by Quinn, Cari
“Happy?” she screamed, unable to stop herself. Relief rushed through her veins, mixing with something far more dark and destructive. “What the hell happened to you? Where did you go this morning?”
It was only when he shifted that she noticed the unnatural bump on the top of his shoulder. At her gasp, Nick grabbed the phone off the side table and pushed it into her hand.
“Call 911,” he said.
“No,” Gray whispered. “No cops.”
Nick moved forward to offer his support to Gray. “She’s not calling the cops, man. You need a doctor. Your arm’s fucked up—”
“I said no fucking cops.” Gray jerked back from Nick hard enough to crash into the wall. Jazz swallowed a moan at the pain that telegraphed across his face before he slid down to the floor, his ass hitting the carpet almost as hard as he’d hit the wall. “I just need to sleep it off.”
“Sleep it off? Are you crazy? You’re barely conscious.”
“Oh, I’m conscious.” Gray’s bleeding lips stretched into a macabre pantomime of a smile. “I’m conscious of what brought me to…this goddamn point. Never fucking changes.” He coughed, his shoulders heaving.
She hurtled forward and fell to her knees in front of him, helpless to stop the tears. “Let us help you,” she said, reaching out to touch his jaw with tentative fingers.
“You help me? Fat fucking chance. You and Nick are what got me here.” He wiped his sleeve over his mouth. “Wanna know when I started this? Try the night you walked out of that closet at the club with this bastard.” He jerked his thumb at Nick and shut his eyes.
She glanced at Nick in dawning horror and cupped her hand over her mouth again. The nausea was back, worse than ever.
If Gray was telling the truth, if he’d started doing coke the night he had seen her and Nick come out of that closet before their concert, that meant this was all her fault. She’d done this to him. To them.
Nick shook his head minutely and crouched at Gray’s side. “Listen, man, you need help. Let us take you to the hospital.”
“Why?” Gray gripped his side, his pain so obvious that Jazz stumbled back and whirled away to try to get control of her traitorous stomach. “Want…me out of the way? Easier for you then.”
“Oh, Jesus, when you get cleaned up, you’ll regret saying all of this, so I’m going to chalk it up to your injuries and ignore it. You can’t make me cry with your taunts, but you can make her cry, so maybe stuff it for a while until you know what the hell you’re saying, huh?”
“Big frigging savior, aren’t you? Saving her from me.” Gray laughed again, his breath wheezing through his teeth. Jazz moved her hand from her mouth to her belly, pressing there to try to calm the incessant rolling within.
When she was reasonably sure she was under control, she turned back, only to find Gray staring at her through narrowed eyes. “I got a phone call today,” he slurred. “Guess who? Mommy fucking dearest.”
“Oh, Christ, no.” Had he gone to see his parents and not his dealer? If so, what had happened to him? She gripped the arm of the couch and sat down, incapable of standing. “You don’t understand—”
“I never answer her calls, but something told me to today. You knew about my…brother, and didn’t tell me. What else you keeping from me, baby?”
“It’s not like that. It’s not. I wanted to tell you—”
“You always want, you just never…do. I don’t fucking care anymore. Get off me,” he roared at Nick, who didn’t move.
“Your shoulder is dislocated, at minimum,” Nick said, his voice so calm that Jazz didn’t know if she envied his strength or wanted to kick his ass. “If you ever want to play again, you’ll let me drive you to the hospital.”
When Gray didn’t respond, Nick searched through Gray’s pockets and pulled out the keys to Harper’s truck. “Take these,” he said, tossing them to Jazz. “Go start the truck and we’ll be right out.”
“But I can help—”
“Go,” Gray and Nick said in unison, making her eyes burn.
She knew she didn’t have any right to feel hurt. Gray was in agony, and yes, he was angry—for some good reasons and for some stupid ones—but his reaction was marred by pain. She couldn’t take offense at what he said in this state, and besides, it didn’t even matter how he felt about her just then. The only thing that mattered was getting him help.
Nodding, she rose and swayed, digging her nails into the arm of the sofa to maintain her balance. She glanced up to see Gray staring at her, his lips parting as if he’d been on the verge of saying something. As if maybe he wanted to know if she was okay. Then he firmed them and looked away.
She rubbed her thumb over the key fob in her hand and hurried outside, forcing herself to focus on what she had to do next. One foot ahead of the other, down to the truck. Start the vehicle and wait for the guys to appear. She quickened her steps, skirting the hood. She wouldn’t analyze, and she wouldn’t think. She’d just—
Something was on the hood, easily visible because Harper’s truck was white and the substance was dark and sludgy. Mud maybe? She dipped her fingers into the wetness before she thought better of it. The coppery scent of blood hit her nose.
Blood. Gray’s blood.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, barely making it to the grass before she emptied her stomach.
* * *
In the darkness, he could smell her.
Watermelons and wildflowers, fresh cut grass and sunshine. Her hair tickled his cheek and her heartbeat matched its rhythm to his, occasionally speeding up and slowing down before syncing with his once more. Her comforting weight on his chest abated his pain, more effective than any medicine. When she was with him, he could breathe again.
Gray opened his eyes, his mouth already curving in preparation of seeing her. But she wasn’t there. The room was empty and dimly lit, illuminated just enough for him to make out the curtain pulled shut beside his bed. His hospital bed.
They’d taken him to the freaking hospital and left him alone.
As you asked them to.
He tried to lift his arm and groaned at the fiery pain between his shoulder and neck and the drag of an IV pulling on his forearm. Fucking hell. He tried to sit up to pour a glass of water and only managed to make it halfway to the jug on the bedside table before the myriad aches in his body forced him to be still.
Nope, no water. No anything. He was just going to lay there and listen to the guy moaning in the next bed and try to find his sense of gratitude that at least his soreness was manageable. Mostly.
The next time he woke, the room was full of light. The curtain beside his bed had been pulled open and his neighbor in the next bed was gone. He hoped he’d left on his own two feet.
Pale sunlight streamed in through the small window, making him blink. Maybe he could try reaching for the water again—
The click of high heels on tile caused him to turn his head. And inwardly groan. “Need some help?” Lila asked pleasantly.
“No.”
He slouched against his pillows and rued the day he’d ever met Deacon McCoy. If he hadn’t gotten friendly with him at some dive club, he wouldn’t have ever tried writing with him. If he hadn’t tried writing with him, they wouldn’t have penned “The Becoming”, the song that ultimately became Oblivion’s first hit. Then he never would’ve met Nick and Simon, and he wouldn’t have joined this godforsaken band.
That he loved, goddammit.
“Sure about that?” She stopped beside the bed and poured a cup of water before offering it to him.
“Didn’t we run this scene before? I get messed up, you play angel of mercy and give me water and bail my ass out.”
“That won’t be happening a second time.”
He finished drinking and crushed the cup in his fist, grimacing at the pain that traveled up his arm. “Yeah, well, I’m not asking to be bailed out. Worst they can do is fucking kill me, and then I won’t have to think about any of this anymore.”
Like how he’d discovered his brother was dead, and that Jazz had called his mother, probably to tell her all the ways he’d failed. That Jazz had let him propose without telling him. Then walking in to find his Jazz in Nick’s lap, her eyes so blue and desolate as she clung to the man that Gray could never quite stop being jealous of even when it made no fucking sense.
She wore his ring yet all he could see was Nick’s arms around her. Her head on his shoulder. Her hair caught in his fist…
“You’re really that much of a ball sac, hmm?”
He blinked up at Lila. “What?”
“You heard me. I won’t call you a pussy, because pussies are damn fucking strong. Right now you’re being the kind of nut I could twist into a knot between two fingers.”
“Are you seriously talking about my balls?”
“Not your balls per se. I’m comparing you to a nut sac in general. Weak, small and wrinkly.”
He shook his head. “Your bedside manner needs a lot of work.”
“Actually, I think my bedside manner is great. You’re lucky I’m even here. No one else is.”
The reality of that dried his mouth. He’d suspected it was true, but to hear it was another thing. “Yeah, so? What do I fucking care?”
“So you’ve broken up with Jazz then.”
Even the words made him grip the sheets in a sweaty fist. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then you’re still together?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
She sighed and pulled a chair up to the bed. “What happened?”
“What do you think? I fucked up, lost control and got my ass kicked—”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s supposed to be my job to feel sorry for you.”
He didn’t expect to be able to smile. “Are you going to tell me how bad they are?” He glanced at the shoulder where the bulk of his pain was radiating from. Well, not the bulk, but a lot. “My injuries, I mean.”
“You’ll live,” she said shortly.
“Thanks.”
“You’re in rough shape but most of it is surface. You have a couple of cracked ribs and various contusions. The separated shoulder will probably require a sling and possible physical therapy. You won’t be playing up to Grayson Duffy beast level for a while, but you’ll get there again. The rest just requires sleep, a healthy diet and less contact with fists.”
“Planning on it.” Relief rushed through him. With his current level of soreness, he definitely hadn’t been sure what the prognosis for his shoulder would be.
Looked like he wasn’t permanently out of commission. Whether or not he’d have a band to return to…well, that was anyone’s guess.
“Back to Jasmine.”
“Sure. Why not? I’m already in hell.”
“You think she believes that you went to get high and tangled with the wrong people.”
“Doesn’t she?”
“It’s probably a good supposition, yes, because you didn’t tell her any differently.”
“Oh, and I suppose you believe something else?”
“Yes, I do. Through my magnificent powers of deduction after I saw that pretty ring on her finger, I decided I wasn’t going to go with the obvious answer and did some checking around. Imagine my surprise when I located a jeweler near your apartment who sold a ring just like the one Jazz is wearing a mere two days ago, for a princely sum that equals roughly half of what I’d transferred into your account.”
“What’s your point?”
“Oh, you are a prideful one. Normally, I respect that. In this case, you’re being a jackass.”
He tried to cross his arms and paid the price in the form of a shoulder spasm that would’ve buckled his knees if he’d been able to stand. “Thanks for the support,” he rasped. “You can leave anytime now.”
She lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow. “I’m dismissed then?”
“Yeah. Just like you warned me I would be if I screwed up.” He gestured with his good arm. Even that movement pulled at his bad shoulder. “Take a look at me. Well and truly fucked. So consider this me resigning from—”
“I realize you had other things taking your attention three nights ago, but I wonder if you’ve given thought to who might’ve taken your spot at Trix?” she asked, smoothly interrupting him.
He reached for the sheets again, pulling them tight around his hips. “Three nights ago?”
“Yes. You were on some pretty powerful painkillers and you slept like the dead. I’m guessing you needed it. You probably didn’t get a lot of rest the last couple of weeks, what with all that blissful bonding you and Jasmine were doing before you flamed out in a blaze of so-not-glory.”
“Who played for me?” he asked quietly, though he already knew.
As soon as Lila had posed the question, he remembered the feeling of Jazz’s calloused fingertips brushing over his skin. She’d never used a pick with any regularity, preferring to run her fingers down to bloody stubs no matter how many times he admonished her.
Damn stubborn woman that he loved more than his own life.
“I see you already know.” Lila brushed invisible lint off her pale yellow skirt. “From what I’ve heard from your bandmates, she barely kept it together long enough to get through the set. But she did it for you, and she did a damn fine job. She and Nick concocted this stupid story about your granny again to save your ass. Little did they know they shouldn’t have bothered. Guess you must like the smell of bacon frying in the morning.”
Shame wound through his stomach, curling upward to encompass that hollow area in his chest that somehow still contained his heartbeat. He’d been so certain it would stop when he’d been lying in the fetal position in that shitty parking lot where Cricket’s bastards had left him. His own fault for thinking they’d stick to the verbal deal they’d set. The money he’d offered hadn’t been enough, so they’d taken their payment another way.
When he was lying on the ground, beat all to hell, he’d had plenty of time to replay where he’d gone wrong. He hadn’t been dead yet but he hadn’t been fully alive either. He’d been caught in a sort of purgatory, the option to die or to live in his hands if he chose quickly.
And he’d chosen the same way he always did. His choices always took him back to Jazz. He would’ve dragged himself there on his hands and knees if he had to.
He nearly had.
“She was in his lap,” he murmured. “I’d just been beaten all to shit, and God, I hated myself in that moment. But when I hauled myself in the door, he was holding her, and I just fucking lost it. She’s—”
“She’s your drug, worse than any line of powder because you’ll kill each other and claim it’s in the name of love.”
He started to argue until the truth in her answer sunk deep into his bones, way beyond where he could reach to fish it back out again. “Yeah,” he said finally, rubbing his forehead to try to alleviate the ache brewing behind his eyes. So many damn aches. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“She shares your addiction, by the way. She’s no more capable of cutting the cord than you are.”
He made himself meet Lila’s surprisingly understanding blue eyes. “Is that…is that how it is with you and your husband?”
“God, no.” Her light laughter shocked him. “Maybe it was once,” she said after a moment. “I was young back then and idealistic. But life changes you, and now I scarcely remember what it was like to love that desperately. That even if you gave every breath, every beat of your heart, it still wouldn’t—couldn’t—be enough.”
He nodded. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“You need help,” she began, holding up a hand when he started to argue. “Hear me out. I don’t just mean for the coke. You need help to bring some balance back into your life. Your life, Gray, not hers. Because if you don’t have a life worth living, you have nothing to give her. Do you understand that? If you’d died, where would she be right now?”
His eyes filled and damn if he didn�
�t hate himself even more for it. “Better off,” he whispered.
“You don’t truly believe that. I don’t believe it either, not for a second.” She grabbed hold of his hand and resisted his attempts to pull free with a shockingly firm grip. “The way you feel about her is the kind of love most women dream of. That, my friend, is some epic Titanic type shit, right down to Jack giving up the damn piece of wood, no matter how moronic that appeared to the more logical viewers in the audience.” Her mouth quirked. “Us rational types might make fun of behavior like that, but we still wish with our whole hearts that one day, someone might fall that madly in love with us.”
He frowned. “I never saw Titanic.”
“Figures.” She laughed. “Perfectly good waste of an analogy.”
“Jazz told me she hated that movie.”
Lila sighed. “Kids today. Romantic subtext is completely lost on the lot of you.”
He snorted. “Yeah, because you’re so much older than we are.”
“Maybe not chronologically, no.” She let go of his hand to open up her dainty purse that was the size of Jazz’s wallet. A moment later, she withdrew a slim silver case and sifted through the business cards inside until she found a cream-colored one and handed it over.
“Visions?” he asked, reading the line beneath the rolling hills that made up the company’s logo.
Addiction treatment and recovery.
“You’ve figured out what it is, so I won’t bother explaining. I will say that I’ve known several of the guests there, and they’ve made remarkable progress.”
He shifted on the bed, trying futilely to get comfortable. That was difficult to do when it felt like his bones were being held together with a substance about as solid as gelatin. “Guests like your husband?”
She glanced away. “No. He doesn’t believe he has a problem, so he hasn’t sought treatment.”
“Yet you remain married to the guy.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge unless you’re ready to hop on the bus to Visions yourself. It’s easy to see the flaws in others, much harder to recognize them in ourselves.”
