But instead of pulling out a knife or a gun, he pulled out a tiny plastic bag with three glassine envelopes in it.
Ethan’s pulse jumped. His brain warned him to leave now before he gave in to temptation, but he was mesmerized by the perfectly portioned hits of heroin.
“Listen, man, I don’t normally do this, but you and Ty have been such good customers that this one can be on the house. And this ain’t some crap, either. This shit is pure enough to sniff, but if you mainline it….” Ace rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and made a mm-mm sound more appropriate for a meal at a four-star restaurant. “Ah, it’s absolute heaven.”
His mouth watered. It sounded so simple, so easy to take Ace up on his offer and use it to get the music flowing again. One hit would be all he needed. One hit wouldn’t put him in danger of an overdose.
But one hit would put him back to square one.
He buried his hands in his pockets to keep from touching it. “Ace, I—”
“You don’t have to say anything, bro. I got you covered.” Ace shoved the bag into Ethan’s back pocket. “And when you need some more, you know how to reach me.”
He wrestled free of the dealer and took a step back toward the stairs. “I won’t need any more.”
Ace laughed again, this time without the nervous vibe. It was hard and mocking. “Say that if it makes you feel better, but you and I both know you’ll be back. Guys like you are nothing without the dope.”
Ace waved him off, and Ethan ran down the stairs and out of the club as quickly as he could. The cool night air bathed the inside of his lungs with every breath he took. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, letting the autumn rain wash away the contamination of the club.
This was his chance to throw away the bag Ace had stuffed into his pocket, but some part of his brain refused to let him. He had it if he absolutely needed it, but he wouldn’t fall back on it. Not yet. He’d give himself a little more time to find the music before surrendering to his dangerous muse.
He rode home, threw the little bag on his coffee table, and stared at it from the sofa until the sky began to lighten.
***
Becca slipped into the empty seat next to Ari at Temple Israel. “Thanks for saving me a seat,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome.” Ari nodded toward the man and woman seated five rows ahead of them. “Although it might be nice if you sit with your parents.”
“Too late now,” she replied as the rabbi called the congregation together for the start of Rosh Hashanah services.
Becca listened to the prayers and readings she’d grown up hearing every year for as long as she could remember, but this was the third year she’d chosen not to join her family in celebrating the Jewish New Year. Her heart cautioned her about the sin of pride, but there was a reason why she had to cut herself off from her parents. She wasn’t strong enough yet to deal with the void they created inside her. As much as it hurt to avoid them, it was far better than falling back to her old ways of coping with their constant expectations of perfection.
During the silent Amidah, her thoughts wandered to Ethan. She hadn’t heard from him, which was a good thing, but that still didn’t keep her from worrying about him. Before he left Monday night, she could sense the rising desperation in him. Just hearing the pain in his voice when he described the loss of his best friend had her on the brink of tears, and it had taken every inch of willpower not to hold him in her arms and tell him everything would be okay. He was at the point where all recovering addicts were tested, and she offered her own prayer that reminding him of why he quit would be enough to keep him from relapsing.
A chill ran up her arms as she remembered the dark days of her own addiction. She glanced down at the veins in her arm and rubbed them, remembering all the times she’d celebrate finding one large enough to inject. Now they were scarred and shriveled up, a constant reminder of the damage she’d done to herself.
Becca turned her attention to her parents and caught her stepmother looking back at her. Her own mother had died from an overdose when Becca was still an infant, so Claire was the only mother she’d ever known. Her stepmother had spent the last two years trying to repair the gap between Becca and her father, but neither one of them yielded. Their gazes locked, and Becca caught a silent plea for forgiveness. It was so tempting to believe her father wanted to make amends, to make their family whole again. Claire turned away as the rabbi blew the shofar, leaving Becca to mull over the unspoken message. Maybe it would be nice to speak to her parents after services. Maybe they could go to the park afterward for the Tashlich and use it to cast away the pain of the past and begin again.
The idea grew on her as the service continued, but as she was kneeling during the closing prayers, the screen on her phone illuminated with a text message that chased away any thoughts of reconciling with her parents today.
Becca, it’s Ethan. I really need someone to talk to. Now.
She discreetly pulled her phone out of her purse and checked the call log.
Eleven missed calls, all from the same number.
Shit!
She’d had her phone on silent for the prayer services so she wouldn’t be disturbed, but now she risked losing the fragile trust Ethan had given her. She’d said she’d be there for him if he needed her, and she hoped God would understand if she exited Rosh Hashanah services early to help him.
She grabbed her purse and snuck out of the sanctuary, her head lowered until she was out on the street. Then she called him back. “Ethan, it’s Becca.”
“You said you’d answer.” His voice was a growling mix of anger and panic.
She tried to combat it by adding layers of soothing tones to hers. “Yes, and I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I had my phone on silent while I was at the Temple, and I shouldn’t have done that. But I’m here now.”
Silence hung on the line for nearly half a minute, and she prayed that Ethan would forgive her enough to tell her what was wrong.
“I need help,” he said, his voice cracking.
“And I’m willing to do whatever I can to help. Just tell me what you need.”
Another pause, followed by, “Oh, fuck it.”
“No, don’t say that.” She wandered down the familiar sidewalks of 75th Street like a lost tourist, meandering from side to side and trying not to get run over. “Please, just tell me where you are, and I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
A sarcastic snort of laughter answered her. “What about the whole anonymous thing?”
Sure. Throw that back in my face when you need me. The only reason she’d declined a ride back to her place Monday night was because she feared she’d invite him upstairs and totally screw over their relationship by screwing him. “Fine, we can meet in a public place. How about Gitta’s café?”
“Sorry, but I don’t think sweets are going to help me. Face it, Becca, I’m fucked up, and there’s no hope for me.”
“Don’t you dare say that, Ethan.” Anger sharpened her words and made her wish he was standing next to her so she could smack some sense into him. “And don’t you dare believe that, either.”
“You don’t know me, and you certainly don’t know what I’m dealing with.”
“Bullshit. I’ve been there—remember?” When he didn’t reply right away, she remembered the plastic bag full of breadcrumbs in her pocket and formed a new plan. “What part of the city are you in right now?”
“Hell’s Kitchen.”
Of course he’d be there. It was one of the up-and-coming areas of Manhattan with several recording studios nearby. She did a mental check for places along the river where he could join her. “Can you meet me at the end of Pier 84?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s public, and we can talk.” She hailed a taxi. Traffic wasn’t too bad right now, and the last thing she wanted to do was lose the connection to him w
hile in the subway.
“Fine.” He hung up on her just as a taxi pulled up to the curb.
She gave the driver directions, her pulse fluttering in her ears the entire time.
Please let him be there.
And please don’t let me be too late.
Chapter Five
Ethan stared into the Hudson River with a pair of sunglasses on, ignoring the people who milled around him. The rain from last night had dried up, but gray clouds still lingered overhead. They fit his mood.
Sometime after dawn, he’d managed to get a few hours of fitful sleep. He awoke tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, gasping for air and haunted by dark dreams. The craving was stronger than ever. It called to him like a siren’s song that erased any rational thoughts. Not even a cold shower could quiet it.
The bag of heroin remained untouched on his coffee table, seducing him with promises to make everything better. But every time he found himself about to give into temptation, he glanced down at Ty’s name on his arm. The memories of finding Ty dead assaulted him, growing stronger and stronger until he doubled over and let out a scream of frustration.
That was when he broke down, fished out Becca’s number from the trash, and called her. It was better to admit he was weak than to end up like Ty.
But she didn’t answer, and the world dropped out from underneath him.
Now, an hour later, he was standing at the end of Pier 84, wondering if she would stand him up. He’d brought the bag with him. It mocked him from his back pocket while he waited. If she came, he’d ask her to dispose of it so he wouldn’t be tempted any longer.
And if she didn’t show…
He closed his eyes and wondered if taking a hit would ease his sense of abandonment. It would certainly cure his inability to play music. And maybe that would be the best course of action for now.
He spun around and collided with a woman, knocking her to the ground. It took him only a second to recognize her distinctive blue-green eyes. He knelt down to help her up. “Shit, Becca, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, even though she winced as she limped to the railing. “I’d called out your name, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “My fault for running full speed toward you in high heels, but I was just so worried about you.”
Something inside him did a one-eighty, and the insatiable craving that had plagued him for days retreated to the far corner of his mind.
She’d come.
She cared about him.
She was here to help him, and he wasn’t alone.
And knowing that took him to a level of humble gratitude he’d never known.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“Of course.” She turned her attention to the river. “So, what happened?”
He pulled the bag out of his pocket and showed it to her.
Horror, panic, and disbelief wash over her features. “Ethan, why?”
The disappointment in her voice rubbed his pride the wrong way and raised his hackles. “I haven’t touched it.”
“But you have it.”
He tucked it back into his pocket. “Just wanted you to know why I called.”
“So I could watch you get high again?”
“How do you know I wasn’t inviting you to join me?” he snapped back, his words laced with sarcasm. “And before you say anything else, I didn’t buy it. I didn’t seek it out. It was given to me last night.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t tell if her resentment was directed toward him or the person who’d given it to him. “By whom?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“Ace, right?”
His jaw fell slack. “How did you know?”
She gave a bitter laugh. “He always had the good stuff.” She held onto the railing and rocked back on her heels. “Is he still hanging out at the Tin Lily on Wednesdays?”
If he’d ever doubted her past as an addict, her knowledge of Ace’s hangouts confirmed it. “Yeah, he’s still there. I’m surprised the cops haven’t caught him, predictable as he is.”
“That’s because he has too many important people in his pocket.” She let go of the railing and ambled along the waterfront, Ethan following her. “That still doesn’t explain what you were doing there last night.”
“I went to listen to the music.”
“Sure, and men read Playboy for the articles.”
He darted in front of her, stopping her until she looked up at him. “No, really, I went for the music. And maybe to relive a few good memories.”
She pursed her lips like she was trying to assess him on her bullshit-o-meter. “Take off your sunglasses,” she ordered.
“Why?”
“Because I want to look into your eyes when you’re answering me.” When he complied, she asked, “Why did you go there last night?”
“To listen to the music,” he repeated.
She came closer until her face was inches from his. Her hawk-like eyes picked him apart, looking for some sign of a lie, but all he could think about was how bright the green rings around the pupils were today.
She backed down. “You’re going to have to start avoiding those kinds of places.”
“Trust me—lesson learned.” He moved aside so they could continue walking. “Ace caught me in a bad moment and said some things that pushed me to the edge.”
“But not over it.”
He paused and let her assessment sink in. He’d lost count of how many times he almost opened up that bag, but he hadn’t. He’d been strong enough to resist. “Yeah, but not over it.”
It still didn’t change the fact he was caught in limbo as far as his music went.
Becca looped her arm through his and resumed their stroll. “So you mentioned you were at a bad moment. Care to elaborate?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
He looked down to where their arms entwined. And surprisingly, he liked it. He liked the weight of her arm against his. He liked the way her hips brushed against his thigh when she walked. He liked the subtle halo of her perfume that he inhaled every time the breeze caught it. But most important, he liked that she wasn’t afraid to invade his personal space, and she didn’t back down when he tried to push her away. If she’d been anyone else, he would’ve kept pushing. But walking arm in arm with her filled him with a momentary serenity he’d been missing for so many years.
“I’m a musician.”
“I know,” she replied as though he’d said he was something more commonplace, like a schoolteacher.
But did she know who he was? Did it even matter?
After a moment’s hesitation, he decided not to bring his fame up. After all, she’d been famous—or infamous—herself. “I haven’t been able to play since my best friend died.”
“Can’t play, as in you forgot how to strum a guitar?”
“No.” Even though it wasn’t far from the truth based on the clumsy way his fingers had been forming chords lately. He pulled his arm free and turned back to the railing. “I met my best friend at a music camp when I was twelve. He was a year older than me and represented so much of what I wanted to be. Fun. Outgoing. Crazy fucking talented. The guy could touch a guitar and spontaneously compose magic. So naturally, I looked up to him, and it wasn’t long before we were best friends.”
He stared into the murky water of the Hudson River, remembering all the fun they’d had as kids. “One thing led to another, and when he suggested we start a band with a couple of other guys in the neighborhood, I agreed. By the time we’d graduated from high school, we were already playing the local scene and decided to hit the road. Tin Lily was the venue that I always associated with making it to the big time. Once we played there, we became more than just
some kids with a garage band. We were somebody.”
“And is that what you meant by reliving some good memories?”
He nodded, but the burning along his left arm reminded him that those memories were now tainted. “But there was a dark side to our success. It didn’t start out that way, you know? We were both just a couple of stupid teenagers who would light up a joint after practice. We weren’t baked the entire time, but when we got high, that’s when we wrote the songs that made us famous. And as our fame grew, so did the pressure to keep writing those kinds of songs.
“He started experimenting with the harder stuff first. A couple of Percocets here, a whiff of coke there. And like a dumbass, I tried whatever he offered me. The night we played Tin Lily was the first night I shot up.”
He expected her to smack him on the back of his head like his mother did when he’d admitted to doing something stupid, but she stood next to him, mirroring his posture as she looked out over the river. “So you always associated getting high with the celebration of that night.”
“Yeah. But later on that night, we composed our best song ever. Then one thing led to another, and before I knew what was happening, I discovered I couldn’t write music without getting high first.”
“Heroin became your muse,” she said matter-of-factly, and a wave of relief flowed through him.
She understood him better than he thought she would.
“Yeah. But when it became my muse, it robbed me of the simple pleasures of playing. Now, every time I pick up a guitar or sit down at the piano, the craving consumes me.”
“And I suppose asking you to stop being a musician is out of the question.”
He tried to picture spending the rest of his life doing something different, but it would be like having the joy robbed from his soul. “No, I love music too much to quit playing.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
“Maybe, but it still doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t been able to play since he died.”
“Why?”
His stomach churned, and sweat coated his palms. She was treading on delicate ground here and digging up issues he wasn’t ready to face yet. “I’ve already told you why.”
Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians Page 98
