Hard Rock Deceit: A Rock Star Romance

by Athena Wright

  I didn't say anything. He ran his hands through his bright, fire engine red bangs, sweeping them away from his face.

  "I wanted to say I'm sorry," he said. "I've been a jerk to you for no reason."

  "It's okay."

  "It's not okay. I was a shit. I was mad at August and mad at myself for not seeing it sooner and I took it out on you." His dark blue eyes met mine earnestly. "I don't blame you at all for not telling us about August's shoulder. I've kept my own fair share of secrets."

  Cameron flicked his eyes over to where his girlfriend was grinning at Noah. The lead singer's own expression, while not exactly grinning in return, was close enough.

  "You don't have to apologize," I told him. "I understand. I should have told someone sooner. Maybe everything could have been avoided."

  "Probably not," Cameron said wryly. "August is a stubborn idiot."

  "I won't argue with that."

  "Do you think…" Cameron trailed off, looking uncomfortable and downcast. "Do you think he'll ever forgive us?"

  When Cameron met my eyes, there was pain in them. Not the same as August's pain, but Cameron was hurt, just as all of them were.

  "I know he will," I said. "You guys mean everything to him. You just need to give it time."

  A small, cautious smile crossed his lips.

  "We're not the only ones who mean something to him," he said.

  Taken aback, I opened my mouth to deny everything, but Cameron was already sauntering off with a grin and a wink.

  Maybe men weren't as oblivious as Hope thought.

  The group soon dispersed and my taxi pulled up. When I arrived home, I immediately threw my suitcase into the corner, planning to deal with it later. I wasn't in the mood to unpack and sort through the clothes that needed laundering.

  I went to my computer, the keyboard now dusty from months of disuse. I pulled up the article about me and the band and printed out a copy. I stuck it to the cork board above my desk. I'd pinned all sorts of things to that board over the years. Awards I'd won for my photography in school. Clips from the student newspaper about me and my peers. Copies of my favorite photos, the ones that took the most time and effort to capture.

  It was a sort of wall of happiness, pride, and nostalgia all in one.

  And now, right in the middle was the photo of me and Darkest Days, with August Summers by my side.

  Swallowing the lump that formed in my throat, I puttered around my apartment, doing a bit of dusting and tidying to clear my head. I hadn't had much time to prepare before I'd left, just a cursory clean sweep of my apartment, making sure there were no dishes in the sink or food in the fridge that could spoil while I was away.

  When everything was neat and clean, I lugged my suitcase onto my bed, not able to put off the chore any longer.

  I opened it and paused.

  I'd put the bag with August's forgotten belongings on top.

  I hadn't told him I had his stuff. I hadn't told him I was going to show up in person. I wanted to see him and I was afraid if I asked he'd say no.

  I couldn't let it just end the way things had. August and I had something real. I felt it in my bones, in my heart.

  Even though he was upset, I knew eventually he would patch things up with the guys. They were his bandmates. His best friends.

  I didn't know exactly what August and I were to each other, but I had to try fixing things between us, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I pulled up to August's house, I couldn't keep my mouth from dropping.

  I might have called it a mansion, if the exterior had been made of stones or brick or more traditional, old fashioned materials.

  This place was the definition of contemporary-modern chic. It was so starkly modern it was bordering on futuristic. All glass and steel with linear structures, a flat rooftop and an elegant black facade.

  "Are you freaking kidding me," I muttered under my breath.

  Warm sun glinted off the glass windows, reflecting the light and nearly blinding me. I wished I had those Transitions glasses, the ones that darkened the lenses into sunglasses when it was bright out. I never cared to carry around a second pair of prescription sunglasses for sunny days. If I lived here, it would have been a necessity.

  I couldn't believe this was August's house.

  Grabbing the canvas bag from the passenger's side seat, I climbed out of the car and forced myself to walk up to the front door.

  If there was a doorbell, I couldn't find it. Instead, I knocked on the jet black front door. No answer, as I expected.

  Windows framed the doorway. Peeking through, I saw an open concept foyer so large it extended to the back of the house. It allowed me to see through a set of double French doors leading to a patio out back.

  I caught the top of August's blond head.

  Determined, I made my way around the side of the house. There was a gate separating the long driveway from the backyard. It was open a crack, unlocked. Not very safe, but that wasn't my problem. It only made my task easier.

  The gate opened smoothly as I pushed on it. A large, cobble-stoned patio took up most of the vast backyard, but what grass there was had been watered to an emerald green. A modest sized in-ground pool took up the rest of the area, the bright sun making the water sparkle.

  August sat at a glass topped patio table. The furniture looked sturdy enough that it wouldn't have been surprising to see it being used as a dining room table.

  With noise-canceling earphones around his head and sunglasses over his eyes, August was hunched over, scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper, making little marks and notes here and there with his pencil. He didn't see me walk in.

  Not wanting to scare him, I made my way over carefully. When I was standing at the opposite end of the table, I pulled out a chair, making sure to drag the legs across the cobble-stone, making a sharp grating sound.

  His head whipped up. His lips parted, taking in a quick breath.

  "Hey," I said, knowing he couldn't hear me with his earphones on.

  Slowly, he pulled them off his head, setting them on the table.

  "Hey," he replied.

  His voice was hoarse, not that smooth, husky tone my body responded to so readily. His face was pale, his hair limp. My heart ached. I'd been hoping to find August well, perhaps a bit upset, but still the same confident, alluring, headstrong man I'd come to know.

  "I brought you some of the stuff you forgot on the tour bus." I set the canvas bag on the closest chair. "I wanted to make sure you didn't lose your favorite book."

  "I have half a dozen other copies."

  His hand was still gripping his pencil, knuckles turning white. I took a seat, keeping a few patio chairs between us.

  "How are you doing?" I asked.

  "Fine."

  "Is that normal fine or August-speak fine?" I tried to keep my voice light and teasing.

  "It means I'm fine."

  I tried a different approach.

  "The guys wished they'd heard from you," I said.

  "You mean the guys who kicked me out of my own band? Those guys?"

  August was doing a great impression of Noah's impassive voice, not giving away anything. But there were undertones to those words that made me pause, a suspicion forming in the back of my mind.

  "They're worried about you," I said. "And so am I."

  "There's nothing to worry about."

  "Please, August. They care about you. I care about you."

  He sat up straight, throwing his pencil on the table.

  "If you cared so much, you wouldn't have taken away the one thing in the world that means something to me."

  The more he spoke, the more pronounced that undertone became. He spoke carefully, slowly, but I could hear it.

  His words were slurred.

  A sharp stabbing pain hit my heart, so similar to the stab of pain I felt the first time I realized what he'd done.

  "How much have you taken today?" I asked quietly.

  He s
aid nothing.

  Indignation rose in my chest.

  "So you've been sitting at home doing drugs this whole time. Is that it? After all your talk about how you're not an addict, how you can stop any time, that you only need it to play… was that all a lie? Was everything you ever told me a lie?"

  The more I spoke, the louder my words became, until I was standing and shouting, the patio chair tipped sideways, kicked to the ground. I tried to keep hysterical tears from falling down my cheeks.

  I didn't want to ask, but I knew I had to.

  "Were you lying about us?"

  August took off his sunglasses, pushing them up on his head. I could see the hazy, glazed over ice blue of his eyes.

  "I have Chronic RSI."

  His words were flat. Monotone.

  I stopped. Paused. I sniffled back the tears.

  Chronic. That… wasn't a good word, was it?

  I didn't know what the rest of his words meant, but I could hear the weight of them in his voice, could sense the importance of them.

  "I don't understand," I told him. "I don't know what that means."

  "Chronic Repetitive Strain Injury." He let out a dark, bitter chuckle. "It means my shoulder is fucked."

  I drew in a sharp breath. I'd known his shoulder hurt, but…

  I clenched my fists to hide my trembling fingers but it didn't stop my shaky voice.

  "How bad is it?"

  "Bad. It's not going to get better. No amount of rest is going to fix this. The only thing I can do is manage the pain."

  "August—" I stopped, too shocked, too stunned, to continue. I swallowed hard. My fingernails bit into my palms. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  He slammed his hands onto the table.

  "Why do you think?" he growled. "I showed the slightest bit of pain and you were worried sick. You talked about replacing me. Damon was all for it. If I had told anyone, they'd have made me quit for good ages ago." He snorted. "Not that it matters anymore. They kicked me out anyway."

  I went silent, taking in all this new information.

  "I've talked to my doctors," he continued. "There aren't a lot of options left. Pain management is the best I can hope for."

  "When you say pain management, what do you mean exactly?" I had to understand. I needed to understand.

  "It started with a prescription." Slowly, he relaxed, no longer pressing his palms into the glass tabletop so hard I was afraid it would shatter. "It was all legal and above board. Then I started needing more. My daily dosage wasn't enough. I started doubling up. Tripling up. My doctor cut me off. I had to go elsewhere. I started scoring from roadies, experimenting with a bunch of different shit. I don't even know for sure what I took that night I collapsed."

  His shoulders slumped as he leaned back into the chair.

  "That overdose scared me," he admitted. "I was telling the truth when I said I'd stop."

  "So that wasn't a lie?" I asked.

  He looked down at his hands, avoiding my eyes.

  "I honestly thought I could do it," he whispered. "I thought I could stop. I didn't need to take stuff all the time. I thought I could handle a bit of pain. It wasn't going to be the end of the world. But I couldn't…" He growled, low in his throat. His eyes were unfocused, words tumbling out of his mouth faster and faster. "I couldn't fucking do it. My shoulder was stiff, my joints all locked up, my muscles tense. I couldn't make my body obey my head. My arm just wouldn't do what I told it to do."

  I couldn't keep myself from him any longer. I left my seat and wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my cheek into the top of his head as I stood in front of him. He sat stiffly.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea. If I've known—"

  "You would have done the exact same thing," he interrupted.

  I stilled.

  He wasn't wrong. August was abusing drugs. Even if I'd known why, I wouldn't have been able to watch him keep taking them to perform, wondering every night if he was going to overdose again.

  But if his doctors said there wasn't anything they could do for him… if they said the most they could do was help manage his pain… and if a legal prescription wasn't a high enough dosage for him to be able to play…

  "You said there's not a lot of options left." I let go and sat on the chair next to him, taking his hands in mine, squeezing them. He let me, but didn't return my grip. "That means there are some. Is there anything else you can do?"

  His mouth twisted as he looked away from me.

  "Not really. Nothing I'd want to try."

  "Why not?" I jumped on his words. If there was another way to help August… "What is it?"

  "Surgery," he said reluctantly. "They can try to go in there and fix some of the damage."

  My heart soared, relieved.

  "That's good news, right? They can make you better."

  "They might be able to make it better. They also might fuck it up even more. Worst case scenario—" He cut himself off, looking frustrated.

  "What's the worst case scenario? It can't be that bad."

  He stared me down. Those hazy eyes had turned glassy, his gaze barely able to focus. How much had he taken before I arrived?

  "If I do the surgery, there's a five percent chance I lose the use of my arm entirely."

  My soaring heart came crashing back to earth.

  Five percent wasn't terrible odds, but I knew the risk was unbearable to August. At least now he was able to drum, even if he needed to take drugs to do it well. Never being able to drum again was unthinkable.

  "What if you get a specialized surgeon?" I so badly wanted to fix this for him. "You can afford the best, can't you?"

  "That five percent chance is with the best."

  "What if you—"

  He exploded off his chair, toppling it over. Startled, I jumped back as he loomed over me.

  "Do you think I haven't gone through everything? Do you think I haven't checked every possible option? There's nothing left to talk about."

  "I just want to help you."

  "And what a fine job you did." His distant eyes now burned into me, seething. "You told everyone about my little problem, twice, and got me kicked out of my band."

  "You couldn't have kept this from the guys forever. Damon was right when he said some day you were going to end up hurting yourself."

  "That's my choice to make."

  "So your choice was to lie to your friends?"

  His lips curved into a cynical smile.

  "You want to call me out on dishonesty? You're one to talk."

  "I've never lied to you about anything."

  "And what about those men you dated? You strung them along knowing full well you'd never feel anything for them."

  My stomach hollowed out. Bile rose in my throat.

  "Exactly how long did you date those guys before finally breaking it off?" His words were low in his chest, a near hiss. "How long did you lie to them? How many times did you listen to them tell you their feelings, knowing you felt nothing in return? How many times did you lie back and pretend to enjoy it when really you were just counting down the minutes until they finished?"

  Hurt resonated throughout my bones, vibrating in every cell. I couldn't breathe from it. My lungs shut down, refusing to take in air.

  August, so keenly aware of what I was thinking and feeling, was now using that uncanny ability to strike me right where it stung the most. He wasn't saying anything I hadn't berated myself over time and again.

  "That's different," I choked out.

  August snatched his papers and pencil from the table, fisting them in his hand. "I don't need you lecturing me about lies and honesty." He stormed toward the house.

  "August!" I scrambled out of my chair after him. "Just let me help you."

  "You can't," he said.

  "You don't need to do this alone." I reached out and grabbed for his hand. "You and the guys—"

  August whirled around, shaking my hand off.

  "There is no
more me and the guys," he snapped. "You made sure of that."

  My breath caught, my chest taking a blow. Tears stung the back of my eyes.

  He grabbed the handles to the double French doors and yanked them open.

  "Don't push me away," I pleaded.

  August stalked through the doors and locked them, shutting me out for good.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He wasn't his normal self.

  That was what I repeated in my head, over and over.

  August had taken something, probably a lot of it. He wasn't in his right mind when he said those awful things.

  It was a small consolation. He'd still said them. He'd still hurt me, using my vulnerability against me. I broke into tears at least twice a day, thinking about it.

  But despite my heartache and guilt and anger, the knowledge that August was so far gone he would do such a thing only made me worry for him more.

  I texted Damon, telling him the broad strokes of what happened. August was on something, his shoulder problem was worse than we thought, he'd shut me out and refused my help. I hoped one of the guys would be able to get through to him. I hoped he'd let them.

  While waiting for news, I threw myself into my work. The tour was over. Although I now had a fat wad of cash to keep me going for a while, it wouldn't last forever. I applied for any job I could, anything even remotely in my field. I kept working on my portfolio, applying for grants, submitting to award programs, uploading to stock photo sites. Working as a photographer meant doing a thousand little things to make ends meet.

  A few days after my confrontation with August, my mentor Ashford called. A local art gallery wanted to display some of my photos in a show. I was overjoyed, until I learned they wanted me to speak about my inspiration at the opening night reception.

  "I'm not sure how I feel about that," I hedged. "You know I like to keep myself separate from my art."

  "The owners are very well connected in the art community. If you impress them, you'll open a world of possibilities for yourself."

  "I'm doing fine on my own."

  "And how many jobs have you secured since getting back?" I could hear the arched eyebrow in his voice.