Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  She ticks off my laundry list of run-ins with the law.

  “If…if…she’s angry with me,” she repeats again.

  No, Cassandra isn’t angry with Georgie. She’s angry with me.

  Once again, my dick is leading me into trouble.

  “You don’t want to add sex with a minor to your record. You’ll never recover from it.”

  I do what I do best and lash out. “Sex with a minor?” I snort. “As if. You put too much stock in your pussy if you think I wanted it. Great dick suck, but my cum’s in your stomach, not your cunt, and all DNA is washed away.”

  Yes, I’m a fucking asshole.

  “Bye, Sloane,” she whispers. “I’ve enjoyed my time with you.”

  She knows I’m leaving, but there’s nothing more for me to say, so I offer her a hard stare and clench my jaw. Pinning me with an accusatory gaze, she runs to the door, rushing out without looking back.

  I thrust my fingers through my hair, not amused by my audience.

  Eyes steely, Kiln scratches his jaw. I just raise my hand, not wanting to hear fuck-all about this fuckhill of a mess I’m in.

  Chapter Twelve

  Georgie

  Darkness surrounds me. I’m cold, naked, hungry, and aching. I haven’t had drugs in days, and food and water in hours. I think. Reality is nearly gone from me. Time is distorted. I might’ve been here for two days or two years.

  I don’t know.

  Mom has lost her mind. I ran from Sloane’s suite, humiliation burning in my belly. I couldn’t wait to get in the cab to take me to Crowell, to give him my virginity in exchange for claiming I’d been with him and Lana all night.

  I didn’t care. But the cab was two cars behind Mom’s Mercedes. I couldn’t believe she was there. Not only hadn’t I told her where I was, but she was supposed to attend some Sunday event. She was always at some event.

  Her look of disgust is one I’ll live with for the rest of my life. “How’d you find me?” I croaked when I’d buckled myself in.

  “Your phone,” she bit out in frozen tones.

  I’ve seen my mom in many moods in private. In public, her cool acceptance and civil indifference are her trademarks. But, I’ve never seen such cold anger from her, anywhere. Not even when she caught me at the studio with Sloane. She was angry and anything except indifferent. Also, she wasn’t so rigid with fury.

  So I asked no more questions. Hoping she’d cool off. She didn’t. Once we arrived home, she just said, “follow me.”

  I did. Straight to hell in the form of a little room I never knew existed in the house. Windowless. Dusty. Moldy. No furniture. Just a small, dingy bathroom and hard floors. She pushed me in and locked the door, throwing me into the darkness.

  I’ve screamed my voice away. Overheated and exhausted, I beg and plead. Imaginary bugs—at least I hope—crawl all over me and makes me vomit.

  As trembles seize me, I wrap my arms around my waist. The door creaks open and the glare of a flashlight hurts my eyes.

  “Mom!”

  Crying her name in desperation, I struggle to my feet, make my body cooperate to run to her and throw myself into her arms, so happy to see her. “I swear I’ll be good.” My voice is little more than a croak.

  She shoves me away. “You’ve knocked over your food.”

  Yesterday, maybe. Or the day before. My growling stomach reminds me of my hunger, but food can wait. I just want out of the darkness. I claw at my mom’s ankles.

  “Please,” I sob. “I beg your forgiveness.” I don’t know what I’ve done to make her this angry. I’ll care later, when I’m in the light again. When I smell good and bugs aren’t crawling all over me. “Please, Mom. Please. Let me out.”

  I’ve never implored anyone as much. If I survive, I can’t imagine I’ll ever do it again. If she wants me to die, I’ll gladly oblige, but I just want to feel the sun on my face one more time, and look at my framed poster of Sloane.

  She kicks away my hold, the toe of her shoe hitting my cheek. That’s the only indication that she hears before her heels click away from me.

  “You’ll be here just a few days, Georgiana,” she says tightly. It sounds as if she’s crying, too. “Tomorrow, I suggest you take more care if you don’t want to dehydrate. You’re an addict. You’re getting the drugs out of your system and sobering up.”

  The door closes and I’m thrust back into the pit of blackness. She’s left me again.

  Thoughts of my time with Sloane calms me for the next hours. His blue eyes. His dark hair. The way he shuddered against me when he came. If I pretend really hard, I smell him, too. Spice and musk, and it comforts me. It’s a sweet illusion.

  His voice rings through my head. His pain. He seems all alone amidst a world of followers.

  That’s an even worse loneliness, when you’re isolated amongst a crowd. It feels wrong, sideways, as if the earth’s flat and you’ll fall off.

  I love him with or without his music. I love him because I know if he were here with me, he’d move heaven and hell to carry me to safety.

  His music and his voice are beautiful. I hang on to hear both again. It plays in my head. The time in the studio with him when I saw his brilliance firsthand. Before my mother ruined it all.

  Freezing cold, I cough and curl into a tighter ball.

  Footsteps grow closer in the hallway. I turn on my side, shocked at how attuned my hearing is now that I can’t see not even my hand in front of me. The room’s horrible smell irritates my gag reflexes. The door opens and I squint at the hall light beaming into the room. Crawling to my hands and feet, I expect to see my mom. She’s allowing more light in right now, so she has to have forgiven me.

  “Georgie?”

  Della, one of our maids, calls my name and I waiver. She doesn’t speak to me again, but sets a tray on the floor and backs away.

  The scent of chicken broth mixes with the scents of my pee and vomit, and fills the room. Lovely. Staring up, I blink. Nothing changes. It’s still pitch black.

  Call me weak, but I’m not. I’m plain fucking tired. On my hands and knees, I follow the smell. When I reach the tray, I feel around, sagging in relief when my hand wraps around a glass, cold with condensation.

  I smash it to the floor and the liquid splashes on my thighs and legs. A drop or two catches my cheek. My fingers search for a jagged piece and I moan when my skin is cut.

  Hopefully, the pain I’m about to inflict upon myself doesn’t last long. Laying my wrist on my thigh, I press the glass to it and slice.

  “Ahh.” Tears rush to my eyes at the flare of pain. Warm liquid slides down my thighs. My blood. The glass slips from my fingers but I manage to lift it again to repeat the process on my other wrist.

  When I’ve accomplished my tasks, I curl up on the floor and wait to die.

  Cassandra

  Darkness descends on me. I grab my glass of wine from one of the tables in my dressing room. Something’s wrong. I know it is. I try to assemble my thoughts to pinpoint the awful premonition sinking into me.

  Mother’s intuition has never been my strong suit. I long ago tuned it out. Once or twice, when Georgie was little, I listened and discovered her locked in a cupboard, or unable to slide from under a bed she’d hidden beneath.

  Why listen now? I have no idea. No, why hear it now? I refuse to listen. She has to stay in the room and sober up. I can’t have it known that she’s addicted.

  I pace a little more, my mind flitting to Crowell and his confession of how addicted Georgie is.

  If my actions are discovered, though, that’s the story I’ll use. Georgie is really in the room because of Sloane. She defied me. He defied me. I should follow through with my plans for him, but I haven’t been as calm in years. Knowing Georgie is locked away is freeing to me.

  A noise catches my attention, and I tiptoe to the door connecting my closet to the bedroom. I stumble back. Parnell is with Abby, in our bed. In our bed. She moans as he pumps into her. Sickness invades me and a wounded sound
escapes me. They both freeze.

  Sighing, Parnell lifts up, leaving her reddened, swollen pussy open for me to see. She doesn’t bother to close her legs. She doesn’t—

  A God-awful scream curls my toes and Parnell shoots from the bed. Pulling the top sheet from my bed, Abby wraps it around herself and follows him. I remain where I’m at, not caring what’s happening. Only seeing my husband with the girl, Abby. She’s different than the others, something more than I’ve been to him in years. Covering my face, I sob into my hands.

  Parnell hollers, as if he’s in agony. I hope he is. Maybe, then, he’ll feel half the pain I’m experiencing.

  “Call 911,” he sobs, running back into the room with Georgie in his arms. For the briefest moment, my mind blanks and I stare, not quite comprehending my limp daughter.

  He rubs his cheek against hers and ugly cries. His little slut, Abby, wears a robe now. My robe that I’d left in my bathroom that I share with my husband. He shoves a cell phone into her hands. “Save her, Abby. Save my Georgie.”

  Towels are wrapped around Georgie’s wrists and her hair is tangled. She’s pale and gaunt and ugly. She might die. Naked and bloody, leaving the world just as she came in. I almost envy her, but I don’t. Maybe, now, I’ll have peace. I’ll have Parnell.

  “Call 911,” he screams again through his tears.

  “They’re on the way,” Abby soothes, caressing Parnell’s back. Worry creases her forehead. “D-della called.”

  “Call again,” he directs. “Please. Get her help.”

  He paces, Georgie still clutched to him. Judging by the redness of the towels, she’s bled out. There’s no way she can survive this. My breath catches. I cover my mouth as a sound escapes, alerting Parnell to my presence that he’s forgotten.

  “Cass, do something. Help our little girl.”

  I want to move but I can’t.

  “Call 911,” he yells again, despite Abby’s reassurances that our executive housekeeper already has.

  “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll call again, baby.”

  How much time has passed? Five minutes? Ten minutes. I don’t know. My limbs have atrophied. I can’t console Parnell and I can’t touch Georgie.

  A voice fills the room. Abby’s voice, trembling with fear. Attempted suicide she says. She’s gasping for breath, like she’s run a marathon, instead of just fucked my husband in my bed.

  Contempt fills me. “She’s a goddamn drug addict,” I snarl, furious that Georgie’s winning our competition for attention again. I want my baby back. My little girl, the beautiful child who hadn’t blossomed into this exquisite creature that I hate. Why couldn’t anyone else see Georgie for who she really was? What she’s destined to become. An international whore. That’s all she has the brains and beauty for. “Ungrateful. How could she ruin her life with coke, and humiliate us?”

  My words are the attention getter I need to get through to my husband. He lays Georgie on our bed. I pray the blood is sufficiently staunched, so she won’t soil my expensive sheets and mattress.

  Before I can direct one in this crowd of people, Parnell barrels to me, wearing pants now. I curl my lip at him. For the first time, he doesn’t attempt to appease me. His eyes blaze.

  “What?” I snarl.

  His nostrils flare and I wait for him to say something, do something, other than suggest we bring other people to our bed.

  “What have you done to her?”

  I roll my eyes. “As if you care. She’s better off this way. Who has time for her?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abby choke, as if she has a right to an opinion about how I feel towards my baby.

  “Paramedics are here, Mr. McCall,” Whitney calls. “Josh is out of town. He says he’ll get the next flight out. Mrs. Sanderson is also en route.”

  Mother? My mother is on the way? For the first time, panic flares inside of me. I turn toward my dressing room. I hear the crackling of radios and rushing footsteps. Parnell halts me and I’m not sure what I expect. Comfort, maybe. He knows how I feel about my mother.

  Instead, his fist connects with the side of my jaw, throwing me back and sending me crashing into a shelf. My head smacks against it. I cry out, but then the pain is gone and I slip into unconsciousness.

  Sloane

  Three hours to show time. I sink into the girl I brought home last night. Next to me, Maitland is snoring, but our combined moans awaken him. Instead of participating, he rolls over, grabs a cigarette and watches while I fuck her. She’s like a machine and gave each of us a turn in her pussy.

  I close my eyes and still I see her. Georgiana. I know this is what I have to do. Move on with other women. Not move on, per se. But just continue with the course my life was on and pretend I never saw her three weeks ago.

  Seven and a half days after the scene with Georgie in the hotel room should be enough time to fuck her out of my head. Although I wasn’t supposed to leave until the next morning, I flew out the same night.

  I pound into the woman beneath me. This is the life. I must be a sorry motherfucker if I can’t forget a girl, more than a year away from her eighteenth birthday.

  Spreading my current fuck partner’s legs wider, I shove into her brutally and she sinks her nails into my back. Pain slides into me and hisses out on a breath. To prevent her from repeating the action, I pin her hands above her head, until Maitland grabs them and I allow him to take control.

  While keeping her hands secure in his grip, he pinches her nipples, then decides to join in and rises above her to shove his dick in her mouth. Fine with me. If she does any nail digging, it’ll be into his fucking ass. Literally.

  My bedroom door opening doesn’t halt my strokes into her. I’m close to coming. Watching her suck off Maitland sends me over the edge, and I empty inside of her.

  Maitland isn’t done yet, so I move from between her legs and snap off the condom. Her fingers push against her clit. She hasn’t come yet. I debate on eating her out, but it’s interrupted by Kiln calling my name.

  “I thought ignoring you long enough would make you go away,” I grumble, lean over, and toss the rubber into a trashcan filled with them. “What do you want?”

  “Abby just called.”

  I’ll never, for as long as I have breath in my body, forget the shocked quality to his tone. It’s low with incredulity and filled with pain. My heart starts hammering because he doesn’t have to tell me. Abby calls to fuck with me or Kiln or…whoever, but I know this has to do with Georgie and I know it’s bad. I’m on my feet, searching for clothes.

  “Is she alive?”

  “I don’t know. Abby said Georgie slit her wrists and was pale and unmoving when she was wheeled away.”

  “We have a concert, Sloane,” Maitland reminds me, either finished with his blow job or stopping it when he heard the news. “Tonight and tomorrow.”

  Yes, we’re in Little Rock and, as usual, we’ve sold out. Refunds are a fucking nightmare.

  “Call Bullard,” I order Kiln, referring to our pilot. “I’m flying to Houston immediately after the concert. Get Abby back on the phone for me.”

  Kiln glares at me and I know I need an assistant. Or I need to do this shit myself. But fuck him. Kiln deserves my treatment.

  “What about me?” the woman I just finished fucking asks.

  “Time for you to leave,” I say. And it is. She’s had her night with us, got dick from each of us. Not only is she meaningless to me, but she’s now useless, too.

  I don’t stay around to wait. I’m an asshole and I really don’t give a fuck.

  Sloane

  She’s hooked up to all types of machines. Just like my sister was when she arrived at the hospital via Life Flight. But it was too late for her. She was gray, cold, and lifeless. DOA.

  The memory has been shoved so far into my psyche, buried beneath years of drug and alcohol use, and anger, that I couldn’t even conjure it when I pulled Georgie from the pool.

  Now, I do, though, and I think I’m g
oing to throw-up. Cry. Kill.

  Behind me, the door opens, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I stare at Georgie long enough, she might wake up. I touch her tangled hair and her name flutters from my lips.

  I’m not sure if I’m heard or not. “Georgie.”

  Maybe, it only resounds in my head.

  It’s morning. We touched down in the city several hours ago. I came straight to the hospital, which Kiln anticipated. He had two vehicles awaiting the band members instead of the customary one. They could’ve stayed behind in Arkansas, but, surprisingly, they’ve rallied behind me.

  “Sloane?”

  My aunt’s here. Abby. She touches my arm, but I don’t look away from Georgiana.

  “She cut her wrists. She was in a little room. Cassandra…”

  Her voice trails off and I snap my attention to her. “What about her?”

  “She locked her up,” she cries softly. “Helen, her mother I think…got the whole story from her and called Parnell. She said…she said Cassandra wanted to get Georgie clean.” She covers her eyes. “I’ve never heard a man scream the way Parnell…she was so bloody. I thought she was dead, too.”

  “Where’s Cassandra?”

  The calmness of my words are shocking, considering I’m ready to murder her with my bare hands. Strangulation is personal. She fucking needs personal.

  “On her way to a mental hospital.”

  Out of my reach then. But I know someone who isn’t. “Where does Crowell live?” I ask, gritting my teeth. I don’t even know that motherfucker’s last name.

  The monitor skips a beat and draws my attention. Georgie moves on the bed. I hold my breath, waiting for her eyes to open.

  They don’t and the disappointment increases my anger.

  “I don’t know anything about Crowell.”

  To keep from shaking my aunt, who should be thanked instead of terrorized, I ball my hands into fists. “Find out. I don’t give a fuck how. I want fucking Crowell.”