The Complete Rockstar Series (88 page)

Sadie grins and promptly smacks her father in the eye.

“Ow! Buggar, Sadie!”

Ellie and I exchange glances and crack up. Adam shifts his daughter to one arm and rubs his eye with his free hand. “That’s not funny, you tossers. That bloody hurt.”

“That’s why it’s so funny,” Ellie giggles. “Come on, Hawke.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Let’s go outside. The patio is beautiful and Dax has food on the grill.”

Grinning, I open the door for Ellie and follow her outside, Adam close behind with Sadie in his arms as he chastises her for punching him in the eye. The second I step out onto the flagstone patio, I stop dead.

“What the—?” Adam slams into my back, holding back a curse. “Hawke! Move your arse. I almost dropped my daughter, you numpty!”

I step aside to let him pass, but can’t pull my gaze away from the tall, willowy blonde across the patio, her back to me, leaning on the wrought-iron railing. Naturally, no one bothered to mention Abby would be here. Sometimes I wonder if my friends either love to embarrass me or if they flat-out know me better than I think, because on one hand I want to see Abby so badly it hurts, but on the other, I would never admit it to anyone, including myself.

“Hawke!” Dax booms, thumping on my back with his huge hand. “You made it!” I flinch from the heavy smack and tear my eyes from Abby to acknowledge my bandmate. He has a set of tongs in one hand and is wearing a black apron that says “I Rub My Meat” in bright red letters.

“Why wouldn’t I make it?” I ask, pulling my brows together.

Dax laughs. “Who knows? Why do you do anything you do? After bailing from my house a few months ago, I haven’t heard a peep from you. I never know what to expect when it comes to Hawke Evans.”

He turns back to the grill and pokes at the various items with the tongs. I duck my head to hide my embarrassment. Of course Dax would bring up me taking off in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know I left Abby in bed alone, but it hurts just the same. My friends don’t know what happened that night between me and Abby, but
I
know, and I feel like crap about it. Worse, I’m sure I hurt Abby in the process. And now she’s here.

Shit
.

Deciding I have no choice unless I want everyone to see the uncomfortable tension between us, I suck up my pride, grab a beer, and cross the patio to join Abby.

I’m still a few steps away when she twists her head around to glance at me before continuing to take in the view of the city. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks with her back to me.

Not as beautiful as you.

I clear my throat, swigging from my beer to combat the sudden dryness in my mouth. “Yeah. It is.” Abby continues to stare out at the Los Angeles skyline. “I-I’m sorry, Bee. About ditching you at Dax and Kate’s house.” My fingers find the edge of the red and white label on my beer, picking at the corner until it starts to peel up.

Abby sighs, long and loud. “I know you are, Hawke. I should have learned by now.” Her words drive a stake right through my heart. Even after all the shit I’ve done, she still won’t get angry, won’t yell and scream and give me what I deserve. It makes me feel worse. Ashamed, I can only nod. “Listen…” she says. I glance up to find her watching me with a guarded expression, her arms crossed over her midsection, hugging herself. “Maybe…maybe we can be friends. It was…nice seeing you again, and honestly, I still missed you.”

Nice?
Friends?
Again, her words cut me to the quick. Her expectations of me are so high to think I could ever come through for her, yet so low that she doesn’t want anything more from me. I feel like a failure.

I take a step forward to stand next to her at the railing, our shoulders and hips brushing. My free hand curls around the metal rail.

“Friends, huh?” I try to sound light and unaffected, catching her smiling out of the corner of my eye.

“Why not?” Abby lays her hand on top of mine. Her familiar touch relaxes me in a way only she can. “Everything else we’ve tried hasn’t worked. Friends seems the best way to stay in each other’s lives without screwing up again.”

I pull my hand out from under Abby’s, putting it on top of hers. Rubbing my thumb across her soft skin, I consider her offer. I’m glad she’s not kicking my pathetic ass to the curb and telling me to fuck off and die, but the thought of never lying in bed together, her naked, watching me sink my cock into her, is depressing.

“Do
you
think we can be friends?” I ask, praying she’ll say no, that she wants more. Yet, because I care for her more than anyone else I’ve ever met, I want her to run as far from me as she can because I know I’ll pick right up where we left off and continue to hurt her again and again.

Abby glances down at our hands, then back up at me. “I honestly don’t know, Hawke. I only know I want you in my life, any way I can get you. I don’t want another five, ten years to go by and regret not having any memories together.”

Fuck.
I’m going to hurt her again. If this doesn’t shred my own heart first. But I’m selfish. I want her. No matter the cost.

“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Friends.”

Abby tilts her head up to meet my gaze. She squints, a tiny line forming between her eyebrows.

“Where are your glasses?” she asks.

“Oh.” I pat my shirt and remove them from my pocket. “Sadie got a hold of them.”

When I move to put them on, Abby steals them away. “Keep them off.” She must see the hesitation on my face, because she elaborates. “Just for the afternoon.” Abby slips them into my shirt pocket and skims a finger down my cheek. “You have such beautiful eyes. You shouldn’t hide them.” She drops her hands and her cheeks blaze red.

“Okay. Only for today,” I agree. Abby grins, and it’s worth losing my protective armor for a few hours just to see the joy on her face.

Friends
. How can I be friends with Abby? The only person on earth besides Gavin who has ever gotten close to me. The only woman I’ve ever allowed to get under my skin and into my fucked-up heart.

I guess I’ll find out, because I’ll do everything I can to make her mine.

“So, Justin, tell me how you did this week?” I pull out my pen and notepad and settle into one of the cozy chairs in my office.

The nineteen-year-old man across from me fidgets, his eyes darting around the room, landing on anything but me.

“Not so good, but I’m… I’m trying, Dr. Kessler.”

“I know you are, Justin.”

I put the pen and paper down on an end table and smooth my hands down my gray pencil skirt. He looks terrible. There are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Justin’s once shiny blond hair is dingy and limp, as if he hasn’t washed it in a while. He picks at a thread on the hem of his shirt and chews on his lip nervously.

“Are you taking your meds?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I was feeling
so
good, Dr. Kessler.” Justin fists his hair, squeezing his eyes shut as if in agony. “I hate the way they make me feel, empty inside. I thought… I thought…”

I watch, my heart filled with sorrow for the pain and confusion that plagues this once vibrant young man.

“It’s the mania, Justin. It will make you feel invincible, but we’ve discussed this. It’s not real and can be very dangerous. You have to take your meds even when you feel good.”

His hands slide from his hair and fall slack at his sides. “I know. Yeah, yeah.” He nods, confirming his own words. “I know this, but I can’t stop myself. It’s like I need to clear my head sometimes and the drugs, they mess it all up.”

God, he sounds just like Nick.

“I’ll call Dr. Mendel and ask him to discuss your meds. Make sure you schedule an appointment with him.” Dr. Mendel is Justin’s psychiatrist, and a very good one. Justin’s parents are very wealthy and want no expense spared in treating their son.

I sometimes wonder if things with Nick would have turned out different if he had the same resources as Justin. Just as quickly as the thought invades my mind, I shove it out. Medicines for mental illnesses have come a long way in the last ten years. Imagining the “what ifs” never does any good.

“Okay, Dr. Kessler.” Justin nods, still worrying his lip with his teeth.

“Now, relax, close your eyes, and tell me how your week has gone.”

By the time my day is over and I fight traffic to get home, I’m a frazzled mess. Days like this throw me off balance, sometimes taking me until the following week to recover. Usually, my bad days involve Justin and the haunting memories of Nick.

I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a large glass. Once I’ve kicked off my heels and changed into jeans and a light blouse, I sink into the soft couch with my drink.

The ocean is a dark shade of grayish-green today, the waves foamy and the surf rough. There’s not a single person on the long stretch of beach in front of my cottage. Not surprising since it’s cloudy and the sky is ominous, threatening to unleash a rare rainstorm.

My thoughts turn to the party at Kate’s last weekend, specifically, seeing Hawke for the first time since I had a weak moment and slept with him a few months ago in New Jersey. We’re going to be friends. I snort and take a huge gulp of wine.

Friends
.

Why should anything be any different now than it was seven years ago when we dated? We loved each other and still disintegrated into a pile of ashes, leaving nothing in our path unscathed as we went down in flames. The things we said to each other… to this day I still have regrets.

“
H
ow’s the tour
?”

It takes a lot to keep my voice sounding upbeat and happy after the way Hawke left me sitting naked on my bedroom floor, but somehow I manage to sound quasi-normal.

It’s not that I don’t love Hawke, I do. I just don’t know how much more of this I can take. But the opportunity to tour as the opening act for U2 is huge, and I’m not willing to ruin it by starting an argument with Hawke over the phone.

I’m ecstatic for the guys. Their hard work and years spent playing LA bars is finally paying off. After the way we left things, it’s Hawke’s penchant for self-destructive activities that has my stomach in knots. The last time we fought was when I went home for the weekend to see my family. When I returned, I found my boyfriend bruised and banged up from taking a spur of the moment trip to Colorado to mountain bike some ridiculously difficult trail. He lost control of his bike, skidded off the path, and tumbled down a twenty-foot cliff.

I can feel my blood pressure rising just remembering getting back to LA to find out Hawke was in a hospital in Denver and didn’t bother calling me. He didn’t “want me to worry” was his excuse, saying he didn’t “break anything and it was just a mild concussion.” More recently, his shitty treatment of me when I spotted an open sore on his leg pretty much sealed the deal on me ever asking about another injury again. Plus, that last one was our worst fight to date. Now I’m paranoid he’ll do something dangerous on tour because of it.

“The tour is good. We’re good,” Hawke says, answering my original question. He sounds off. I can tell he’s agitated by the way he speaks—clipped, rushed—as if he’s not really hearing what I’m saying. His mind is in a totally different place.

He’s going to do something risky. Really risky. Panic rises and I can’t help myself. “Are you okay?” I cringe, waiting. I should know better by now. There’s nothing that makes Hawke madder than asking how he’s doing.

“Fuck, Abby. Can we go a single conversation without you nagging the shit out of me? Please?”

I stomp down the urge to hang up. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus. I have to go,” he snaps.

“Wait!” My heart is racing, pounding hard enough to feel my blood pulsing in my neck.

“What is it?” Hawke hisses.

“I love you,” I tell him. As angry as I am, I can’t let him go without saying it. I’m always afraid it’ll be the last time we speak because of his need for risk-taking. I would do anything for one more chance to tell Nick I love him. I’m not wasting the opportunity with Hawke.

He sighs, his exasperation clear. “I love you too, Bee.”

“Bye.”

“Yeah, bye.” The line disconnects.

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. We can’t go on like this. Hawke doesn’t want help, won’t tell me anything about the demons he struggles with. I’m just as bad, refusing to stop trying to fix him, and at the same time not giving Hawke any insight into my reasons for doing so.

T
he next day
, Hawke doesn’t call at our usual time and when I try his cell, it goes straight to voice mail. I rationalize that it’s probably his reaction to our little fight last night. He gets like this sometimes. After he stormed out of my apartment before leaving for the tour, we didn’t speak for days.

By late evening, I still haven’t heard from Hawke, which pisses me off. Today is a travel day with no concerts scheduled. That means he’s not on stage or performing tonight, so why isn’t he calling? I feel like being as stubborn as him by not giving in first, but because I worry, I’m compelled to try his phone. It goes straight to voice mail again.

Anxiety creeps up on me. I don’t know why, but I can feel it. Something is off. Kate is out of town for a soccer game, leaving me alone in our apartment to freak out. I try her phone and it goes to voice mail as well.

I stand up, tempted to chuck my phone at the wall. Instead, I toss it onto the couch and head for the kitchen. After rummaging through our meager selection of alcohol, I choose an almost empty container of cherry-flavored vodka and unscrew the cap, chugging straight from the bottle. I need the escape, to not sit up all night making myself sick with worry. It takes a while, but I choke down the remainder of the vodka and vow this is the last time I’m letting Hawke put me through this.

“
U
gh
.” My head is throbbing and my throat feels like someone sandblasted it raw. Sunlight pours in through the open blinds, stabbing my skull in half. I check the time—nine a.m. At least I know for future reference, cherry vodka will get me a nice, solid ten hours of dreamless sleep.