The Complete Rockstar Series (89 page)

I shuffle into the living room and drop onto the sofa, not motivated to do much more than move from one cushioned surface to another. It’s too quiet without Kate here chatting nonstop about anything and everything she could possibly think of. I remember her saying the team has an early flight home today, so she’s probably in the air on her way back to LA right now.

Desperate for some noise, for a distraction from the pounding headache, I turn on the television and flip to a morning news program. The peppy anchors banter on and on about some ridiculous new diet.

I lean back on the couch, but something digs into my butt. I lean to one side and pull out my phone. The blood rushes out of my head, making me queasy. Hawke. I never spoke to him yesterday. After a few frustrating fumbles, I unlock the screen and check for missed calls.

Nothing. No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Before I can get pissed or begin to worry again, the television catches my attention. The morning anchor begins to discuss the next big story. I think my heart stops in my chest when I look up to see Hawke’s picture on the screen.

“Yesterday afternoon, authorities were called to a remote location at American Fork Canyon outside Salt Lake City, Utah after Henry ‘Hawke’ Evans, drummer for the band
Sphere of Irony
, lost control of his off-road motorbike and crashed on one of the trails. According to a witness with another party, Evans was alone when he went over the handlebars at over sixty miles per hour, reportedly landing on his head. The witness said he didn’t recognize the famous drummer, even after removing his helmet, which had a large crack in it.

“Evans, whose band is currently touring with
U2
, is in Salt Lake City to perform at a concert scheduled for tonight. He’s being treated at the University of Utah Medical Center, his current condition unknown. The exact details of any injuries sustained in the crash have yet to be released.”

It takes several tries to get my fingers to stop shaking long enough to pull up Hawke’s number. I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise, recognizing the icy sensation trickling down my spine to my extremities, leaving a gaping chasm where my heart should be. It’s exactly how I felt as my mom hurried us to the hospital to check on Nick, when the elevator opened to the ICU.

I can’t…

My breath catches. I’m unable to expand my lungs to take in enough air.

I need to…

The room spins around me in a whirling blur.

No… not again. I can’t do this again.

I gasp, desperate for oxygen, the edges of my vision going dark. If I had enough air, I would laugh. So this is what a panic attack feels like. I learned about them in class, and here I am experiencing one.

My brother, now Hawke… I’m not strong enough for this. I’m not strong enough to save Hawke.

I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. My heart constricts with the knowledge that before I lose myself and everything I am, I’ll have to let him go.

Seeing Abby again is the sweetest kind of torture. She’s still beautiful, stunning actually, possibly more so than the young, naive girl I met years ago. Still kindhearted—willing to give me yet another chance after failing her not once, but twice after my recent bout of stupidity when I left her in bed in the middle of the night. I shake my head in disbelief, wondering if I would be as forgiving if someone hurt me so many times.

I bark out a dry laugh. I can’t even forgive myself for what happened to my family over ten years ago. I guess I know the answer to my question. Apparently, I hold grudges. Long ones. Even against myself.

“C’mon mates, let’s get started.” Adam comes barreling into the outer room of the studio looking perky and excited to be recording. That makes one of us.

I stand up and follow Adam through the control room and into the sound booth. Gavin and Dax materialize from somewhere in the hall, entering the booth behind me. Not two minutes into warmups, Adam and Dax begin to argue, unable to come to an agreement on how to start one of the new songs.

That’s my cue to take a nap.

Those two could be at it for hours before they hash it out. They’re working out the guitar parts, so my presence is irrelevant to the outcome. I wander back into the outer room and collapse on the fancy leather couch, kicking my tattered black boots up onto the armrest. My thoughts immediately turn to Abby and how horrifically our relationship ended all those years ago.

I
t’s building up again
. The overwhelming darkness. The creeping crawling feeling digging under my skin, making me squirm. It started before I even left for the tour, instigated by Abby asking questions about my sister’s tattoo, then about the burn on my leg. Now, I’m on the verge of a full-on freak out at twenty-five thousand feet.

I glance around the luxurious private jet chartered specifically for the tour and it closes in around me. The gleaming silver cylinder contracts, squeezing my lungs tighter and tighter until breathing becomes near impossible. Having Lila Griffin unexpectedly tagging along on the tour is a fucking nightmare. I’ve managed to avoid her at our shows, but now she’s here all the time. I can’t be around her without going straight back to that night on the beach, to the mistakes I made leading up to the accident.

Her high-pitched giggle erupts from a row in front of me. I tense up and my heart stutters. To me, the sound of her voice is the auditory equivalent to being hit in the chest with a Taser.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Gavin as I leap out of the comfortable leather recliner to dart down the aisle, past management and other tour personnel.

The bathroom is huge and luxurious for an airplane. It’s decked out with an actual sink area and more than enough room to turn around without whacking an elbow on something. In my current state of mind, the fancy cubicle may as well be a coffin with a toilet.

“Fuck.” I dig my fingers into the edge of the counter and stare into the mirror over the vanity. Jesus, I look like shit. The hair at my temples is damp with sweat and there are dark circles under my freaky, mismatched eyes.

I take off my glasses—my dad’s glasses—and place them on the countertop. My entire life I’ve had people comment on my eyes. With one brown and one blue, they’re unusual to say the least. My mom always used to say they fit my personality perfectly, beautiful and unique. Yeah, if she could only see me now, having a full-on freak-out five miles off the ground in the shitter of an airplane with U2 sitting in the main cabin.

With a trembling hand, I remove my keychain from my pocket, fingering the small flashlight. When you flick the button on the side, a tiny bottle opener pops out, one of the edges of which is a slender razor blade. I peer into the mirror. The exhausted man staring back is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Always thinking ahead, I came prepared. Lighters aren’t allowed on planes, so I have to be creative. I’ve had unexpected anxiety attacks on airplanes before and let’s just say, using my fingernails or whatever sharp object is on hand is messy business. Reaching in another pocket, I dig out gauze, a few bandages, and a roll of medical tape, tossing them into the sink for after.

With my sleeve rolled up past my elbow, I find a scar I’ve used before. It’s hidden on the underside of my bicep, covered by the large, curling red tail of a dragon. Memories of Abby sitting next to me as I got this particular tattoo, of the way she looked at me when she saw my scars, how she became sick at the sight of them, drives a knife right into my midsection. I gasp, doubling over in agony. Lila, Abby, my guilt, the stress… It nearly knocks me off my feet. Scrambling for something to steady myself, I clutch the doorknob, focusing on breathing steadily in and out so I don’t pass out.

I laugh to myself, imagining the headlines.

“Sphere of Irony drummer found unconscious in airplane john, drugs suspected.”

If they only knew. It’s not drugs I’m addicted to. It’s not the lure of the chemical high or the dark lows in between that make up my demons. No, it’s the knowledge that I destroyed everything I loved—that I
still
destroy everything I love—that has me crippled with anxiety.

With a trembling hand, I snatch the blade off the shelf and sit on the closed seat of the commode. A few more calming breaths and my hand is steady enough to press the blade to my bicep. A rush of endorphins hits my system when the metal pierces the thin skin. Blood wells up around the sharp blade as I drag it along the line of the decade-old scar. I hold my arm out over the tile floor, letting the dark drops fall and splatter in a random pattern.

It doesn’t take long for the euphoria to hit, pumping through my veins in a rush of pleasure. Every drop that lands on the floor represents a worry, a dark thought, each one bleeding out of my system both metaphorically and literally. I take a moment to just feel, slumping back on the toilet with my head laid back on the wall.

Energized, I clean up quickly, not wanting to linger too long and draw any attention with a prolonged absence. Gavin is a nosy bastard and I wouldn’t put it past him to barge in on me, clucking like a mother hen even though he pretends not to care anymore. But then, of all of us, he knows most of my secrets and has good reason to worry.

By the time we land two hours later, some of the anxiety has already crept back in. It never comes back this fast. Usually cutting or burning will get me at least a few days of peace. The fight with Abby right before we left for the tour and then in Chicago unnerved me in a big way. I was a total dick to her on the phone and I know it. She pulled the psychology card
again
, bugging me to open up and spill all my secrets.

What Abby doesn’t understand is that talking about that shit won’t make a fuck’s worth of a difference in my life. The accident still would have happened and I would still be a selfish, fucked-up asshole. The only thing that would change is once Abby knew the truth, she would most likely never see me the same again.

And I couldn’t deal with pity in her eyes every time she looked at me.

“I’ll meet you guys at the hotel,” I announce when we reach the terminal at Salt Lake City International. I need another high—something bigger, better. The kind I can only get with a serious adrenaline rush.

“What?” Gavin squawks. He moves to grab my arm, but I duck out of his reach.

“I have a few things to do. I’m going to grab a cab and I’ll see you at the hotel later.” Before he can start an argument, I dart out the doors of the private General Aviation terminal and right into a waiting taxi. Biggest fucking mistake of my life.

“
H
ow long do
I have to stay?” I ask the doctor as he shines a light into my eyes.

“We monitored you overnight. You should be good to go today.”

“Can I play at the concert tonight?” I attempt to drag a hand down my face, but a sharp pain lances though my side as if someone jabbed a white-hot poker between my ribs.

“No. I’m afraid not,” he says, checking various scrapes and bruises on my skin. “You’ll need to rest and believe me, the headache you’re going to have when your painkillers wear off will keep you from wanting to be around any kind of loud music.”

I glance around the room, looking for my clothes. “Where’s my stuff?”

The doctor washes his hands in the sink, his back to me as he speaks. “I’ll send the nurse in to speak with you. She’ll get your belongings.”

The doctor leaves and moments later, a way too perky, middle-aged woman in hot pink kitty-cat scrubs breezes into the room. “Hello. Good to see you awake.”

“Yeah, the doctor said I was knocked out pretty good.”

She hums her disapproval. “Yes. Very reckless behavior, off-road motorbiking. I’ve seen quite a few injuries from motorcycles and ATVs over the years. Especially when people think they’re invincible.”

I clench my jaw shut so I don’t tell the nurse off for scolding me like a little kid or admit to her I don’t think I’m invincible but prefer the pain. The pressure from my mouth radiates to my skull, causing a sharp knife to plunge into my eye and through my skull. I swallow back the nausea that swims in my vision.

“I had a helmet on,” I growl, holding back every ounce of venom I want to unleash. I don’t need a lecture from this lady. I’ve heard it all before and I’m not in the fucking mood to be told how stupid I am.

“Good thing, too. Unfortunately, you landed on a pretty large rock that gave you a good whack on the base of your skull. You’re lucky you don’t have a spinal cord injury.” The self-righteous nurse checks various bags of IV fluid and pushes some buttons on a machine.

“Where’s my stuff?” I am beyond done with this conversation.

“The paramedics had to cut your shirt off, so I’m sorry to say it’s gone. Your pants and personal items are right here.” She opens a wardrobe and places a plastic bag on the edge of the bed.

I rummage through it and find my wallet and my phone. When I go to power on my phone, I notice the glass is shattered. Great.

“Does anyone even know I’m here?” I ask as Miss Hot Pink Kitty-Cats turns to pull something out of a cabinet under the sink.

The nurse comes back to stand next to my bed, handing me a green scrubs top. Her judgmental look is gone, replaced with… fuck, pity. I fist the scratchy sheets, tamping down the urge to scream, to argue, to jump out of this goddamn bed and leave all this shit behind.

“Sweetie, we didn’t know who to call. Your phone is broken and you don’t have any numbers in your wallet. We did send the LA police to the address on your driver’s license, but no one was home.”

No kidding. Because everyone is here on tour, with me, and I have no one else. Except Abby. Fuck, she’s going to kill me.