The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Shit, Hawke. I had to do fucking CPR on you.” Gavin’s armor cracks, and tears begin to fall. “You’re my best friend. I can’t lose you, man. I have no one else. My mom is in London, and my dad… shit. You know he’s a fucking douchebag. You’re it for me. You’re my only family.”

  God. I feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

  “I’m sorry.” My hoarse voice shreds my throat and my breath catches in my chest. Is this what it takes for me realize how much my behavior hurts Gavin, a guy who’s already been through enough shit of his own?

  “Don’t be sorry,” Gavin says. “Just… just get some help, Hawke. I’m begging you.”

  I nod, but I don’t know if there is any help for me. Nothing works to take away the guilt, the suffering, the never-ending agony of living every day knowing what I did. Only the rush of danger, the pure adrenaline brought on by pain and fear help to beat back the darkness burrowed deep in what’s left of my soul.

  “I’ll try, Gav.”

  I stand up on shaky legs but am able to trudge back to the parking lot without help. I don’t bother to change out of the thoroughly soaked wetsuit, instead flopping onto the driver’s seat of my car, exhausted.

  “I’m following you home,” Gavin says, leaving no other option. He walks to his car and the bright headlights flood my rearview mirror.

  I’ll try to stop the dangerous behavior. I wasn’t lying when I told Gavin I would. But I’m already convinced that without the escape from my own head, I’ll only self-destruct that much faster.

  81

  Abby

  Twelve days. It’s been twelve long, anxiety-ridden days since Hawke awkwardly dumped me off at my apartment after getting his tattoo. All I got was a brusque “see ya later” as he practically burned rubber tearing out of the parking lot.

  He won’t answer any of my calls or texts and I’m too embarrassed to ask Kate how he’s doing. If I asked her, she’d want to know why I don’t just call Hawke myself. Then I’d have to tell her why we aren’t speaking, about the scars I saw when he took off his shirt and his reaction to me seeing them. Worse, I’d have to tell her my reaction to seeing them. Kate might be my closest friend, but it wouldn’t feel right to betray Hawke by discussing him behind his back, especially something he obviously isn’t comfortable with.

  Those scars.

  The images of the fine white lines crisscrossing his beautiful skin haunt me. They pop into my head randomly throughout the day, and worse, at night. Sometimes, I’ll be in class taking a test, and BAM! My eyes fill with tears, my throat closes up, and my heart shatters in pieces for Hawke. Whatever happened to him was big, huge—it not only scarred his body physically, but his mind as well.

  The deeply ingrained instinct to help calls at me to do something for Hawke, to listen to his problems and show him he can heal. It crashes over me like a nauseating tidal wave of fear—fear of the past, of mistakes made, of a future all mapped out specifically so I can atone for my failures with Nick.

  “Hey, Abby. Come see me when you’ve put your stuff away.”

  The sound of my name snaps me out of my depressing thoughts. When I look around, I’m shocked. Somehow, I managed to drive to work, park my car, and walk in the front door of the inner-city youth counseling center on autopilot, leaving me wondering how I got here without crashing my car.

  “Hi, Brenda. Sure, give me a minute.” I greet my boss, Dr. Brenda Eberhart, with a sad little wave and a pathetic fake grin. Brenda’s cheerful smile slips when she gets a good look at my poorly concealed anguish. She is a psychologist, after all. Did I really expect her not to notice my distress?

  After putting my purse in the employee break room, I take a moment to gather myself, inhaling and exhaling a few long, calming breaths. “You can do this, Abby.” Ugh, now I’m talking to myself. I have got to get myself together. It won’t do any of the kids at the center any good to meet with an intern who can’t deal with her own problems. They don’t need to worry about me. These kids have problems way, way bigger than mine.

  I meet Brenda in her office, where she’s already gathering the files for our first group session of the day—one for sexually abused young teens. Brenda glances at me for a quick second, then continues stacking things on her desk.

  “You okay?” she asks, not looking up from her task.

  “I’m fine.”

  Brenda stops, placing her palms down on the pile of folders. This time, wise brown eyes meet my gaze head on. “Fine? You look like someone kicked your puppy.” The corner of her mouth quirks up.

  I can’t help it. I laugh, feeling three days’ worth of stress drain out of me, and shake my head at her amazing ability to defuse any situation. “Thanks, Brenda.” There’s no need to go into detail—she knows exactly what she just did and why I’m thanking her.

  “No problem. Now,” Brenda hands half the large stack to me. “Ready to go help some kids?”

  I nod, eager to help someone, anyone who needs me, even if for today, it’s not Hawke. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  I check the time on my phone for what must be the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes, cursing Kate for being late. It’s been two weeks since the “tattoo incident,” as I’ve taken to calling it, and every day that passes without any contact from Hawke has me more and more on edge. Not only do I miss him—his smile, his sense of humor, the mischievous glint in his unusual eyes, the casual brushes of his fingers on my skin—but I’m worried to the point of creating a near-constant burning sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  Not speaking to Hawke, whether on the phone or in person, has turned every spare minute of my days and nights into pure torture. I’m so distraught when I think about his suffering that my stomach knots with anxiety. I’ve probably lost ten pounds in two weeks fretting over Hawke’s state of mind and what I can do to help.

  My fingers thump a pattern on the countertop, over and over. When the movement reminds me of Hawke and his constant drumming on any and every available surface, another wave of nausea hits me and I snatch them back.

  Damn Kate! Time spent thinking while waiting for her to grace me with her presence isn’t healthy for my psyche or my digestive system. I’m about to send her a not so nice text when she bursts through the door, hurrying across the second-floor study room at the Student Union, a massive cup of coffee in her hand and her backpack sagging on her shoulder.

  “Sorry!” she apologizes, responding to my petulant scowl. “Held up at footy practice. Coach made us do laps for quote ‘not trying hard enough’ even though it’s the off-season. It took forever and then I was so sweaty and gross I had to take an extra-long shower.” She dumps her books on the table and digs through her bag until she finds a pen. Her hair is still damp, pulled up haphazardly into a sloppy bun, her face free of makeup.

  I sigh, not able to come up with the energy to argue with Kate. “Whatever. You have your psych notes for the test?” Kate has trouble with her mandatory psychology classes, so I try to help her study when I can. Although, now that she’s past her intro classes it’s a little harder for me to assist. Sports psychology isn’t exactly my forte, but at least the basics are the same.

  Kate regards me, her sharp, intelligent gaze making me uncomfortable. “What’s your problem?” she asks, not in an angry way, but concerned. She never pulls any punches.

  “Nothing. Let’s just do this, okay?” I fidget in my seat, tapping my fingers on the table again only to pull them back and sit on them to stop reminding myself of Hawke.

  “Okaaaay.” Kate rolls her eyes, sifting through her bag to pull open a tattered yellow notebook. “Does this have anything to do with you not hanging out with Hawke at all over the last couple weeks?”

  Shocked at her insight, I sit upright in my chair. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” How did she notice that?

  “Honestly? That’s the excuse you’re going with? I’m not bloody stupid, Abby. You two are mates, chatting and hanging out, now you’re not. H
e’s been acting strange when I’ve seen him at the guys’ flat, you look like hell… Are you’re telling me both of you turning all sad and mopey at the same time isn’t related?”

  The blood drains from my face, making me woozy. Kate is more observant than I thought. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s absolutely right in saying she’s not stupid. She’s not. Not by a long shot. Knowing Hawke is just as affected by the distance between us makes me feel better, and worse. He has enough issues of his own to deal with without me adding more on top of them.

  My silence answers Kate’s question.

  “Hmmmm, that’s what I thought.” Kate leans over the table, getting close enough to whisper. “Did something happen between you two?” Her eyes narrow to slits. “Did he fuck you and take off? Is that what happened? Because if he treated you like some random slut, I’ll—”

  As Kate’s voice rises in anger, I panic, my gaze darting around the room filled with hardworking students. “Jesus, Kate. Be quiet. No, we didn’t have sex. He didn’t do anything to me. Can we please just study? I worked at the center all day and I’m tired.”

  Kate sits back, pulling the ends of her long ponytail through her fingers as she eyeballs me critically. “Fine. But if he hurts you—”

  “He won’t. Besides, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  Kate presses her lips together. It’s obvious she’s struggling to let it go. Being the good friend she is, she’s super protective of me. When she begins to flick through her notebook, I exhale, grateful to be let off the hook.

  It’s difficult enough for me to deal with knowing Hawke is suffering with his demons alone. There’s no way I can talk to Kate about the damaged man who’s somehow stolen my heart without me breaking down in a puddle of tears. Caring this much about Hawke is likely going to destroy me. It will pull me through the wringer, twisting and crushing my soul, only to spit me out broken on the other side.

  It’s going to wreck me, and I can’t find it in me to care.

  Hawke

  Kate drops onto the sofa in the dressing room, jostling the cushions so much I almost tip over. I have to throw my arms out to the sides to hold steady.

  “What’s going on with Abby?” Kate barks in her clipped East London accent.

  My pulse speeds up at the thought of the tan, sexy blonde I haven’t seen in over two weeks, when I made the spectacularly stupid mistake of bringing her to the tattoo parlor. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on.”

  I wish something was going on. For some reason, my body craves Abby’s touch and my mind misses her sweet words, her shy smile. I’ve never been more comfortable with anyone before in my life. It sounds ridiculous, but I feel better when I’m with Abby—the demons inside don’t shout as loud.

  Kate’s eyes narrow and she purses her lips, not believing a word I say. I’m not telling her about fucking up with Abby. How I all but kicked her out of my car after getting my tattoo and then ignored her calls and texts for the two weeks. Call me a coward, but I’ve seen what Kate can do to Adam when he’s gotten on her bad side. No way do I want to be at the receiving end of her quick and accurate kicks honed by years of playing soccer. If I told her I’ve been avoiding her best friend? Hell, Kate would literally kick the shit out of me. I know Abby didn’t tell her, because if she did, I’d already be a dead man.

  “You better not fuck with her, Evans,” Kate hisses. “She’s a great person and a brilliant mate, and all this bullshit?” Kate waves her arms around, indicating the entire band, “Is not really Abby’s thing. Slags flinging themselves at you blokes every night.” She makes a rude noise with her mouth. “Abby is better than all this.”

  As if I don’t know that. And then ignored it to spend time with her anyway.

  “I’m not fucking with her, Kate. Jesus.” I hold my hands up in a sign of defeat when she glares at me again. If looks could kill… “I swear. We hang out, that’s it.” Until I screwed everything up, that is.

  “Hmmmm.” Kate taps her lips. “What’s the problem, then? Don’t you fancy her?”

  What?

  “I…” My mouth gapes open as I try to get my brain up to speed with Kate’s schizophrenic change in conversation. “You… you just told me to stay away from Abby, now you want to know if I like her? Is this a joke?”

  Kate sighs, exasperated with me for some unknown reason. “Don’t be so bloody thick, Hawke. I’d be ecstatic if you two got together. What I don’t want is for you to shag my friend and treat her like some random slapper you picked up at a show.”

  “Christ, Kate. I’m not discussing this with you. Go talk to Adam if you want to gossip.” My face flames up, but Kate’s warning not to use Abby validates my decision to stay away from her. I don’t want Abby to see herself as another random hookup. I need Abby to trust me to not use her. Need her to be confident I see her differently than all the other girls I’ve been with. The danger is that if she trusts me, I could end up breaking that very trust.

  “Fine. For your information, Abby should be here any second,” Kate informs me. “She’s coming directly from her internship at a youth counseling center so I told her to meet me here.”

  Fuck. I have no choice but to face Abby tonight, knowing that she’s seen my scars, that she’s seen how utterly damaged I am underneath my clothes, tattoos, and glasses. Will she look at me with pity? Disgust? Hatred? I was hoping to put this moment off longer… like maybe forever.

  I tap my fingers on my knees. The familiar itchy, anxious, creepy-crawling sensation spreads out under my skin like an army of ants. Usually, when I feel this way, I take off, go do something, anything to take my mind off the morbid, self-destructive thoughts and overwhelming anxiety that seeps into my blood. Tonight, I can’t. I’m stuck. We go onstage in less than thirty minutes.

  Feeling twitchy and restless and pretty much freaking out at the thought of coming face to face with Abby, combined with the fact that I want her but she saw a part of me I never intended for her to see, is too much to bear.

  I jump to my feet, startling Kate, who lets out a tiny yelp.

  “I’ll be right back.” Without explanation, I bolt out of the dressing room, ignoring the odd looks from my bandmates and Kate’s confused expression as they stare holes into the back of my head. Down a short, cramped hall filled with amplifiers and other gear, I find the back door of the club and slam through it. I scan the ground, propping it open with a broken brick that is obviously here to do exactly that while people smoke in the tiny alley.

  Thank god I’m alone back here. Otherwise, I would probably lose my mind. It’s not often I’m tempted to hurt myself this way, but the overwhelming weight of my past, combined with wondering what Abby thinks of me or what she might say to me tonight, has me digging in my pocket to finger the lighter I keep in case of emergencies.

  This is an emergency.

  My hand is trembling when I wrap my fingers around the small canister. Before I can torture myself with second guesses, I pull it out and roll up my sleeve, exposing my forearm. Tiny, pale cuts slash across my skin, creating a faint spiderweb-like pattern. Ink from my tattoos covers some, but I haven’t decided what design to get to hide the rest. I rotate my forearm back and forth, choosing a spot with a large swatch of dark red and black ink. Perfect to disguise my sick compulsions.

  My heart is pounding so hard I feel it beating against my ribcage. Despite the gentle breeze and temperate weather, sweat is already dripping down my back. I grip the lighter, flicking my thumb on the tab, but my hand is shaking too much to make it work.

  “Fuck.”

  I breathe deep, leaning against the brick wall to steady myself. Jesus, it’s been a while. I used to carry a pocketknife everywhere I went so I could make small cuts along existing scars. It was just too messy, too noticeable to everyone when you’re always covered in bloody bandages. I hate the questions, the looks, the inevitable pity. Burning is so… clean.

  It takes three more frustrating tries to spark the lighter. I shove my arm
over the flickering blue flame, holding my breath in anticipation. Exquisite, white-hot pain scalds my skin. The heat blooms from the small spot and flows out through my veins in a rush of euphoria. I exhale, groaning in pleasure, letting the fears, the guilt, the crushing pressure of the ever-present burden on my shoulders, burn away with the scorching flame of the fire.

  When my field of vision begins to shimmer at the edges, I breathe in. Immediately, I taste the sharp tang of charred skin and hair. Shit. Startled, I drop the lighter and it clatters on the ground. The enormous blister on my arm screams angrily. I look at the spot and wince. Damn. I burned deeper than I usually allow. It happens if I’ve let the anxiety and darkness build up longer than I should. That’s when I get carried away.

  My phone buzzes and I startle out of my trance. Time to go onstage.

  Lightning fast, I roll down my sleeve, wincing when the fragile, singed skin pulls tight, and snatch the lighter off the ground. When I kick the brick away and walk inside the club, I feel weightless, free, unencumbered by darkness and depression, my two consistent companions. My problems with Abby fade away to insignificance, and I wonder why I ever worried.

  When I catch sight of Abby standing in the dressing room with Kate, I grin. Instead of freaking out, I pretend the distance between us never happened by greeting Abby with a hug. She sinks into my arms and I inhale her familiar scent. It hits me hard because I’m still buzzing from my self-inflicted high. When I finally release her to step back, the damaged skin catches on my shirt and I stifle a cry from the excruciating pain that shoots up my arm. Abby notices something is wrong. Her beautiful smile falters and her kind expression turns confused. Beautiful blue eyes glisten wetly.

  The look on her face, knowing I put it there, has the darkness roaring back in. Abby deserves so much better than me—a guilt-ridden, fucked-up loser with serious emotional baggage and a death wish. I proved it when the second she got a glimpse of my true damage, I literally kicked her to the curb. Ross was right to institutionalize me after the accident. Unfortunately, four years later, I’m still as fucked up as I was the day I went in.