The Complete Rockstar Series

by Heather C. Leigh

  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.

  * * *

  “How 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.

  “Thanks,” I tell the nurse, holding my breath until she finally leaves the room. I fumble for the bedside phone and dial Gavin. Sadly, it’s the only number I know by heart. He answers, his voice hesitant, probably because he doesn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Gav, it’s me.”

  “Hawke?” I hear a muffled sound and Gavin shouts to whoever is in the room with him. “Hey guys! It’s Hawke.” His breathing returns to my ear. “Where are you?” I wince at the worry in his tone.

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  Thirty minutes later, the entire band storms into my hospital room in a flurry of noise and activity. Everyone is talking at once, half of them asking how I’m doing, the other half yelling at me for being so unbelievably thoughtless and selfish.

  “Guys.” I try
to get everyone to quiet down. Their voices are making my head throb. They continue arguing, thoroughly pissed at me for taking off and getting injured—for going alone, for fucking up, for existing—hell, for everything. I’m surprised I’m not being blamed for sinking the Titanic and causing world hunger, what with the huge list of accusations being flung at me. “Guys,” I repeat, to no avail.

  “Shut up!” Everyone’s heads, including my own, whip around when Ross steps into the room and shouts.

  “Out!” he snaps at my bandmates. No one moves, still dumbfounded at the sound of Ross raising his voice. My uncle is a pretty gentle guy, easygoing, calm. Until you push him over the edge. Right now, I’d say he’s waaay over that edge. “Move, now!”

  Gavin, Dax, and Adam trip over each other to get to the door. Ross follows, closing it, trapping me with him in the tiny, and getting smaller by the minute, hospital room.

  Instead of yelling, telling me what a disappointment I am, how I fucked up and screwed the band by getting injured, Ross takes out his phone and drops into the requisite blue vinyl chair next to the bed. “I have to give a press release. You’re going to miss tonight’s concert, maybe the one in Seattle tomorrow as well. Your doctor said you have a mild concussion on the back of your head and three broken ribs. Do you want me to tell the media the extent of your injuries, or do you want me to leave it vague?” He starts typing out an email.

  My mouth falls open in shock. “You…you’re not mad? You’re not going to yell at me?”

  He’s here to formulate a press release?

  Ross closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and sighs before meeting my gaze. “Hawke. Henry…” I flinch at his use of my name, his brother’s, my dad’s name. “Is there anything I can say to stop you from doing something like this again?”

  I don’t even have to think about my answer. “No.”

  “Is there anything I can say to get you to talk to a professional about everything you’ve been through?”

  “No.”

  He sits back in the chair and spreads his hands wide. “So… Tell me, what’s the point of lecturing you? I love you. I care about you. It hurts to watch you suffer, but you’re an adult and I can’t control you or make you come to terms with what happened to your family.”

  Somehow, his words, though intended to let me off the hook, make me feel worse than if he actually did yell and lecture. It’s like Ross has given up on me. I don’t know why it upsets me—he should give up on me. I’ve given up on me.

  “Thanks.” I pull at a thread on the so-thin-it’s-nearly-transparent fabric of my blue hospital gown.

  “No problem,” Ross replies.

  * * *

  By the time I’m released, get back to the hotel, and have a brand new phone in my hands—courtesy of someone’s assistant running to a nearby electronics store—it’s nearly six p.m. Gavin offered his phone to call Abby, but I refused. I want to be alone when I call her. Right now, everyone else is at the arena, prepping for the concert with a backup drummer while I’m lying in bed, achy and feeling like shit warmed over.

  Abby answers on the first ring, her voice hoarse with the distinct sound of someone who has been crying. “Hawke?”

  “Hey.” Jesus, I’m such a fucking asshole. “I’m sorry, Bee.”

  Nothing. The silence goes on for so long I check to make sure we’re still connected. “Abby?”

  I hear a stifled sob. “Hawke, I can’t…” Abby sniffs and I know she hasn’t been crying, she’s still crying. From the raspiness of her voice, I’d bet she’s been at it for a while.

  “Can’t what, Bee?” My ribs are on fire and my head is killing me, but what hurts the most is the knotting, twisting, icy feeling in my gut. Dread churns in my stomach, fiery acid only it’s cold—like frostbite from the inside.

  “I’m done, Hawke. We’re done. I can’t do this anymore.”

  My empty, blackened heart stops. All of the blood in my body drains from my head; combined with the painkillers they gave me, it leaves me dizzy and unable to respond. The icy sensation in my midsection spreads, replacing the blood in my veins with wintery darkness. A shiver travels down my spine and goose bumps rise all over my body.

  “So anyway,” Abby holds back a muffled cry. “Take care of yourself. I love you.”

  The call disconnects and I’m left sitting on the bed, clutching the phone, stunned. Abby was probably the last thing on earth keeping me somewhat sane, and now she’s gone. My only tether to reality just snapped, leaving me to drift through life alone.

  Life, what a fucking joke. What I do isn’t living, it’s existing. And I can’t even do that right.

  85

  Abby

  “Have you had any mood changes this week, Justin?”

  “Nah. I’m okay.” The young man slouches down in his chair. As usual, he begins picking disinterestedly at a loose thread on his jeans.

  “All right.” He does look better today. It’s been a few weeks since the day he came in disheveled and not taking his medication properly. Today, he’s well dressed, clean, his eyes and skin are healthy and clear. “What about your medications? Are those working out for you?”

  Justin shrugs, staring out the window of my office. Sometimes he gets like this, withdrawn, quiet. It could be nothing, it could be something that happened in his personal life that upset him, or it could be the beginning of a mood shift toward depression. I haven’t seen him since that last visit—his psychiatrist and his parents had him admitted to a hospital for a week or so to straighten out his meds and get him stable before letting him go home.

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” His head whips in my direction and his mouth curls in a scowl. “I’m sick of doing this. Sick of talking about this shit. I want to be normal. I want a girlfriend and to be able to finish a fucking semester of college without falling apart and being locked in a mental hospital! I’m done.” Justin springs out of the chair, whirls around, and leaves the office in a cloud of frustration.

  “Well that’s just great,” I murmur to myself.

  My assistant, Laura, comes into the room, her face a mask of concern. “Is everything okay? Justin just stormed out of here and he looked upset.”

  I stand up and move to the chair behind my desk to enter notes into Justin’s file. “He’s having a bad day, Laura. It’s fine.”

  Her brows pull together. “Are you sure?”

  I wave her off. “I’m sure. Thanks. Just let me know when my next patient is here.”

  “No problem, Abby.” I can tell she doesn’t agree with my assessment that everything is fine, but she leaves the office, closing the door behind her.

  Justin is a good kid, he’s just tired—tired of doctors, of medication, of being a prisoner of the unpredictable whims of his brain. It’s tough to be treated as though you’re sick when physically, nothing appears to be wrong with you. He’s strong, he’s fit, he’s a handsome young man, yet he’s capable of falling to pieces over something that wouldn’t make most of think twice—a look from a stranger, a bad grade on a test, a fight with a significant other—any of those things can send him spiraling into a free fall that he has absolutely no control over.

  It happened to my brother and countless other people with mental health issues. I only hope I’m not losing Justin. That he’s willing to fight for himself alongside me fighting for him.

  * * *

  I must have been nuts to suggest being friends with Hawke. I’m not sure if my mouth worked faster than my brain or if my brain simply shut down at the sight of his beautiful face and lean tattooed body, but when Hawke appeared in front of me at Dax and Kate’s house, my only reaction was the primal need to grab on tight and never let go.

  My mind is definitely confused, no doubt. The professional counselor in me is standing with her arms crossed, tsk-tsking at my obvious lack of concern for my mental well-being, knowing the past will most likely repeat itself. The human being in me sees a man s
he used to know, sees how much damage still lies beneath the hardened facade, and is desperate to be there for him when he needs someone.

  The woman in me? She’s the one who scares me. She’s the one who will bring this entire idea of being “friends” with my ex crumbling down at my feet. Because the woman in me is still deeply and hopelessly in love with Henry Walker Evans.

  I pull into the underground garage of the address Hawke gave me and stop at a small keypad. The metal gate slowly rises when I punch in the six-digit number he sent in a text message this morning after I asked if he wanted to hang out today.

  “Where are you, four twenty-five?”

  I circle the garage, looking for the parking spot assigned to Hawke’s condo. My phone beeps with an incoming text right as I pull into the space and turn off my car.

  Hawke- you lost? ;)

  Laughing, I get out and push the button for the elevator. Once inside, I respond.

  Me- on my way up. Space 425 was hard to find

  A new text immediately follows.

  Hawke- you’re smart. I knew you’d find it.

  By the time the doors open on Hawke’s floor, I’m grinning like a fool. Yes, we had a lot of problems in our relationship, and yes, I’ve spent the last few years focusing on the negative. But it wasn’t all bad. It’s things like this this that made me fall in love with Hawke. He’s funny, charming, and sometimes even a little shy. We had fun together.

  When I reach Hawke’s front door, I exhale and run my hands down my front, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my silk tank and skinny jeans.

  “You can do this.”

  Even though my stomach is twisted in knots and I want to run in my wedge heels for the safety of the elevator, I lift my hand and knock. The door opens and every single doubt I had, every worry, turns to dust at my feet.