Hard Rock Deceit: A Rock Star Romance

by Athena Wright

  "The tour only ended a couple days ago," I protested.

  "Take their offer," he said firmly. "Stand up, say some brief words in front of a few dozen people and then you can go right back to hiding away like before. Baby steps."

  You did something that scared you and made it through. Baby steps.

  August's words came back to me.

  Even after everything that had happened, I couldn't forget the lessons he'd taught me.

  "Okay," I said before I could second guess myself. "Tell them I'll do it."

  Of course, saying yes meant I spent the next few days with my stomach tied in knots. At the very least, it was a distraction from my agonizing over August, over what he'd said, what he'd done.

  It was upsetting I hadn't heard back from Damon. He said he would keep me up to date. I had to hope no news was good news.

  When I finally heard my phone ding with a text, that knot in my stomach twisted even further.

  We can't find him, Damon's text read.

  What do you mean, can't find him? I texted back furiously. He's not a lost cat!

  He's not at home. No one at the label has seen him.

  Maybe he's locked himself in his bedroom and is just not answering the door.

  No, we broke in and searched the house. Cameron smashed a window with a rock.

  Drastic, but necessary.

  We're working on tracking him down, Damon reassured me. We'll let you know the minute we find him.

  I tried to take heart that August had such good friends, but it didn't stop the worry gnawing in my chest. Who knew what could have happened in the week and a half since I'd last seen him? For all I know he could have overdosed again and—

  I clenched my fists and shook my head. I refused to contemplate those defeatist thoughts. We'd find August, we'd make him see reason, we'd get him cleaned up. And then, as Damon kept saying, we'd figure out what to do from there.

  I found myself at the art gallery only a few days later. There were a lot more than the few dozen people Ashford had described. The place seemed packed with at least a hundred. I wasn't ready for this.

  But it was too late to back out. People were already chatting about my work, mentioning my name with curiosity, wanting to know more about the artist.

  When the gallery owner stood on a small raised platform at the front of the room, my pulse spiked. I had no idea what he said to the crowd up until I heard him say my name. My vision went fuzzy around the edges. Ashford nudged me in the ribs. I walked to the stage on autopilot.

  "Let's hear a few words from one of our artists," the owner announced with a smile, gesturing to me.

  My fingers went cold. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I had no idea why any of these people would care what I had to say. Besides, wasn't it enough that I poured my soul into my art? Did they need to know everything I'd been thinking, too?

  I don't know why she thought anyone would care about me. I just take photos.

  I'd said those very words to August after my first interview.

  Because I'm not the only one who sees passion in your art, he'd replied.

  It's all thanks to you. You're the one who helped draw it out.

  Don't thank me yet. I'm not done with you.

  I could feel the phantom touch of August's hands, his teasing fingers, drawing passion and pleasure from my body.

  I took a deep, slow breath.

  "Hi." My voice came out weak, shaky. I cleared my throat. "I'm Cassie Blake. I'm one of the artists here tonight." I paused, trying to remember what I'd planned to say. All those carefully thought out words fled my brain. "I've never really been sure what I should say about my art. I just take photos and let them speak for themselves."

  I glanced at Ashford. He nodded, encouraging me to continue.

  "But recently I've been thinking about what drives me. What sort of motivation I have behind my work. What sort of message I want to convey." My breathing was coming easier now. "All artists use art to express ourselves. We use art as a catalyst, as a way to work through our thoughts and feelings. Even feelings we may not be conscious of."

  Avid murmurs filled the room. I ignored it and continued.

  "We use art to wrestle with our demons, to bring them to light and triumph over them. It's a form of catharsis. It's intimate and it's scary and it's hard. But in the end, we're better artists for it. And I think, through our art, we become better people."

  Ashford's expression was one of pride, beaming and nodding.

  The owner took the stage again to introduce the next artist to speak. I slowly made my way to the ladies room, shaking hands with a few people here and there who stopped me on the way.

  Leaning against the sink, hands pressed into the counter, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. No wide deer-in-the-headlights look. No flushed cheeks. I didn't look frazzled or terrified. My heart wasn't even pounding all that hard.

  I hadn't planned on saying any of that. I hadn't even known I'd been thinking anything like that. But the words I'd said felt true. They felt right.

  My phone pinged.

  I scrambled in my purse for it, hoping it was Damon.

  Cassie, it read. Please come. I need you.

  My heart jumped into my throat as I read the last words.

  I can't do this alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I ran out of the gallery in a flurry, not stopping when Ashford tried to flag me down. Ignoring all speed limits, I got to August's place as fast as I could.

  When I arrived, the front door was unlocked. One of the windows framing it was smashed in. I stepped through the door, avoiding the crunch of glass underfoot.

  I called out August's name. No answer.

  My ear caught a small scuffling sound at the far end of the vast foyer. An open entrance under an arched ceiling led to a living room.

  August sat huddled on the sofa. His shivering form was wrapped in a beige knitted blanket. He held it tight around his body with shaky hands, clutching the corners to his chest. Stringy, sweat-dampened hair fell over his pale face. His eyes were squeezed shut.

  I approached slowly, not wanting to startle him.

  "I'm here, August," I said softly.

  He didn't reply, just took in a shuddering breath.

  I perched carefully next to him on the sofa. I brushed loose strands of hair away from his jaw, tucking them behind his ear, like he always did to me.

  "Can you tell me what's going on?" I asked needlessly.

  I knew exactly what was going on. My heart ached, wondering how long August had been going through withdrawal alone.

  "You came." The words were strained, scarcely audible.

  "Of course I came."

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, a wounded noise. I laid my head on his shoulder and took one of his shaky hands in mine.

  "What can I do to help?"

  With trembling fingers, he pointed to something on the coffee table.

  "Throw that out."

  It was a pill bottle, the kind that came with a prescription. There was no label.

  "Are these…?"

  "You need to get rid of them. Throw them away, flush them down the toilet." August let out a sick, thready laugh. "I can't make myself do it. I tried. I can't."

  "Okay," I said softly. I took the pill bottle and shoved it far down in the depths of my purse. "I'll get rid of them. I promise."

  He let out a slow breath, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders.

  "How long have you been like this?" I asked.

  "Dunno," he said, voice hollow. "What day is it?"

  "Saturday."

  "Oh. Almost a week, then."

  "A week?" I asked, astonished. "Why didn't you tell someone?"

  "Thought I could do it myself. I didn't want anyone to worry."

  "We were already worried."

  "I didn't think it would be this bad," he whispered. He doubled over on himself with a choked gasp.

  "What's wr
ong?" I asked, panicked. "What can I do?"

  He breathed heavily, trying not to move.

  "Nothing," he said dully. "You can't do anything."

  "Tell me about it." I ran my hands over his back, soothing. "Walk me through what's going on."

  "Everything aches. Like there's a knife stabbing through all my joints." He swallowed hard, pale face turning green. "It feels like my insides are going to come spewing out of my mouth. I'm burning hot one minute and freezing cold the next. Like the flu but a thousand times worse."

  This was serious. Did people die from withdrawal?

  "We should go to a hospital," I said.

  "No." His voice wasn't as firm as he no doubt tried to make it sound. "I can't show up at a hospital like this. The media will find out. It'll be all over the news."

  "August, I'm not kidding, you need a doctor."

  "No."

  "Why are you so stubborn?" I asked, exasperated.

  "People can't find out." He ran one trembling hand over his face. "I just need to get through this. Should only be a couple more days."

  His forehead broke out in a sweat. I put my hand to his clammy skin.

  "You're burning up," I said, alarmed. "Let me go get something."

  The house was large, but the living room was connected to a dining room, which was adjacent to the kitchen. I fumbled around for a cloth and wet it with cold water in the sink. I took a fruit bowl from the counter, tipped out the apples and oranges, and filled it with ice from the freezer. I grabbed a few bottles of water from the fridge.

  Hands full, I looked around helplessly, not knowing what else to do.

  I returned to August's side. The trembling had intensified.

  "Why don't you rest?" I asked.

  I put my hand on his back and urged him to lay down flat on the sofa. He let me maneuver him without protest.

  "I really think we need medial supervision," I insisted.

  "I just want you."

  With a heavy sigh, I placed the cold cloth on his forehead. "Maybe this will help a bit."

  He groaned in pleasure, sinking down into the sofa cushions.

  "Thank you," he said. "I wasn't sure… when I texted you, I thought you probably wouldn't show up."

  "Why would you think that?" I asked gently. I tucked the blanket around him, covering every inch of him, from chin to feet.

  "I was an asshole. I said horrible stuff to you. I never should have done that. I hated myself for it the minute I said it. I was just so fucked up and upset and scared and—"

  I placed my finger on his lips, stopping him.

  "We can talk about this later, when you're feeling better."

  I went back to tucking in his blankets.

  "Anyway, you were right," I said. "I shouldn't have tried to lecture you about lying. It's not my place."

  "It is," he insisted. "You're the one who calls me on my bullshit. I need that sometimes."

  "Only sometimes?" I suppressed a smile.

  August let out a short laugh, before groaning, clutching at himself. He curled onto his side. The cloth fell from his forehead. I picked it up and held it in place.

  He stayed in that position for long minutes, his breathing turning labored and pained. Every small shift of his body brought another grimace, another wave of sharp aches.

  "I can't believe you went days like this with no help," I said.

  "It didn't start getting really bad until yesterday," he mumbled. "I thought I could power through."

  "I know you're stubborn, but even you can't just will this away."

  "I know." He cast his eyes down, averting his gaze. "I was five seconds away from just swallowing all those damn pills before you showed up."

  I inhaled a sharp breath. If I'd been just five minutes too late…

  "I know I have no right to ask this after the shit I said to you," he said quietly. "But I can't do this alone." He lifted his eyes to meet mine. "I need you."

  I didn't hesitate for a moment.

  "I'll stay here for as long as you want me to."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  "August?"

  "Mm," came the one syllable grunt.

  "I made you some soup."

  "Not hungry."

  "You need to eat something."

  "Why, so I can throw it all up again?"

  With a sigh, I set the bowl on the nightstand and sat on the bed next to him where he'd curled into a ball. At least the snark meant he was well enough to speak coherently.

  It was rough.

  August going through withdrawal had been rough on both of us.

  It was hardest on him, of course. I couldn't imagine the pain, the turmoil, he was going through.

  But watching him go through it without being able to help was torture.

  After the shakes and the stabbing pain came the nausea. We had to keep a waste basket close by for the times when he couldn't make it to the bathroom.

  When the nausea passed, the irritability started up. He turned cranky, yelling at me to go, throwing things at me. Luckily the only things in reach were pillows.

  After the irritability came the pleading. That was the worst. He begged me for just one pill. Just one small pill to help him get through it. Just enough to take away some of the symptoms, not enough to actually get high.

  I knew better than to say yes.

  When he realized I was going to stand firm, he gave up in defeat. He lay in bed, dull eyes staring into the distance, looking at nothing, saying nothing. Each breath was a struggle. Sometimes I think he wished he would stop breathing entirely.

  "Your skin doesn't look as pale," I noted. "You've stopped shaking."

  He ran a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes.

  "Every time I start to think I'm feeling better, something even worse comes along."

  "It's been about a week and a half," I said. "The worst of it should be over by now."

  He rolled from his side onto his back.

  "I'm not as nauseous as before," he admitted. "And I don't ache everywhere."

  "That's good!"

  I tried to keep my voice chipper and encouraging through this whole ordeal. August didn't need to deal with my anxiety and stress on top of what he was going through.

  He lifted himself into a seated position.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a dick. I'll try the soup."

  With my heart lighter, I handed him the bowl and a spoon, and settled a portable laptop desk tray on his knees. It worked well enough as a table while he'd been stuck in bed.

  "Damon said the guys are anxious to see you."

  August paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. His shoulders tensed, looking uncomfortable.

  "I told him to give you a few days and you'll probably be up to seeing them."

  He nodded thankfully.

  When I first told him how frantic the guys were to find him, he'd looked pointedly at the broken glass in his foyer and simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, I know.

  "I don't want them seeing me like this," he'd said. "They're used to me being a strong leader, being the responsible one who takes care of everything. I can't—"

  "I get it," I had soothed him before he could get agitated again. "But I need to at least tell them I'm with you and you're safe."

  Damon relayed that Cameron nearly threw a fit when he learned August didn't want to see them yet. They convinced Cameron to give August time to rest and heal before the entire circus that was Darkest Days and their closest friends descended on him.

  I didn’t tell August that when I messaged Damon, the two of us conspired against him. Damon called a doctor, a discrete one who made house calls. When the woman showed up, August almost threw her out, until I begged him to let her take a look at him.

  Luckily, she was no-nonsense. She checked up on him daily, until she finally pronounced him well enough to finish recovering on his own – as long as he had someone by his side.

  After finishing the soup, August set the em
pty bowl on the nightstand.

  "I'm feeling a lot better now." The color returned to his cheeks as he sat up straighter. "Was that magic soup?"

  "It was my great-great grandmother's secret recipe passed on for generations."

  "Really?" he asked, intrigued.

  "No, not really. It's from a can."

  August must have been feeling better because he laughed, eyes sparkling with good humor.

  "It must be your magic touch, then," he said. "I actually feel like a human being again."

  Relief blossomed in my chest. We'd made it through the worst.

  August felt well enough to get out of bed without my help. I left him when he told me he thought he could get showered and dressed by himself.

  Now that I didn't have to give August my full attention, I took in the messy state of his bedroom and blanched. Cleaning had fallen by the wayside while we'd focused on getting him through.

  I pulled the sheets off the bed and threw them in the laundry hamper. With the hamper perched on my hip, I explored his house trying to find a laundry machine. For all I knew, August might not have even owned one, preferring instead to send out all his clothes to a cleaning service. It wouldn't have surprised me. Rich people paid for all sorts of crazy things regular people would never dream of.

  I did find a laundry machine in the basement, a super high tech one with a dozen different, complicated looking options. It cleaned and dried all in one machine, no need to transfer wet clothes to the drier after the cleaning round. How convenient. I threw the sheets in along with a detergent pod and pressed a few buttons, hoping for the best.

  Next I took away all the dirty dishes. I'd been planning on washing them by hand until I saw a dishwasher. My family never had one growing up, and my apartment was way too cheap for such luxuries. The dishwasher had fewer options, so I felt more confident using it.

  I intended to sweep the kitchen floor, until I looked into a broom closet and found a cute little circular robot, one of those automatic floor cleaners. I flipped the on switch and off it went, zipping around the house on its mission to hunt down dirt and dust bunnies.

  I searched the linen closet for a set of fresh sheets. I thought that, perhaps, being a boy, August would have a single set and that was it. But no, he had several sets of bedclothes, pillows, and throw blankets, along with extra fluffy bath towels and facecloths. I hadn't had much time to explore, but from the amount of linen, I had to assume there were at least a handful of extra guest bedrooms and bathrooms.