I shake my head. Not your business, Rory. But isn’t that what people say when they turn a blind eye to truly devastating things that happen in the world? I make a mental note to bring Ashton’s drug problem to Ryner’s attention next time I email him, which should be tomorrow.

When I get back to the room and tuck myself under the blankets next to Mal, I think about how I’m putting him in a position he doesn’t want to be in. If whatever’s waiting for him in Tolka is that important, he will have to spit it out in order for us to up and leave. If it turns out to be nothing—well, I earned a week in the sun.

I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but all I can see in my dreams is my mother, running down Tolka’s Main Street, crying hysterically with me in her arms. In my dreams, I’m tiny. Still a baby. And I’m bleeding all over. We leave a trail of blood as the entire village follows us, running.

They are chasing us.

And we are running away.

I wake up in a cold sweat and feel the familiar chill wrapping itself around me. I’m shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.

I maneuver myself between Mal’s arms and borrow his heat, but sleep doesn’t revisit me.

A NOTE FROM ASHTON RICHARDS

Despite what y’all think, I’m not a world-class idiot.

I can tell she broke up with Hugh Cunt or whatever that suited, English dude’s name is. I mean, when she and Pissy Poet are in the same room, you can cut the sexual tension with a butter knife. Also, I’m privy to the fact that Pissy Poet and Sex Slave want to spend the next few days going at it like the world’s about to end.

I’m a pretty decent human, believe it or not, despite how the media portrays me. I mean, sure, I love my drugs. MDMA keeps me happy and bursting with colors and inspiration, and that’s the type of shit I’m known for. I’m the smiley, carefree guy.

Weed is a necessity at this point—who doesn’t smoke it these days? And my doctor prescribes the painkillers, so it’s not like I played God and decided I needed to cram them into my body on my own accord.

Also, I’m not going to defend my cocaine usage. But you try to live in the public eye since age seventeen and see what it does to your self-esteem. Every single mistake you’ve ever made is recorded, documented, aired on TMC, and stored—ready to be thrown in your face at any given moment.