Dad knew his boys were on a course to annihilate one another, so he did what any ruthless fucker would: He threatened my band and disinheriting all three of us, unless we found a way to work shit out and work together. Dad made Kiln my personal bodyguard and Jaeger my manager.
“I’ve thought of ways to kill you to make it appear an accident.”
Something I was well aware of, and the reason for the design of my house in Denver.
“But since we haven’t been rewritten into Dad’s will, you’re worth more to me alive than dead. I thought I’d have to wait until Dad died to have my revenge. But you’re sniffing around Georgie. I had no fucking idea you’d be stupid enough to drop into my hands, knowingly and willingly, the means to destroy you.”
Dad clears his throat, which is well and good, since we’d momentarily forgotten his presence. It’s only around him do we resort to this conversation anymore. Otherwise, I’m as invisible to Kiln and Jaeger as I am to my band mates.
As Georgie is to her family.
“This conversation is over.” I nod to the forgotten photo. “I’ll promise to take more care, Dad.”
“Sloane—"
“Save it, Dad!” I bark, halting the freight train of words I know is barreling my way. I turn to stalk away.
“Stop!”
Cursing my father, his one-word command halts me. As he comes towards me, I take pointers in the art of stalking. My father does it like no other, so my attempt from moments ago seems feeble.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” he asks when he stops before me.
Rage underscores the question and contorts his features, but I don’t respond. I stare into his icy eyes with a cold look of my own. Is this the asshole Kiln hated me over? He can fucking have him.
“This shit’s old.”
I grit my teeth, resenting the words that mirror my thoughts.
I’m NOT Rand Mason.
He pins me and Kiln with a filthy look. “Both of you, get a fucking grip. What’s done is done. It’s over, so let it rest.”
“I hate that cock head,” Kiln explodes, fists clenched at his side. “I’ll never let it rest.”
“As if I give a fuck,” I snarl, remembering the time I shot at him. If only I hadn’t fucking missed. He’s done dirty fucking shit to me, too.
Kiln lunges but Dad steps in the pathway as I prepare to pound Kiln into the fucking floor.
“Keep it to yourself, asshole,” Dad orders, unconcerned that Kiln may have a knife on him and sneak a jab as he once did me. “All this unrest interferes with Sloane’s music. The source of both your incomes. Let me put a bug in your ears, Kiln Dalton—“The middle name he pretends is a last name—“If this shit between you and Sloane doesn’t stop, my good will evaporates and I pull my support.”
“Please do,” I snap.
“All up to Kiln,” he adds in triumph.
Kiln’s shoulders heave. “How do you expect me to stop?”
One hand beneath his chin, Dad begins to pace. I don’t fucking care about his support anymore. I’m wealthy. Whatever he throws my way, I’ll hire lawyers to fight. I’m not a fucking murderer.
“I’m a respected businessman, Sloane,” Dad gloats. He knows me, so he understands what I’m thinking. Our world was perfect once upon a time. Me, Mom, and Dad. That’s why he knows each of my weaknesses. “You can walk away and defend the charges I bring against you, but it’ll be my word against whose? Yours? A drug-loving, alcoholic, pussy-loving, spoiled, entitled rich boy who’s done nothing but fucked countless girls and given his poor father all types of grief for years.”
His words catapult me back to square one. Self-disgust curls through me in a sickening wave. The sting of Kiln’s witness to Dad’s vitriol is lessened by his blazing jealousy. He asked Dad a question, but Dad ignored it to torment me. I’m always first with him because the woman he loved completely gave birth to me.
Whether I had any say so in the matter or not, it’s my burden to bear.
I close my eyes, tuning my father and brother out, and conjure up Georgie’s little face. It’s memories of the loneliness in her gorgeous eyes that refocuses me and those words, her words, “Sloane, please….”
If I went to her and told her how I felt, she’d understand. Although she isn’t visible to anyone—but me—I’m everywhere. Still, we’re anathema to our families. In that, we relate.
“If you don’t shut the fuck up about Dietrech and Steffie, I’m firing you as Sloane’s personal bodyguard.”
Dad’s added insult to injury by waiting a full five minutes to even begin to address Kiln’s question. A master manipulator, he breeds fucking competition and resentment between us.
“You’ll end up a homeless fuck.” Although he’s talking to Kiln, he smirks at me. “Sloane can hire anyone he wants to guard him.”
And, now, I get the stupid fucking gloat.
“Sloane will end up winning this feud. At least between you two. You believe that young piece he’s smelling around is going to be his downfall?” Dad shrugs. “Either sit back and wait for it to happen or exit now, Kiln.”
If looks could kill, both me and Dad would be dead. Kiln’s glare turns him into the Abominable fucking Dickhead, reminding me of the intimidating motherfucker he once was to me.
He nods in agreement.
Dad didn’t say I could fire the prick, but I scored by getting him to shut Kiln the fuck up. It’s good to know I have this over his head. It’ll be his job if he mentions Steffie or Dietrech again, and I tell Dad. I could find a way to enjoy the fuck out of this if Kiln didn’t piss me off every time he spouts his venom.
“Are there any more questions, boys?”
“No,” Kiln bites out.
I’m halfway to my bedroom when Dad says, “Remember my eye witness.”
He’s a lying sack of shit. If there had been an eye witness, they would’ve seen him murdering Steffie.
“Since she was drowned, there are no fucking fingerprints and no fucking crime scene,” I snarl over my shoulder. “So it’s fucking easy to pin your shit on me.”
I don’t stick around to listen to whatever else my father has to say. I stalk to my room, slam the door, and tell myself again to stay the fuck away from Georgiana McCall.
Chapter Seven
Sloane
Six days before I leave Houston. The past eight have been like every other place—press junkets, practice sessions, timed appearances, alcohol, and sex with groupies.
The more time I spend on the road, the less meaning I find to anything.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I push my dick into the girl’s mouth. She’s a pickup from the bar last night. I didn’t even get her fucking name. She didn’t need mine. Who on this fucking planet doesn’t know me?
She sucks me harder. I twist her hair in my hands, slamming against her mouth, touching the back of her throat. I do it again and she gasps. Once, twice, threefourfive before I shoot off and hold her head in place, filling her mouth with my cum.
I immediately turn away from her. In my head, she’s already dismissed. Her features blur with all the others I’ve fucked since I walked away from Georgie’s hospital room. Grimacing, I grab a pack of cigarettes and light one.
“You need a ride to…wherever?”
“Um, no,” she says in a small voice, as if I’ve treated her any worse than she fucking behaved.
I shrug and head to the bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, I’m cleaned up and groupie free, and so fucking ready to leave Houston I can hear the jet engines roaring away. In the time I’ve been here, I feel as if I’ve aged two decades.
Sessions at the studio begins in fifty-two minutes, so I get my ass in gear, call down to the front desk so my rented motorcycle will be waiting, and head out.
Fifty-six minutes later, I arrive at the mansion and glower at the symbol of my transgressions. I’m not allowed in the record company’s studio after I trashed it fifteen months ago. But we have new material and Jaeger’s goi
ng to market the fuck out of the fact that we’re recording our new album, stateside, and in Houston.
Feedback has been mixed.
Fans love us for using a home studio. It makes us connect to every struggling musician out there. Critics are skeptical, but fuck them. As long as the Phoenicians approve, I thumb my nose at the fucking critics. The band’s response to the successful campaign is muted with their distrust of me.
Walking along the trail to the back of the house and the studio, I notice the blooming flowers and the green azalea bushes, known to me because of my mother. She loved azaleas and incorporated several hybrids so that flowers would be produced from March to nearly October. In the Texas weather, her gardens stayed in bloom.
Funny how I hadn’t even considered visiting my childhood home, though it’s located less than an hour from my current location.
There’s nothing for me there but bad memories.
Turning my attention back to the place I’m at, I reach the studio quickly. The design of this house is more straight-forward than the McCall house, with none of the dips and turns that makes it into a directional nightmare.
Only four or five streets separate the two houses…I’m not very far from Georgiana. I stop dead in my tracks.
She was released from the hospital two days ago. I’ve made Kiln check on her daily via brief calls to the hospital as a concerned brother. Her actual brother should thank me for making him seem interested in his little sister, instead of revealing the neglectful dickhead that he is.
Forcing my feet forward, I rush inside and scowl at the four pairs of irritated eyes training on me. Jaeger’s peevishness dissolves into flat-out anger, and I thrust my fingers through my hair.
His look screams how irresponsible he deems me. And he’s fucking right. I have to get my shit together, forget Georgie and our conversation. But I can’t focus until after Kiln’s calls and I receive his assurance that she’s fine. Because I don’t fucking trust him, I called Abby and asked her to double check after the first day I had Kiln call. He’d told the truth, so I believe his reports. Now, though, I haven’t had an update on her in two days.
No one speaks to me as I roam behind Jaeger’s chair, watching Adam, Maitland, and Quint in the soundproof room. For a home studio, the setup is pro grade and the sound monitors are fucking awesome.
I wish I could say the same for the session. Just like yesterday, Adam’s bass line is fucking awful. Maitland sits amidst his drum kit, but his beat is out of sync, too.
He catches sight of me and abruptly stops, signaling the others to my presence with a flick of his head. Suddenly, it’s silent.
“Get your fucking ass in there,” Jaeger growls.
I grit my teeth. I want to punch the fuck out of him, but I’m on fucking probation. They’ve boxed me in to force me to behave, and it feels as if I’m being buried alive. Starting our sessions at the precise time, biting back my words, bowing to Jaeger’s will, is smothering me and adding to my emptiness.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this shit, but, if I want my band to stay together, I know I must.
Three hours later and we’ve captured…not one fucking track. I don’t stick around to analyze our dwindling days to cut the album and our lack of chemistry.
Rushing to my motorcycle, I again think of Georgie. Thanks to Abby, I know Parnell is off somewhere, Josh is in New York City, and Cassandra is in Aspen.
Georgie is all alone. I’ve fucked my dick raw—I hope—so why not visit her?
Why should you?
Scowling, I answer the questions with another one. What fucking harm can come of my noble intentions to keep her company?
As far as I can tell, nothing. It fucking beats walking a fucking tightrope around the guys.
Georgie
I’m bored out of my head, even though I should be doing make-up work that was prepared and sent home to me from school. Homework is useless shit. I’m a horrible student when I go to school. They can’t expect me to do better at home, trying to figure the lessons out on my own.
Though still weak and tired, more than that, I feel as if my skin is crawling. It’s funny how I didn’t crave alcohol or drugs while I was in the hospital. The moment I walk through the doors of my gilded prison, though, I’m in need of a hit.
It’s the only way the place is bearable. I try to figure out the basis of my sadness, my need to escape, but I can’t. What I do know is I have no reason to be so uneasy and unappreciative.
Instead of being responsible and attempting to learn, I walk to the small study in my suite, the place that’s plastered with all things Phoenix Rising. Other than my closet, this is the only room I’ve been allowed to decorate on my own, even though I lost the battle not to have carpet. With my closet, Mom was too busy recreating a Neiman Marcus showroom to concern herself with my uninspired choices.
After capitulating to allowing carpeting in here, I got everything else I wanted, including window seats and a simple light fixture that I didn’t choose as a proclamation of wealth. There’s even a desk in here, a piece of useless furniture that I thought was appropriate to keeping the vibe of the room going.
My bookshelf, dedicated to Phoenix Rising fan mags, unauthorized bios, and scrapbooks mostly about Sloane, are my favorite. The 24x36 framed poster of the magazine cover with Sloane’s gorgeous back and arm tattoos hangs directly across from where I stand.
I hesitate before giving in to the urge and yanking one of the first scrapbooks I ever created off the shelf.
I sink to my carpet and begin to flip through the worn pages. Nothing is registering because his hospital visit to me has sustained me. It’s nice knowing someone cares about me. I wish I could stay with him forever, but then I always reconsider. I don’t want to get a selfish need to latch on to someone confused with my desire for him.
Well before Mom and Dad forgot about me, I adored Sloane. It was a shallow, superficial worship. Still, it’s easy for me to tangle need, desire, want, and caring with my predetermined image.
Clinging to thoughts of the attention he gave to me has also helped me to consider my next steps. Such as emancipation from my parents and dropping out of school. If either my grandmother, mother, or father, would visit me, I might discuss one or both with them.
With a frown of distaste, I know I’d discuss dropping out of school quicker than I would emancipation. First, I’d need my allowance to hire an attorney. Second, once I hire an attorney, my allowance would stop. Third, I’m scared. I don’t know how to pay bills, keep a house, or earn money. I don’t even know how to save money. Mom and Dad would be hurt and furious, and I might irreparably damage our relationship. Somewhere, deep down, they love me, so I don’t want to air our dirty laundry, as Grandma sometimes says. Although she doesn’t use those words very often since we all know better.
That’s another thing. Grandma. She’d have me declared something before she allowed me to disgrace the family and emancipate myself. So, um, yeah…no fucking way am I ever bringing up that boneheaded idea.
Dropping out of school on the other hand? That would be seen as a failure, too, but it would be more on me and my inability to learn. It’s all about distribution of blame. Weighted in their favor—Mom and Grandma…and Dad kind of—and I get my way.
I think my grades began to slip around the same time I couldn’t take riding lessons anymore. That occurred about the time I started my period when Mom began to be completely disgusted with me.
Maybe, if it stopped she’d love me again?
“Stupid.” The idea of stopping my period is insane, so I giggle and absently flip the page of the scrapbook.
Sloane. My heart flips at another photo of him, where he’s younger and wearing sunglasses, surrounded by the other guys. Maitland hadn’t gotten the gauges in his ears yet or his fingers tatted. Neither had his hair grown long enough for the man buns he now favors. Quint was leaner, still with that soccer hair, and manic stare. Adam’s blond hair hadn’t gotten defined by th
e crew cut he’s so famous for. In the early years, he wore dog tags and I always wondered why. Perhaps, it was just an accessory, but I doubt it, given the powerful meaning of the military ID. About the same time he stopped wearing them, he came out with the crew cut. Quite a doubtful coincidence in my estimation.
But what do I know? Besides, my scrapbooks on them are itsy bitsy compared to what I have for Sloane.
I’ve followed his stay here as closely as possible these past days. Each time I see footage, I continue to shove aside my disappointment over what Crowell did by taking Lana to the concert after he’d promised I’d be his date.
He’s called me, but I’ve declined each of them. Now, though, I’m considering picking up my gold-plated iPhone—courtesy of my dad—and dialing Crowell’s number.
At one time, whatever else was going on, I could always count on him for a high. Now, I’m not so sure, although, I intend to test him.
I flip more pages, considering a strategy. I just about cleaned out my bank account for this month’s allowance, so I might not have the money for a fix. Since Crowell isn’t interested in having me suck his dick anymore, I’m not sure how to proceed.
“Jesus Christ, this is a fucking shrine.”
I shriek at the sound of Sloane’s voice and jump to my feet. My precious scrapbook slips to the floor.
“You scared me,” I snap.
His eyes roam everywhere, but he hears me because he gives me a wicked grin.
Sloane’s with me again. “You’re here,” I whisper in awe, unable to believe it. I’ve resisted thoughts of the way I sent him away. It’s better to focus on his visits to me rather than our goodbye. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid he’ll reject me the way I rejected him. He’d opened up to me, shared real stories from his life, and I sent him away. Ashamed of myself, I bow my head. “Did you climb through the window again?”
Soft laughter rumbles from him and he closes the distance between us. “Your fucking entry door is unlocked, so I walked in and came to your room.”
Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series Page 10
