Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (13 page)

“You did good, kid. You’re a smart young woman to have learned CPR.”

I might have shivered at the referral to my lips pressed against Gage’s cold discolored ones, but I was still in shock.

Colt had burst into the bathroom first, and it had taken me a moment to register his surprise on finding me sopping wet, straddling Gage’s comatose body, fingers pinching his nose, and lips on his. Of course, he knew what was going on, but I was sure it was a sight.

Gage had regained consciousness with a jerk that jolted his whole body, seconds after Colt arrived. The doctor was minutes behind him, amid ferocious barking, and Colt ran back downstairs to put up Rascal and make sure the doctor got inside okay.

In the minute and a half we were alone, I’d eased from atop Gage’s body and rocked back on my heels, clutching his hand. We locked eyes, and in that moment, I saw in him both the sweet boy I’d grown up with and the damaged adult he’d become.

Dr. Mac poked around the drug paraphernalia, dictated into his phone for a moment, and asked Gage questions about what he’d ingested that night. Then he’d set up the IV after we got him dried, decent, and into bed.

He’d left gadgets to monitor Gage’s oxygen level, an automatic blood pressure cuff, and another rescue pen kit. After talking to Gage for a bit and then me, he’d left, saying he had a surgery scheduled in a few short hours.

“I’ve got to get going too. Seth will be awake anytime now, and I’m supposed to drop him off at school.” After walking the doctor out, Colt turned to me. I was standing on the bottom stair, unsure whether to go back up or continue down. “Or do you want me to stay? I can text Seth and send him with the car service.”

“No. It’s fine. Really. I got this. I know how to change the IV. Don’t screw up things for Seth.”

Colt hesitated, as if he was reconsidering whether he should leave. And then he closed the distance between us. I fell into his hug, and when we pulled apart, he looked into my eyes. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be back around later.” He swung open the door and turned again. “Oh. Probably best not to answer his phone. Let it go to voicemail. I’ll try to handle what I can from my end. But the thing is, we have a charity gig this weekend. He needs to be ready. And this needs to be kept under wraps.”

“This weekend? He’s not going back into rehab?”

“He won’t stay in rehab. Been there, done that. This last stint was supposed to be for four weeks and he would have been out in time for this. This show is good for the band. We need this after—after some of the shit that went down last year.”

I didn’t know what ‘shit’ he was speaking of. What I did know was Gage shouldn’t be expected to jump on stage so soon after a relapse of this magnitude. When I remained silent, Colt restated his intention to call or come by later and left. I realized he had gone from saying he would come by, to he would
call
or come by.

Heading back upstairs, I entered Gage’s room. Standing over him, I watched the rise and fall of his chest and with a glance at the monitor clipped to his finger, assured myself he was sleeping peacefully with a normal oxygen count. I set my phone alarm to change his IV bag in three hours, and then after a moment of hesitation, eased onto the other edge of the bed and curled into a ball.

I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I wanted to call someone who cared, but who would that be? I had no one to lean on now that Ivy was missing. And who did Gage have? His father? Perhaps, but I wasn’t so sure he was a ‘confidant in a crises’ type of person to his son.

I wasn’t even aware my eyes had drifted closed until they opened. Disoriented, I let my gaze wander the planes of the room. The edges of a huge dresser, twice the size of the one in my apartment bedroom. A guitar, resting upright in a leather chair. The low murmur of a television. Suddenly realizing where I was and why, I flipped my position and my eyes locked with Gage’s gaze.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He didn’t smile, but the tone of his voice felt as warm and seductive as a smile.

My head swiveled to the wall that was almost all glass windows and doors. Unlike the guest room, zero daylight filtered into this room from beyond the coverings. Yet it had to be morning. “What time is it?”

“Noon or so.”

I jackknifed to a sitting position and scowled at my phone, which was lying on the bed between us. Why hadn’t the alarm sounded? “Your IV bag! It needs switching—”

“Did it.”

“You did it?”

Rascal was in the bed between our legs, and he raised his furry head, cocking his ears at my screechy tone.

“Yeah. Your phone alarm woke me. And you—Miss Organized—had typed it in. To change out the IV.”

“And
you
did it?”

“Yeah. It’s not my first rodeo.” His mouth twitched as if his wry smile wanted to come out, but it didn’t.

“You’ve OD’d before?”

“Once. Yeah. Sort of twice. But the second time wasn’t this drastic.”

“Why?” If he’d been through that horror once, how could he repeat the circumstances leading up to it and go through it again? “Why!”

The television was the only sound in the room for several long seconds.

“Look, Scar. I remember everything.” His famous, sexy eyes drooped with fatigue, and at this admission, they clouded with guilt. “I wish I didn’t. It would be easier that way. But I do. And I’m sorry. I know that was… some fucked up shit for you to go through.” His head rolled so that he stared at the high ceiling. “Thank you.”

“But why? Why would you do this again and again?”

“Not like I meant to.”

“Was it because of where we went? The memories? Your ex?” I’d already worked this out in my head before drifting into a doze. The membership he’d never used to the house on Outpost. The ex who had been a regular there with another man.

“It’s because I like being high! I fucking love the rush. That’s it. Don’t make it noble.”

“You need help to beat this. You need rehab—to check in and stay in until you’re well.”

“Can’t. Got a song to record. And a show to play.”

“But you have to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“Because no one else will, Gage. You and me—all we seem to have is ourselves.”

“I’m fine, Scar. I promise. I got this.”

T
he atmosphere of the entire house pulsated. The sound honed in closer and closer until it was a steady hum. When the text chimed, a minute or so later from the pilot, Gage was amused as usual. As if he needed a text to alert him a helicopter had landed on his roof.

“Scar?”

“Yeah. Give me one second.”

He paused in the doorway to her room, and his breath hitched. She was tossing things into a black sling bag. Since she didn’t look up as he hovered, he studied her freely. Straight-legged jeans hugged her long legs and perfect heart-shaped ass. A trendy belt decorated her hips. And the black shirt—was it a shirt, or a slinky lingerie top?

As she bent, stepping into first one and then the other black boot, her long ginger hair swung to one side. There was no sign of the darker roots he’d glimpsed over the past week.

She straightened, and with a glance in the mirror, froze when she caught him in what was likely a pervy stare.

“You look great!” He tried to recover. “You need a jacket?”

“Do I?” Without turning, she surveyed her reflection.

Yes. A hoodie to cover all that honey skin and flaming hair
. “No. It’d mostly be something to keep up with I guess. There’ll be something long sleeved in one of our dressing rooms if you get cold.”

She slung the bag over one shoulder and followed him up the stairwell to the chopper on the roof. She seemed gobsmacked for a second or two, before her face was hidden from him as the pilot helped her board the craft.

At times, he couldn’t figure her out. With the station of life afforded by her money, nothing should surprise her. Yet… although she’d never gaped at the trappings of living large during the time she’d been in L.A., her initial reaction sometimes seemed awestruck.

He was surprised when she accepted a sip from the flask he pulled from his boot as they lifted off. Her fingers rose, wiping her lips as she passed it back. He tipped it to his mouth, but suddenly the scent of her hair whipping around while they flew like gods over the pulsating weekend life of the city was more intoxicating than any pre-show substance he’d ingested.

In a matter of minutes, they were circling the arena, and only several more minutes later, being escorted through the maze of backstage tunnels. Reluctantly, he left her chatting with Seth and several of the teen’s friends in the hospitality room while he closed himself inside his dressing room. His instinct had been to grab her hand and pull her along with him. To listen to her calming chatter as he readied himself to take stage.

Still, he considered, while sitting at the makeup area creating lines with a razor’s edge, having her in the room would have meant hiding in the small adjoining bathroom balancing these goods on the edge of the sink or on his knees.

He knew he’d given her good reason the other night, but Scar worried too much. In a way, her concern made him happy because it meant she wasn’t comfortable around drugs. And not being at ease meant she wasn’t doing them. He couldn’t deny it also gave him a good feeling to know she gave a shit. Sometimes, it seemed no one else did. She’d called it the morning after his stupidity.

“Because no one else will, Gage. You and me—all we seem to have is ourselves.”

He blasted the first two rails and saved a third for stage call.

A light rap sounded, and the visitor announced herself as “Stylist.”

He swung the door open to a tall, leggy brunette, and he let his admiring gaze slide from her rack to her hips as she entered. Wandering the room, he checked an incoming text as she set up her station. She eyed him as she moved about, and he knew every bat of her lashes and purse of her lips was an open solicitation. He’d lost count of the female stylists who’d ended up on their knees before or after packing their grooming kits up.

Dropping his eyes to his phone screen, he thumbed a return text to Scarlette, who had beeped to let him know she was headed to the stage with Seth and his friends to watch the current act.

An image of her swaying to the beat as the band had rehearsed the other night assaulted his senses. Worse even, the recollection of her fingernails on his chest and her lips on his had his jeans tightening.

He changed into the shirt he would wear when he performed and took a seat. The brunette’s nipples poking through her thin shirt were his eye candy for the next ten minutes or so. When she began putting away straightening irons, product, combs, and brushes, he moved from the mirror.

The jeans and accessories making up tonight’s clothing ensemble hung in an open tour case, and he paused before it with his fingers on his fly.

Snapping her last case closed, stylist chick tossed her hair back over her shoulders and waited.

Fuck, he could use the release. Hadn’t blown his load since Trish/Tina…

When he inclined his head, she wasted no time. As his zipper inched open and her knees brushed the buckles on his boots, he closed his eyes and sifted his fingers through her hair, imagining ginger tresses.

Was that wrong?

I
had seen Gage play a few different instruments in the time I’d known him. As a teen, his guitar had hardly left his hands and he’d occasionally torn up the keys of the baby grand in the formal living room. As for vocals, I had watched videos of him performing, most recently, the one I’d stumbled on in the movie room. At his invitation, I had tagged along to their semi rehearsal at the drummer’s home studio. But none of that had prepared me for the live experience of Fire Flight—of Gage.

As I hung on every note, I wondered why I had never attended one of Fire Flight’s shows. The band was incredible. Together they were a chemistry of cadence. Their charismatic aura worked the audience into a heated fervor. Fire Flight wasn’t a concert—it was a spiritual experience.

A few times, Gage glanced my way. I felt a tickle to the depths of my soul when our eyes met—as if he was crooning—well screaming—the current song to me alone.