The Complete Tempest World Box Set

by Mankin, Michelle

  “I warned you, brother.” War pushed his face near mine, practically nose to nose with me, close enough that I could smell the fumes on his breath. His skin was red and twisted with anger. “Bitches are trouble. Told you, but you didn’t listen. And now she’s come between us. Messed us up. Messed up the band.”

  “Wasn’t her that did all that. It was you, asshole,” I growled. “You’d sell your own mother if the price was right.”

  “Whoa,” Dizzy said. “Easy, guys. Let’s leave the mothers out of it.”

  “I can’t believe you.” War shook his head. “You’ve got that bitch up so high on a pedestal, you can’t even see her faults.”

  The shrill ringing of a cell phone cut through the charged silence that followed the last comment.

  “Yes.” Beth eyed us all warily as she answered the call. “I’m here now.” She paused, nodding as she listened. “No, you were right, Mary. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m done.”

  Beth pocketed the cell. Her heels clacked on the concrete as she took a couple of steps forward. Her demeanor was entirely professional. Apparently, she was totally unfazed by what she’d just seen.

  “You guys obviously need a keeper. Mary’s calling in Ian Vandergriff to handle things.”

  I cringed. Vandergriff had a reputation in the industry. He was the manager who’d been brought in to straighten out the Dirt Dogs after their lead singer had passed out onstage for the third time in two weeks. I’d heard it had taken less time than that for him to bring the entire group to their knees. The guy was a total hard-ass.

  Shit.

  Beth glanced back and forth between War and me. “Vandergriff’s salary is going to come out of your tour bonuses, by the way.”

  Great. Just fucking great.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Lace

  Twisting my hands in my lap, I sat on my bed and stared out the window at the courtyard. I was still lonely, but the view was now a familiar tableau. The soft gurgling of the fountain was the only sedative I had left. No more methadone to keep me company. It had been tapered off days ago.

  Now it was just me and my sober self.

  Well, me and Dr. George, who the other rehabbers harshly referred to as Sawbones. I wasn’t really sure why. The wrinkled old psychiatrist seemed benign with his gray hair and beard, his kind eyes and soft tone, like some benevolent grandfather figure. Not that I’d ever had one.

  It wasn’t the upcoming session with Sawbones that had my stomach turning somersaults. It was my first mandatory group session. I wasn’t relishing the thought of unpacking all my baggage in front of a bunch of strangers.

  A quick glance at the clock had my stomach flipping faster. Time was up.

  I took in a careful breath and straightened my shoulders. You can do this, Lace Lowell.

  I pushed off the bed and stepped into my slippers, then flipped off the light switch and opened the door.

  “Hey,” a musical female voice called out before I’d taken two steps down the hall. “Hold up.”

  I turned and saw a young woman with long platinum hair locking the door to the room next to mine. She beamed a double-dimpled smile my way as she walked over, one so infectious, it even put my brother’s to shame. Despite my nerves, I found myself grinning back at her.

  “I’m Bridget Dubois. I’ve seen you in the cafeteria. You got in last week, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t pause to let me answer, speaking each sentence in rapid-fire succession.

  “You’re coming to the group session, aren’t you? You look a little pale. Don’t be nervous.” After a micro-pause, she added, “Really, don’t be.”

  Tilting her head at me, she arched her white-blond eyebrows expectantly. She reminded me of a pixie with her petite frame, sparkly blue eyes, and exuberant manner.

  “I’m Lace Lowell.” I held out my hand, which she took and squeezed once before letting go.

  “Nice to meet you, Lace.” She studied my face for a minute before waving for me to follow her down the hall. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to talk the first time in group if you don’t want to. Believe it or not, I didn’t.”

  She gave me another dimpled smile. “I think you’ll be surprised. It’s really helped me to know other people have gone through the same stuff that I have. No one’s perfect. We’re all just trying to make it through the best we can.”

  As we entered the cafeteria together, she continued to jabber while I looked around. The tables had been moved to the side, and there was now a circle of plastic chairs near the windows.

  Bridget gestured discreetly at a middle-aged man and an older woman loading up on snacks from the small buffet. “That’s Miles. He’s an accountant who’s a cokehead like me. The woman is Maribelle Lewis.” She gave me an expectant look. “You know, the punk rock singer?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, she’s a pretty big deal here in Orlando. She’s got really bad teeth from the meth. Don’t stare. It pisses her off. She can be kinda mean.”

  I took a seat in the circle beside Bridget and tried to focus on her rather than Maribelle or the upcoming session. “Why are you here?” I asked quietly.

  Bridget’s gaze slid away. She stared out the window for a moment before looking back at me. “Usual story,” she said with a shrug. “I fell in love with the wrong guy. Got pregnant. Family disowned me.”

  Her tone was light and breezy, but her expression told a different story. This girl had been hurt deeply. There was more to Bridget Dubois than I’d initially thought.

  “Lace.” Dr. George took a seat on the other side of me and squeezed my shoulder. “Welcome to the group. We don’t have many rules, except that what’s said here remains confidential, and that we only speak in generalities about any physical abuse, mental issues, or drug problems. No graphic details here, please. Today’s topic is responsibility. I thought perhaps we’d start with you today.”

  My gaze flew to Bridget. “But . . .”

  Bridget patted my knee. “Doc, I told her she could just listen the first time.”

  “Yes, of course she can.” He nodded. “Lace, you’ve been doing so well, I thought you’d be eager to jump right in.” His gaze moved to the brunette across from him. “Brenda, why don’t you start us off?”

  Listening to the others share, one after another, I started to relax. A lot of the stuff they shared was frighteningly familiar. Bridget was right. Minute by minute, I was feeling less like a freak, less like a loser, and less like a loner to be here.

  I could do this.

  I made eye contact with Dr. George, and he nodded his approval.

  “My name’s Lace Lowell. I’m addicted to heroin, mostly, although I’ve done some cocaine and other stuff too. I’m an addict like my mother was. I’ve been using for about two years now. I tried to get my boyfriend to help me taper off, but I realize now that wasn’t going to work out. I need professional help like I’m getting here, and I have to take responsibility for my own choices. I’m the one who made the decision to take that first dose, and in the end, it has to be me who decides not to do it anymore.”

  • • •

  I cursed under my breath, ripped out the page, crumpled it, and tossed another disappointing sketch aside. The wadded-up ball of paper joined the growing discard pile that looked like white snowballs against the green grass.

  I was irritated and jumpy. Though my fingers were busy, my mind shifted into reverse. I’d figured out today why Dr. George’s nickname suited him. He had this nasty ability to cut through all his patients’ bullshit like some old-time surgeon dispensing with a gangrenous limb.

  He’d certainly cut uncomfortably deep in the private session with me today.

  “You need to be self-reliant, Lace. Stop looking for a man to come rescue you every time you get into a bind.”

  He was right.

  I pushed my hair back behind my ears and let out a heavy sigh. That was exactly what I’d been doing. First with War, then after that fell apart, wit
h Martin, then War again. And I always had Bryan in reserve.

  I sucked.

  I blinked back the burn of frustrated tears as I stared down at the sketchpad on my knees. That pathetic dependence on the men in my life needed to stop. It was a trap, letting someone else’s approval define me. I was the only person who could redefine things.

  Sawbones had also made me confront my unresolved feelings toward a father I’d never known. There was a dotted line that connected my lack of a father figure to the lack of judgment I’d used in choosing the men in my life.

  But worst of all, Dr. George had forced me to go back to a place today that I’d never wanted to return to . . . my childhood. He’d pushed and prodded until I told him everything.

  How worthless my mother made me feel. That I meant less to her than her next high. How still to this day, it galled me to have been denied the love of someone I hated so much.

  The level of vitriol I’d spewed had been shocking. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much anger and resentment I still carried around. The drugs had obviously been my way to cover that all up. Dr. George showed me that I needed to stop repressing and find a healthy way to deal with those emotions.

  No more bullshit. I needed to let go of the past and wipe the slate clean. And I needed to have a plan for my future.

  It was up to me and me alone to be the woman I’d once believed myself to be, a woman who, despite her shitty mother and lack of a father, was strong and capable of doing whatever she set her mind to. Sure, I’d made mistakes, a shitload of them. I had a lot of owning up to do. But I was ready to make amends. Whether or not the people I’d hurt forgave me was up to them.

  Though I knew the hole I’d dug for myself was a deep one, I no longer felt overwhelmed by hopelessness. Getting off the drugs gave me clarity, and it was the first step on the ladder to getting out of that hell.

  I could see light up there at the top, and that’s where I wanted to go.

  • • •

  I took in a deep calming breath. Seven more days done. I’d made it two weeks now without drugs, which was a huge accomplishment. It had seemed like forever since I’d been this clearheaded.

  The first couple of days in rehab had been easy, though, compared to these last few. The more honest I was with myself, the more we examined my motivations and emotions in therapy, the edgier I became. Dr. George had suggested I continue with my sketching to deal with it, but so far today, the task had just been an exercise in frustration.

  A shadow fell over me, blocking out the sun.

  “Hey, Bridget,” I said, knowing who it was without turning around. She’d become my constant companion since that first group session. No matter what I tried to do to dissuade her, there was no shaking the irrepressible girl.

  And the fact was, I liked her.

  “Whatcha doing?” Bridget picked up a ball of paper from the discard pile and uncrumpled it. “Wow! This is really good.”

  I glanced over at the drawing of an evening gown. My favorite type to draw, they reminded me of the dress I’d worn to prom.

  “It’s okay.” I shrugged. “But the hemline’s not right.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Bridget asked, sitting down beside me on the concrete bench.

  I reminded myself to be patient. The jitters made me want to pop off when Bridget was hyperactive or dense, but I didn’t want to do that. She had a good heart. Plus, she’d been extremely supportive of me, even holding a cool washcloth to my head last night when the withdrawal shakes had woken me up.

  “The hem should probably have a decorative border,” I said, “maybe eyelet lace. I don’t know.”

  Bridget studied the drawing, smoothing it out across her thin tanned legs. “I think you’re right. Like that stuff they wore under their dresses in the late fifties. A really cool lime-sherbet color might work.”

  Actually, that would look really great. I reached under the bench and pulled out my colored pencils, then shaded in the color while Bridget watched.

  “Told you,” Bridget said with a satisfied nod when I was finished.

  I gazed at the golden-tanned platinum-blonde. I’d been ready to dismiss her idea out of hand. In fact, I’d been trying to keep her at arm’s length, which had been my pattern with practically everyone else in my life except for my brother, Chad, and Bryan. War, I really hadn’t had to keep at arm’s length emotionally, because he’d stayed at that distance during the entirety of our relationship.

  Yeah, I’d learned a lot about myself in rehab.

  “You’re into fashion?” I asked.

  “Duh, isn’t everyone?” A mischievous grin spread across her face. “I’ve got a stash of InStyle magazines in my room. Wanna see?”

  “Sure.” I raised my brows, surprised to uncover a rebellious streak in Bridget.

  I grabbed my stuff and followed her back inside. The Second Chances facility was completely closed off from the outside world. No phone. No television. No internet. No contraband magazines.

  I sat on the bed beside her while thumbing through her stack. “These are brand new. How’d you manage that?”

  Bridget smiled, dimples flashing on either side of a mouthful of pearly-white teeth. “I have all the latest gossip magazines too.”

  She quickly explained how she’d gotten them. Apparently, one of the security guards had a crush on her.

  When she pushed a Rolling Stone issue toward me, I went completely still, my hand resting on his face. TEMPEST, BIGGER AND BADDER THAN BS was the headline.

  Kimberly must have taken the photo of the group in Atlanta. War finally got his wish to be on the cover of Rolling Stone.

  Vaguely, I realized that Bridget had stopped talking.

  She glanced back and forth between the magazine cover and my pale face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I swallowed. No. Not quite, though one still haunted my dreams.

  “You know those guys?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “We went to high school together.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Don’t get all starry-eyed. It’s no big deal. The lead singer used to be my boyfriend. The rhythm guitarist is my brother.” I left out the other details. Did they matter anymore to anyone but me?

  Bridget looked at me with skepticism, taking the magazine and flipping it open to the article. “There’s a picture of you in here.”

  I glanced over. Sure enough, they’d included one from my performance in Atlanta. That dream was done. I’d ruined it like all the other ones.

  When I tried to close the magazine, Bridget stopped me, her finger on the page and her blue eyes wide. “War says a lot of nice things about you in here.”

  “He did back then,” I said. “I don’t think he would say anything flattering anymore.”

  “Men are bastards, huh?” Bridget closed the magazine and leaned closer. “Lace, come on. You can tell me. If it’ll help to talk, I’m happy to listen. After all, I’m your best friend.”

  I stared into the sparkly but sincere eyes of the woman beside me. Is she my best friend? She was definitely the only one.

  Bridget held my gaze, nodding as if she could read my thoughts. “You’re prickly sometimes, but then so am I. We’re doing hard work in here, and that can make anyone irritable. Most people like to ignore their problems, but you and me, we’re facing them head-on.”

  I gave her a small smile. “I guess we are.”

  “No guessing about it. I was there when you told your story, remember? You had a crappy childhood, but you don’t use it as an excuse. That’s unusual. There’s an inner strength in you, a resolve. You’re gonna make it, Lace Lowell. You’re a winner, and I like to be on a winning team.”

  My eyes stung from the unexpected praise. I was getting way too sappy in here.

  “Thanks,” I said, hearing the thick emotion in my voice. “I don’t really see myself that way. But going back to drugs isn’t an option for me. They cost me everything that I cared about
.”

  Vividly remembering the disappointment in Bryan’s eyes when he’d seen my tracked-up arms, I let out a long sigh.

  Bridget patted my hand. “It gets easier.” Her expression sobering and worry darkening her eyes. she suddenly looked much older than her age. “At least, it does in here. Five more days till I’m done. How much longer for you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Bridget mock cringed. “If you ever need anything when you get out, call me and I’ll come running. I promise.”

  “I promise too.” I gave her a genuine smile. “Teammate.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Bryan

  I nodded to Vandergriff, a.k.a. the Buzz Buster, as King had dubbed him. Our band’s new enforcer was built like the Incredible Hulk, his muscles bulging beneath the cheap polyester suit he always wore. We had to check in with the guy twice a day, morning and night.

  He’d traveled with us on the twenty-eight-hour bus ride from Miami to Minneapolis, and on the four-hour flight up to Vancouver for tonight, the last stop on the tour. His methods weren’t pleasant, but he’d been successful. The only one of us he hadn’t gotten into line yet was War.

  I searched the backstage area, but there was no sign of him. I hoped our lead singer wouldn’t screw up this final concert, but I had an awful feeling that he would.

  War and I hadn’t spoken a word to each other since Miami. Actually, he pretty much wasn’t on speaking terms with anyone in the group. The Morris betrayal had opened a rift between him and the other guys too. It wasn’t something that would be easily forgotten or forgiven.

  Not that War was much interested in bridging the gap. If anything, he’d gotten more temperamental, more demanding, and more unpredictable.

  Tempest had barely taken the stage on time in Minneapolis because of him. He’d locked himself in a room backstage with a couple of fan girls the roadies had pulled from the audience. Apparently, the usual groupies wouldn’t do for His Highness anymore.