, and he refused to tell her why.

Lost: You surf?

Modaroo: A little. I can stay on a board for about as long as I can hold my breath.

He let out another laugh. This time it came easier, more natural, less hysterical.

Lost: Lol. So in other words, you kinda suck.

Modaroo: Now, now. No need to point out my failings. I prefer to think of it as a balance imperfection.

Blake snickered and ran a lazy hand through the tangled spikes at the front of his hair. A total stranger, on the other side of the world, had made him laugh for the first time in months.

She was his savior.

Lost: Your failings are nothing in comparison to mine, honey. I’m going to lose the best thing that ever happened to me if I don’t control my cravings for cocaine.

Modaroo: Sorry, Lost, but please don’t use specific drug names in the open chat rooms. The reminder can be harmful to others.

Shit. The last thing he wanted to do was make things harder for another addict.

Lost: Sorry.

Modaroo: Not a problem. So is it a woman?

Lost: A woman?

He rotated his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stretched his arms above his head. The state of relaxation was miles away. However, each second chatting with this woman brought him closer.

Modaroo: The “best thing” you will lose.

He clenched his fists. Disgust and self-loathing were his companions, and he was too weak to do anything about it. All of this pain, suffering, and craziness because of one simple little thing—beauty.

Oh, and lust.

Lost: No. A woman is what got me into this mess in the first place.