by D. L. Roan
“I don’t remember you complaining!” Carson shouted back. “In fact, I distinctly remember her mouth wrapped around your cock not three minutes before that picture was taken! And that was two years ago, man. No electronics allowed at the after parties anymore. Besides, have you seen the charts lately? Who cares if anyone takes us seriously?”
“That’s not the point!” Shit! Connor fisted his hands into his hair and let out a frustrated growl. “When we started out it was about the music! We wrote fresh stuff that pushed the limits and...and it meant something!” He turned his back on his twin and stared out the window. “None of it means anything anymore. Not since...” Connor clamped his mouth shut, clawing back the words that needed to be spoken, but weren’t worth the trouble.
“Not since when?” Carson pushed.
Connor closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring with a long, slow breath. Things between them hadn’t been the same since Charlotte died. They’d had a whole new world of auditions and publicity tours to keep them distracted for a while after her funeral, but Carson had changed.
He’d loved Charlotte; there was no question about that. She was a great girl, but he’d never been in love with her. How could he be? They were only seventeen, for goodness sake. They lived to get laid and to write music. At least that’s how he remembered that time in their lives.
Carson, on the other hand, had shut down after Charlotte died. He still went through the motions, smiling for the cameras, kissing ass and playing to the fans, whatever it took to make it to the top. No one would ever suspect anything was wrong. On the surface, Carson was the life of the party, always laughing and joking, and the women loved him, but something had twisted on the inside.
Since the night of the accident, Carson hadn’t allowed himself to connect with anyone, not even with him. As his twin, that left Connor with his own hollow spot to fill. He’d filled that empty space with their music for a while, but the gulf between them had only grown larger over the last year.
He was tired of the parties, life on the road and the endless rotation of nameless women whose faces he’d never remember, but Carson thrived on it. Somewhere along the way, he and Carson had lost their connection. They no longer had the same dreams or expectations from their success. Hell, they could barely share a two-room hotel suite these days, much less a girlfriend. Lately it felt like that dark place inside him had grown into a black abyss that was sucking the life out of him.
He didn’t know what else to do. He’d tried, many times, to talk to Carson about what happened that night, but it always ended the same way; Carson’s vehement denial, an immediate dismissal of the subject, along with a warning not to bring it up again. He’d decided to let it go after the last time he tried, which ended with both of them throwing punches.
The havoc it created with their performances hadn’t been worth risking another attempt until now. He weighed the consequences of defying his better judgment and telling Carson that he was one screw-up from walking away for good.
Carson pointed his finger at him, his face twisted in anger. “You’re not blaming this on me.”
Connor turned from the reflection in the window, the words on the tip of his tongue. He watched his brother march to the bar and retrieve the flask of bourbon he always carried in his coat pocket to get him through events like the gala. Wasn’t that exactly his point? Didn’t his brother see how ridiculous it was to do something you had to get drunk to endure?
“We need to talk about this, Car.”
“Fuck off,” Carson said, flipping his middle finger over his shoulder on his way to the door. “I told you before. We’re done talking about that. And you can find your own ride to the gala.”
“Dammit!” Connor resisted the urge to throw something at the hotel door after Carson walked out and it slammed shut behind him. He turned around instead and found himself face to lens with a flying camera drone.
“What the hell?” Four small propellers buzzed silently above the camera, holding it suspended twelve stories above the ground as the bloodsucking media captured more pictures of his private life. “Fuck you!” he shouted through the glass, flipping the camera a beautiful shot of his middle finger before marching into his suite to call security and change into his tux.
Despite his complete lack of interest, he made it to the gala and back in one piece. He couldn’t say the same for his tuxedo pants, although it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Some women were animals!
He’d managed to escape with only a few bruising pinches to his ass and two busted belt loops that had been snagged by one of the more aggressive donors when he’d tried to flee her advances.
He and Carson played their parts as flawlessly as ever, smiling and rubbing elbows with all the right people. Rod managed to snag a meeting with the C.E.O. of a huge up-and-coming social media platform Connor had been trying to contact, so the night wasn’t a total loss.
Eight hours after he stumbled into their hotel suite and crashed face first onto his empty bed, Connor was once again on stage, lights out, fans screaming, the deep beat of their opening song building momentum as he counted down to the opening line.
Their bass guitarist picked his way through the beginning of the song and Carson’s voice sounded in his earpiece. Connor laid into the first chord on his guitar like his life depended on it. In a lot of ways it did. He would die if he couldn’t play.
Sweaty, breathless and riding a high that only came with screaming fans and singing the songs they loved, they opened their last set with a song that had taken them to number one on the charts earlier that year. A spotlight snapped on, drawing the audience’s attention to the rafters at the back of the darkened stadium.
The crowd went wild when they saw Carson’s silhouette, standing like a dark angel on a crossbeam with the spotlight shining behind him. The suit he’d had designed specifically for this song lit up the darkness. Built-in neon, fiber optic lights connected to his electric guitar and pulsed in sync with each chord he played. The crowd ate it up!
Carson drifted along a cable over the floor seats towards the stage, the strings on his guitar screaming the more metallic country-style riff for which he was so well known. Connor caught the life in his brother’s eyes when he landed on the stage. Bright as hope itself, his face lit up with pure exhilaration. His brother was a true showman. He loved the stage, and the stage loved him. They were complete opposites in that one singular and most significant way. As his fingers played the chords he’d long since committed to memory, Connor wondered if they would ever find their way back to the close connection they’d once shared.
Hours later, Connor lay in the quiet of his room staring blankly at the ceiling. Too exhausted to sleep, the restlessness inside him raged. Chaos had exploded backstage after their show. He’d been so angry with Carson by the time he got to his room he’d been ready to walk out right then and there. Screw the rest of the schedule. The McLendon Brothers could be the Carson McLendon Band for all he cared. He’d packed a bag and waited for his brother to return, but when hours passed and Carson didn’t show, he’d decided to go to bed and confront him in the morning.
Not long after he closed his eyes, Connor was drawn into a suffocating nightmare. The walls crowded the bed as the ceiling began to sink. The darkness churned around him like smothering, acrid smoke, robbing the air from his chest and replacing it with lead, making his body feel heavy against the mattress. The sheets tangled like chains around his legs.
The sound of a loud pop filled the room, like a feral arc of electricity, and Connor’s eyes snapped open. He shot up from the bed, the last whispers of his nightmare still alive and fresh in his mind as he reached over to answer his ringing cellphone.
“H-hello? Mom?” The clock on the bedside table read five-forty-nine in bright green numbers as he listened to the words that changed everything.
“We’re on our way.”
The nightmare, the rift with his brother, the loneliness inside he’d been afraid to give a
voice, all of it disappeared as he bolted from the room in search of Carson. Moonlight filtered through the large window, his only light as he crossed the suite’s main living area into his brother’s room.
“Car!” The door was unlocked and the bed was empty, untouched. “Dammit!”
A quick check of the bathroom confirmed that his brother had never arrived at their room after the show. Wearing only a pair of boxers, he marched into the hallway, turned towards the elevator. The security guard tasked to monitor their floor shot to his feet, the book he’d been reading falling to the floor as he recognized Connor’s alarm.
“Where’s Carson?”
Chapter Eight
Adrenaline coursed through Carson’s veins as his security detail, Nick, escorted him through a maze of identical backstage doors and hallways. Despite the pills one of their assistants had given him during the second wardrobe change, the raw edge of the killer headache that had plagued him for days sat on the periphery of his euphoria and threatened to poison his high. The sound of his boots scuffing along the warn linoleum echoed off the walls, mingling with the chorus of radios clicking on and off, their army of staff coordinating his every move as they always did.
A rare lull in the chaos amplified the ringing in his ears to deafening levels. What the hell was in those pills? He shook his head and jostled his ears with his fingers, but nothing stopped the irritating buzz.
The first clicks of the camera flashes flooded the far end of the long hallway and Carson’s lips drew up into the sexy smile he’d long ago perfected. He gave the first lens a flirty wink before diving into the crush of waiting fans. He’d missed their backstage meet and greets.
His brother had gotten his panties in a twist—quite literally—and threw a pouty temper tantrum their kid brother Cory would have been proud of back in the day, putting the best part of their tour stops on temporary hiatus. Connor had grown to despise their fans and, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. They were the only thing that kept Carson’s ghosts at bay.
Thousands of chicks screaming their names and worshiping the ground they walked on? Who wouldn’t love that? Lucky for him, he didn’t wear underwear. He’d probably lose his shirt, belt, a few belt loops and both his back pockets before he swam through the endless pool of grabby hands, long legs and fake tits, but hey, that’s what they were made for, right? As long as he didn’t lose his boots he was golden.
“Carson! Over here!” He turned in the general direction of the boisterous, feminine scream, letting the current of excitement push and pull him as it wished.
“Whoa there, darlin’,” he warned one over-enthusiastic fan who’d fisted her fingers in his hair and gave it a stiff yank. “I like it rough, but you have to leave some for the next girl.” The feisty redhead pulled him closer and crushed her glossy lips to his before he knew what hit him. The taste of strawberry bubblegum exploded over his tongue—his personal favorite.
A brutal shove blindsided him, sending him and a few unsuspecting fans crashing to the floor. Normally the meet-and-greets were a little more subdued than the paw-and-claws they’d done in the beginning, but these women were ruthless!
Before he could roll to his feet, Carson was yanked from the floor. He swiveled and twisted, using the force of the crush to gain his balance. He turned to see whoever had a death grip on the back of his shirt and was greeted with a right hook, followed impossibly fast by a punch to his gut that probably cracked a rib or three.
“What the hell, dude?”
“You fucked my wife!” the man shouted and spat in his face.
Turned out, adrenaline was a kick-ass anesthetic, because he didn’t feel a damn thing as his fists connected with the asshole’s face, repeatedly. Screams filled the hall. Blood smeared beneath his boots, flashing bright against the white linoleum tiles. His blood, or his opponent’s, he didn’t know or care, as long as he was the one grinding it into the floor.
His next swing caught air as he was wrenched from the scuffle. Cameras flashed like muted firecrackers as Nick stood him up and banded his arms around his chest. He gasped for air as the damage done to his ribs made itself known beneath Nick’s bruising grip, but he kept an eye on the prick who’d punched him in case he decided to come back for more.
His security team worked the crowd back. Carson could hear his brother’s team over the radio shouting the all clear codes, letting them know Connor had been removed from the threat. Well, at least he knew he could no longer count on his twin in a fight.
“You stay the hell away from my wife!” the irate man warned, spitting out a mouthful of blood as he was dragged through the crowd and out of sight.
“Fuck you! I’ll fuck who the fuck I want to fuck!” Carson shouted back as he threw off Nick’s hold, forgetting for a brief second about the cameras rolling from every angle. Son of a bitch. That entire exchange would be trending on every social media outlet in the universe before they were back to their hotel room.
“Let it go,” Nick said.
Carson closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he opened them again. A few dozen dumbfounded fans stared back at him in disbelief, some refusing to even make eye contact. “What?” he asked as several of the women shook their heads in disappointment. What was he supposed to do? Stand there and let the guy pummel the hell out of him?
He followed one of the women’s gazes to the corner of the room where his manager and assistant gathered and...was that a paramedic? The dwindling, stunned crowd parted as he shuffled his way to the small group and peered over their manager’s shoulder.
“Oh shit!” He pushed Rod out of the way to crouch beside the crying woman on the floor, her hands cupping her bleeding nose. “Oh God! Did I do that?” A sick feeling curled in his stomach.
He had never, and would never, strike a woman. “I’m so sorry!” He fought against Rod’s grasp as he was pulled away from the scene. “No!” he shouted over Rod’s shoulder, pushing back as their manager pushed him farther down the dark hall. “I’m sorry! It was an accident! I didn’t mean—”
“Get him the hell out of here!” Rod shouted as Carson was handed off to Nick and several stage hands.
“She has to know!” he shouted. “I’d never... Tell her, Rod! You tell her I’m sorry!”
Shit! Shit-shit...shit! This is not happening!
Nick escorted him to his dressing room, shoved him inside and then stood guard at the door. The room was quiet. He resented the silence. In the wake of the chaos that had just unfolded, it felt too much like the judgment he’d been running from for so damn long. The guilt that had been his constant companion rallied to a fevered pitch and beat in time with the drums inside his head.
He punched the closed dressing room door, reigniting the pain in his hand. The twisted feeling in his gut erupted and pushed to the back of his throat. He sprinted to his private bathroom, sliding to a halt in front of the toilet just in time.
Their drummer could learn a few things from the pounding rhythm inside his head as he crawled across the bathroom floor into the shower and cranked on the hot water. He wasn’t sure how long he sat under the punishing spray before he noticed the deep red streaks flowing into the drain.
Blood dripped steadily from his clenched fists as pictures of his attacker mingled with images of the woman crouched on the floor, holding her bloody nose, cowering away from him as he tried to help. The blood in the shower floor morphed into the blood that pooled beneath Charlotte’s lifeless body ten years earlier.
“Dammit!” He scrunched his eyes closed to block out the horrific images that had haunted him for so long. The memories pushed back, replacing the woman’s face with Charlotte’s. Her aquamarine eyes stared blankly through him as he stood frozen in the dark on the side of the road that ill-fated night, unable to look away from the horror.
Their dads had tried to stop him, but he’d ignored them and rushed to the mangled mess of metal and flesh. Nothing in his life, not even the violence he’d seen in movies, had
prepared him to see the things he’d seen that night, but the vision of Charlotte’s mangled body wasn’t what haunted him the most.
I won’t wait forever, Charlotte. I want what you’ve been teasing me with—with or without my brother.
She’d refused at first, but he’d charmed and seduced her into giving up her virginity in the front seat of his truck one night when he’d taken her home without Connor. They’d both felt guilty afterward, of course, but he’d reasoned away their betrayal by convincing himself that, once she’d given it up to them both, they’d somehow be even.
That day in the woods was supposed to be his chance to make it right, but Charlotte couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t forgive herself for what they’d done.
She’d tried to tell Connor; tried to break it off with them altogether, but he couldn’t let that happen. Next time. The whispered encouragement he’d given her that night rang as clear in his head as if it were yesterday. There had been no next time, thanks to Ford Youngblood and his nosey little sister. No chance to make it right.
Shame had twisted and rooted deep inside him as he stood on the side of the road and watched through his tears as the paramedics draped a sheet over Charlotte’s still body. It was the last time he saw her.
In the days that followed, he’d been so caught up in his own guilt that he didn’t go to Charlotte’s graveside during her funeral. He’d hid inside the car like a sulking child instead, and watched from a distance as his twin grieved without him, alongside Charlotte’s parents. The memory of her father falling to his knees beside her casket haunted his dreams almost every night.
He shook his head. Charlotte and Connor had deserved better. Hell, everyone in his whole damn life deserved more than he could give. He remembered the disappointment in his mother’s voice when he’d told her he wasn’t coming home at the end of the tour. In the beginning he’d visited every chance they had, but as the years ticked by and his guilt grew, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t stand the reminder of how screwed up everything had become.
