Rock Bottom

by K. Webster

  Rock Bottom

  Copyright © 2014 K. Webster

  Cover Design: K. Webster

  Photo: Shutterstock

  Editor: Mickey Reed

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Rock Out

  My Books

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For my honey,

  my sunshine,

  my person,

  my rock.

  It’s you and me against the world, baby.

  P.S. I’m addicted to the way you smell.

  There's unconditional love there.

  You hear that phrase a lot but it's real with me and her.

  She loves me in spite of everything, in spite of myself.

  She has saved my life more than once.

  She's always been there with her love,

  and it has certainly made me forget the pain for a long time, many times.

  When it gets dark and everybody's gone home

  and the lights are turned off,

  it's just me and her.

  -Johnny Cash-

  Crying.

  We all do it at some point in our life. Some of us do it more than others, while some may only do it the day they take their first breath on this Earth. Today, I’ve never been so ecstatic to hear the cries of someone. Some might say that sounds mean. But not the ones who are patting me on my back as I set down my headset. Not them. They’re calling me a hero.

  What sort of bitch smiles with tears of her own knowing she brought on those pissed-off cries? Well, this bitch of course. This bitch is accepting a hug from her coworker, her favorite friend, and accepting her request for drinks after work.

  I smile again, my heart full of pride. My mother would be proud.

  Tears well again.

  My poor, sweet mother.

  She cried lots in her lifetime. The woman had the tenderest of hearts. I certainly inherited that personality trait from her. And even though she cried lots, on her last day, she didn’t shed a tear.

  Nope. My mother was brave. My mother might have been married to Mr. Storm himself, but she was the one who blasted those around her with her perfect gusts of love, compassion, and fiery desire for life. People got caught up in her winds and never wanted to leave.

  People say that I’m just like her.

  Do brave, loving people enjoy it when people cry, especially when they helped cause it?

  This girl does.

  Today, the one I made cry for the first time has made me cry too. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop crying until I pass out later from exhaustion. When you work the sort of job I do, there are many days—most, in fact—that are not like today. Most days are not a success story but are a sucking drain—pulling drip by drip on your inner being, taking your soul like a tub draining water until there’s nothing left but your throbbing, aching heart.

  Most days, you don’t make someone cry and want to fist-pump the air.

  Just yesterday, I tried to stop the tears for someone. Instead of invoking them, I wanted nothing but to place a warm hand on their soul and soothe their pain. When someone screams at you through hysterical sobs, “He’s not breathing!” you don’t want to do anything but stop her cries as she tries desperately to breathe air into her child’s lungs. Instead, your main focus is hoping that you, too, can help this little one breathe.

  But not every day is a success story like today.

  Not every day does the person breathe. Cry.

  Most days, you just try your damnedest to get them to hold on a few more minutes.

  Help will arrive soon.

  There’s only so much someone like myself can do. I just try to pour my sunlight through to them and give them something warm to hang on to.

  Shaking thoughts of sadness from my mind and focusing on the one I made cry today, I pick up my headset and pull it back over my head.

  Today, I made someone cry. For the first time.

  Without my help, they may not be breathing at this very moment.

  Crying is good.

  Today was good.

  My phone lights up with an incoming call. I swallow down my fear that this next call might be one that I can’t help. One that won’t cry for me or breathe. I force out the negative that’s whipping around in my head with the forces of a hurricane.

  I close my eyes and think of Mom.

  I still the tornado of unease and replace it with calm, the calm she instilled in me just by being her. Warmth fills my heart and I find strength in it.

  I can do this.

  Today, I’ll make someone cry, and those tears will be happy ones.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “You’re nothing but a white trash loser and do nothing but disgrace the Jennings name.” His voice, his hateful words, play over and over in my head.

  Dad always wanted me to go off to medical school and follow in his footsteps to become some big-shot, badass surgeon like him. And even though I kicked ass in school and had a bright future at any college I wanted, it isn’t what I would have chosen for myself. My heart belonged—still belongs—to music. And Dad hates that. He hates the tattoos. He hates the rock-and-roll persona. He hates the groupies. I’m pretty sure he hates me.

  I pull up my phone again and reread the dreaded email from him. The email I get once a year. He feels obligated to see me at Christmas, so without fail, I always get a formal invite to their Christmas dinner. I spend the night defending my career choice and my appearance. Mother sits there like a fucking Barbie doll waiting for Dad to order her around. And my sister—she’s the only reason I go to this fucking torturous dinner each year. Just two years younger, Daphney at least has a decent relationship with my parents. And while she did go to medical school and is an ER doctor here in Vegas, she doesn’t treat me like shit while I’m there. I just wish she had a little more time for me aside from the annual dinner.

  Dearest Donald,

  Your presence is requested for dinner on December 24th at seven in the evening. Suit and tie are required. If you don’t have a suit and tie, I can have my personal shopper see to it that you get one. Your mother has planned a lovely meal to be prepared for us. Please respond back with your choice of Cornish hens glazed in a maple bacon rub or a garlic buttered lobster tail fresh from Maine. Additionally, please respond back if you’ll have a plus one. If you bring one of your bandmates, please see to it that they dress accordingly as well.

  Sincerely,

  Donald Archibald Jennings Sr
.

  Fuck Donald Archibald Jennings Sr. Could his letter be any more distant and cold?

  I toss my phone onto the bed beside me without responding. My thoughts drift to the show in a few short hours. I should be happy that we’re doing the Las Vegas Police, Fire, and Rescue Ball tonight because I’ll get to see the gang and perform. It’s been too fucking long. They’re all happy with their wives and kids.

  And me? I’m still Donnie. Fuck, I get laid whenever the fuck I want. All I have to do is give a chick my panty-dropping grin and they’ll follow me right into my bed. But it’s not enough anymore. When they leave, it’s just me again. Alone. And it fucking sucks.

  I roll out of the bed and grab my energy drink. Time to get out of this funk and get fucking pumped. I chug the sugary drink before walking over to the bar in the doorway. Sliding my palms over the cold metal, I lift myself up and plow through several pull-ups to get my heart pumping. Once I feel good and jittery, I pull out the one thing that has always helped me through practically every one of my shows.

  Cocaine.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, ease out a tray, and set it on the top of the nightstand. I pick up the small, white baggie and dump out what’s left—enough for two lines. Using the razor on the tray, I finely chop up the lumpy powder until it’s nothing but dust. Then I scrape the coke into two perfect lines and grab my straw.

  Bobby and Chaz would string my ass up if they knew I fucking did this as much as I do. They always thought it was a phase—something I did every now and again. I try to just do it before shows, but sometimes, I say, “Fuck it,” and do it on a Wednesday when I’m bored.

  I dip my head down and snort a line.

  Fucking A, this is just what I needed.

  After blinking back the tears from the sudden rush, I snort down the other line.

  Hell fucking yeah.

  With shaking hands and a sniffle, I drop the shit back into the drawer and bounce on my toes. Then I hop back onto the bar and pull up so many times that I nearly black out.

  Fuck yeah, I’m feeling on fire!

  “Great show! I missed you guys,” Chaz laughs as he squeezes both Bobby’s and my shoulders. He has no idea how much I fucking missed the both of them.

  “I missed Ry-Bear and June more,” I joke, earning an elbow to the ribs.

  Ryan giggles and jumps onto my back like a fucking spider monkey. “I missed you too, D.”

  Chaz gets a good slap on her ass before I take off running down the hallway with her riding on my back. I hate that they moved off to Flagstaff. It would be fucking epic to hang with them all the time. I see Bobby and his family pretty often, but I hardly see Chaz and Ryan anymore.

  When we reach the dressing room, I slide her down to her feet. “How are the kiddos?” I ask and ruffle her hair. Ryan and Chaz had their little one, Jett, a few months ago, and he is so fucking cute.

  “Jacob is doing great in school. His teachers all say he’s super smart. Of course, I already knew that.” She winks. “And little Jett is a sweetheart. He gets that from his daddy.”

  As we go inside to get changed, Kenny, our manager, saunters in behind us. “Hey, guys. The police chief has asked if you’ll mingle with the crowd. Some of the city employees were wanting autographs. He said if they get out of line, he’ll arrest them,” he laughs.

  I like Kenny. He’s about my age. When it comes to promoting our band, Kenny is so badass. He knows just what to do to keep us in the spotlight, especially when we’re not touring.

  “Maybe I can find a couple of naughty cops to take home with me tonight.” I wag my eyebrows at him.

  He chuckles. “Good luck, man. You might just get into something you can’t get out of—especially if handcuffs are involved. But more power to you.”

  We walk out into the conference room, where hundreds of people are mingling, drinking cocktails, and eating appetizers. I scan the crowd and see a group of women standing at a table and laughing. Women. I can handle this. After sneaking over to them, I squeeze in between two of them.

  “Good evening, ladies. The band was pretty hot, eh? Anyone got a thing for drummers?”

  They all start squealing and bouncing in place. A million comments and questions fly at me at once.

  “Oh my God, I’m going to faint!”

  “How old are you?”

  “Do you just do threesomes or do you ever just shag one lady? I’m hinting!”

  “You’re so fucking hot!”

  “Have you seen Bobby naked?”

  “Want to leave this place and go to my hotel room?”

  “Will you sign my tit?”

  Well, holy shit. I might just find me a naughty cop tonight—or seven. Shit, even that’s a record for me.

  “Beautiful ladies. Not everyone at once. We can do that later.” I grin.

  One woman starts to fan herself, and I chuckle. Chaz and Bobby may have their perfect families, but I still get to fuck groupies.

  “You can do me first,” a pretty good-looking redhead purrs. I prefer blondes, but redheads are a close second.

  I step back with my hands in mock defense, and I’m about to tell her that they can draw names when I bump into someone.

  “Shit. My bad,” I laugh and turn to see who I nearly ran over.

  A tall brunette sizes me up with a cocked brow and her hands on her hips. “Public intoxication in a room full of cops. Brilliant.” She rolls her eyes at me.

  For a moment, I’m at a loss for words as I blatantly check her out. In an event hall with women milling about wearing flashy cocktail dresses and fancy makeup, this chick is wearing a simple, black dress that hugs her curves and has just a touch of pink on her cheeks and lips. Her dark hair is swept into a messy bun, and I want to pull it out to see just how long her hair is. I don’t go for brunettes, so why is this plain-looking one so hard to look away from?

  “Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she grumbles before she turns back to the group of people she was originally talking with.

  “Lady, I’m sorry.”

  Her body tenses and she turns back around to me. “What did you call me?”

  “Lady. Listen, let me buy you a drink—” I start, but she interrupts me.

  “Sir?”

  Something about the way she says that niggles my brain and makes my cock twitch.

  “I’m hardly the gentleman.”

  She takes a step towards me, and the disdain is gone as she eyes me with interest. “I know you,” she informs me. This chick is tall in her heels—almost as tall as my six-foot-one self. Her chocolate-colored eyes drop to my lips and then come back to meet my gaze.

  “I’d remember a pretty girl like you,” I flirt with a smug grin.

  She scoffs and starts to step away, but I grab her wrist so she won’t leave me. Not yet. I’m not done looking at her.

  “How do you know me?” I try again, not letting go.

  “Your voice sounds familiar to me.”

  I once again flash her my famous panty-melting grin. She just stares back at me. Ouch. Is this cute female immune to my charms?

  “June isn’t feeling well. I’m going to bounce early,” Bobby tells me as he walks on by.

  The brunette’s eyes widen. “I knew it!” Her perfectly plump lips curl into a sweet, victorious smile. That smile lights up her face, making her shine like the fucking sun.

  “Knew what, lady?” The wheels are spinning around in her head, and I want to be a part of whatever it is she’s thinking about.

  “I do believe I helped you, sir, deliver a baby.”

  Holy shit. Lady. The 911 phone operator.

  I shock both of us when I wrap my arms around her and pull her to me in an embrace. That night was so fucking terrifying, but it was also one of the most awesome memories in my lifetime. Little Sutton was brought into this world by Uncle Donnie.

  When her arms slide around my waist and she hugs me back, I can’t help but inhale her sweet, perfumed scent. This woman. I want to know her more. S
he intrigues the fuck out of me already.

  I’m already imagining her curvaceous body as she rides my cock, her handful of tits bouncing gloriously. My dick hardens between us and she gasps.

  “Excuse me,” she pants and tries to pull away. But I don’t want her to fucking leave me.

  “Little lady, I think you and I can have some fun times. How about you and I blow this party and I can show you some tricks I can do with my tongue.”

  A sexy little whimper escapes her throat, but she manages to pull away from my grasp. “Listen, sir, I’m not that kind of woman—”

  “Please, call me Donnie. I’m in The Aces.” I smile and wait for the recognition of being the drummer in one of the hottest rock bands in the country.

  But instead of the groupie squeal, I get a half-cocked smile.

  “Does that mean you work at this casino?” she asks, her eyebrows pinched together.

  Fuck me. She has no fucking idea who I am.

  “Um, no. Fuck no.”

  She flinches at my words and I instantly regret that they seemed harsh.

  “It was nice meeting you, Donnie. I have to go,” she breathes and turns on her heel, ready to make a beeline for the exit.

  Before she makes it too far away, I call out to her. “Wait! What can I call you? Can I have your number?”

  Right before she reaches the doors, she spins around to look at me one last time. “You can call me Lady, but you can’t call me.”

  And the most intriguing lady of the night slips out the door, leaving me confused with a raging hard-on.

  “Earth to Nora,” my best friend and coworker, Libby, laughs as she playfully slaps my arm, effectively drawing me away from thoughts of last night. Thoughts of him.

  “Huh? I’m sorry. I was just thinking about my dry cleaning,” I lie. Well, it’s not a full lie. I do need to pick up my costume before my other job tomorrow night.

  Libby sniffs out lies like a pro, though, and calls me out. “Honey, I have two teenagers. Do not even try that shit with me. I’m not going to waste my girls’ night out away from Brandon to watch you daydream. Now spill.” She takes a long pull of her Heineken while she waits for me to answer.