“Why?” he asks. I’m sure he knows how much I’d rather be fucking than here.
We step off the elevator and Fox swipes us into the suite. My thoughts make me laugh, along with the alcohol in my system.
Swiper no swiping. A classic when it comes to Fox.
“She said she didn’t feel good and has homework,” I explain, following behind Fox.
Cannon lets the door swing closed behind us and latches the chain at the top of the door.
“You mean, you respected her wishes? I’m shocked.”
“Hey, man, if you knew what we did last night you’d get it.”
My thoughts drift back to fucking her in the club against the wall, where anyone could see us if they came along.
“I don’t need to hear about your sexcapades,” Cannon groans, turning away from me.
“Who said I was going to give you details?” I crack a grin. “I’m going to shower.”
“Good, you smell like a brewery,” he quips, opening the refrigerator and picking up a bottle of water.
“We can’t all be one and done like you.” I give him the finger and close the door behind me as I enter my room.
I head into the bathroom and shower. I stand beneath the hot spray of water longer than I normally do. My muscles are tight from sitting behind my drum kit for hours today. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it does take a toll on my body.
Washing my hair and body I watch the white suds swirl down the drain and disappear. My blond hair falls forward, dripping wet and I shove it back with my fingers. I need a trim, but I haven’t bothered, now it’s becoming a nuisance.
I get out, drying my body with one of the hotel’s fluffy white towels. I’ve become spoiled to having such luxury handed to me by staying here—even our clothes get washed for us. Back in L.A. my apartment was barely the size of the bedroom space I have in the suite, and I definitely had to do my own fucking laundry. Not that I mind taking care of shit like that, but does anyone actually enjoy doing laundry?
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and grab my phone from the floor where it fell out of the pocket of my jeans.
Me: How are you feeling? Do you need me to bring you anything? I’m a liiiiittle drunk … okay, pretty drunk, but I’m sure I could get something delivered if you need it.
I settle on the bed, turning the TV on, and crossing my legs. A few minutes pass and I check my phone. It shows she’s read my message, but no response and no little bubbles indicate she’s typing back a response.
I grind my teeth together in worry, wondering if she’s feeling so rough she can’t respond.
If I was in better shape I would just go over there—but I can’t drive like this, and while her place isn’t far, it is far enough I need to drive so I don’t have to walk in the freezing cold. Plus, as much as I had to drink, I’m not sure I could walk straight and the last thing I need is to get cited for public intoxication.
I try my best to focus on the show, but it barely holds my attention. I flip through the channels, not finding much on.
Finally, when thirty minutes have passed I can’t take it any longer.
Me: I’m worried about you. Are you okay?
This time she responds immediately.
Kira: I’m fine.
Me: You’re fine? That’s all I get.
Kira: I finished my homework and I’m laying on the couch now. Does that suffice?
Even though it’s a text message I can sense her sass in every word.
Me: I worry about you.
Kira: I’m not your concern.
Her tone is curt and I feel my throat closing up, remembering our conversation from this morning. Fuck, it feels like days ago, not hours.
I set my phone down, but my eyes keep straying to it every few seconds as I resist the urge to say more to her.
Finally, I turn it completely off so I can’t be tempted, especially in my drunken state.
I can feel her slipping from my grasp, and for once I’m at a loss as to what I’ve done.
11
Kira
I enter my apartment after a long day at the hospital shadowing Dr. Hawkins who works with cancer patients. I’m exhausted, my feet aching, but my mental state is in the worst shape of all.
I feel so lost and confused. A part of me is trying to pretend this isn’t happening, that it’s not real, but the fact of the matter is I’m pregnant and Rush is the father.
Locking the door behind me, I drop my keys on the counter and kick off my shoes. A shower is calling my name, and after that I’m piling into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and possibly having a good cry. I hate crying, it feels weak, but right now I’m afraid I might drown in my emotions if I don’t.
I head down the hall into my bedroom and then the bathroom. I turn the shower on before stripping out of my clothes and piling them into the overflowing laundry basket. Glaring at the basket I know I have to make a trip down the street to the Laundromat tomorrow. There’s no way I can put off not going any longer.
Taking a long shower, I let the hot water uncoil my stiff muscles. Stress has made my whole body curl into itself and now I’m paying for it with an aching back and shoulders.
With a loud squeak of the knob I turn the shower off and step out, drying my body with one of my cheap purple towels I got on clearance at Target, before wrapping it around me.
I brush my wet hair and sweep it up into a messy bun.
Padding into my room I let my towel drop and yank on a pair of sweater knit leggings and a soft t-shirt, piling a sweatshirt on over that. I add my towel to the precarious stack of dirty things and climb in bed, turning my TV on.
It’s not even late, barely after five, but I feel like I could go to sleep and not wake up for a few years. Whenever I’m stressed, I tend to become ridiculously sleepy. It’s my coping mechanism. If I’m asleep I’m blissfully unaware of how hellish my life is.
When I’m awake there’s no escaping the reality.
I curl my arms around my pillow, cradling it against me.
I feel pathetic.
Pathetic and lost.
I’ve always been the take-charge person. I never doubted what to do in any situation and now here I am doubting everything.
I took strict precautions to prevent this kind of thing. Never missing a dose of birth control and making sure any man I slept with was wrapped up tight. I knew I didn’t want a baby now, maybe not ever, so I thought I was being smart and safe—doing what needed to be done to prevent the risk, but leave it to me to be in the teeny-tiny category who covers all their bases and still ends up knocked up.
It isn’t fair. I’m not ready to take care of a child, and I don’t see how I could be a good mother, and the last thing I’d ever want to be is like mine. She gave me a clear outline of how not to treat your children. My father didn’t help matters either. But at least he’s in jail states away. The only decent thing my mother ever did for the both of us was move to this area after he was sentenced.
A knock on my door startles me out of my thoughts. Mia texted me earlier asking if I wanted her to come over or bring anything, I said no, but it’s just like her to show up anyway. She’s the kind of friend who always wants to make things better, even when she can’t.
I force myself out of bed as another knock sounds against the door.
When I reach the door, I swing it open and my breath leaves me, because it isn’t Mia standing on the other side.
“Rush,” I breathe, rendered practically speechless. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs nonchalantly, but I can tell from that one simple movement he’s unsure of himself. “You were kind of … short with me last night. Did I do something?”
Yeah, your fucking sperm fertilized my stupid, treacherous, no good egg.
“I just didn’t feel good,” I say by way of explanation. It’s not a complete lie. I was so upset last night I did feel sick.
“Can I come in?” he asks, flicking his
fingers toward the inside of my apartment. “I would’ve let myself in with my key, but that seemed rude.”
I should ask for his key back right this second, but I know I can’t raise his suspicions of something being wrong. Not until I figure out what I’m doing. This is my body, my future on the line. I know if I keep this baby I’m doing it on my own while he gallivants across the country with his band. It’s what’ll happen. I know it.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I hedge, blocking his way inside with my body and inching the door closer.
“Why not?” He raises one blond brow. The silver ring piercing in his right ear glimmers in the outdoor light beside the door.
“I’m tired,” I explain, trying to sound light. “I just got in from class and I want to crash.”
His shoulders drop ever so slightly. Someone else might not even notice it.
“Well, here,” he holds out a bag to me, “I figured if you weren’t feeling well, you’d forget to eat dinner. It’s soup and a sandwich from Panera.”
My throat closes up as I take the bag from him. “Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, drawing his shoulders up close to his ears. “I’ll go, then.”
He starts down the stairs and I watch as he gets in his truck and pulls away before I close and lock the door. Setting the bag down on the counter I unpack the contents.
That’s when I realize he got food for himself too, hoping we could eat together, and when I turned him away he said nothing more. Just gave me the food and left.
My heart seizes and I’m even more confused than I was before.
12
Rush
It’s been days since I’ve seen Kira. Days since I dropped off that food for her, hoping she’d invite me in and I could join her. I was worried about her, still am, but despite all the texts I’ve sent her in the last five days she still hasn’t answered a single one and I’m baffled as to what the fuck I did.
Did I get too close? Too attached? Is she scared I have feelings for her? I mean, I like her company, and I like her, but I don’t love her. If that’s what she’s afraid of there’s no need for it. But I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t have many friends, because I’m picky, and when I do pick friends, I care about them and want to take care of them when they need someone and in Kira’s case the only person she has is Mia. Is it wrong of me to want to help her? To be there for her?
I bang my drumsticks against my kit, trying to beat out my confusion and anger. I asked Mia for her keys so I could come back this evening to the studio. I thought an hour would suffice and I’d feel better, but I’ve been here for three hours and the alcohol I swiped from the hotel suite are almost gone and I’m nowhere near less confused than when I started.
I’m not even playing a song, instead banging out my own beat that sounds nice to my ears. Thank God these rooms are soundproof, or the surrounding buildings would be issuing a complaint at this late hour.
A bandana is rolled up, keeping my hair from flopping in my face, and it’s wet with sweat now.
I stop drumming long enough to grab another mini bottle. I raided the hotel room’s alcohol supply before leaving. I knew I’d need something to take the edge off, and the nearest liquor store was five miles away.
I know this is the wrong method of dealing with things, but it’s the only thing I know how to do. Alcohol numbs my pain in a way nothing else can, and sex distracts me. But since Kira is the reason I’m confused out of my mind, that means sex is off the table. So liquor it is.
I giggle to myself and lift the tiny Jack Daniel’s bottle in a toast, like someone else is there.
I drum out a beat with one hand while I tilt my head back, slurping down the liquid. It burns, but I don’t care, it’s part of the appeal after all. Maybe it can burn away my sins while it’s at it.
The door to the booth opens and Cannon leans against the doorway.
“Caaannnnnooon,” I drawl out his name. “Ahoy, my man. Come to hang out?”
“I’ve come to take your ass back to the hotel to sober up.”
“Ach, I don’t need to sober up. I’m dandy. Having a spanking good time.”
He raises a brow.
“Ye can grab a drink. There’s one left. Malibu, gross.”
“Rush?” he asks hesitantly. “How drunk are you?”
I push air out through my lips. “Drunk? Not at all.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye.”
“Are you a fucking pirate?”
“Arrr, me hearty.”
“Fuck.”
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me,” I sing, tossing my now empty plastic bottle on the floor. I start drumming again, bobbing my head to the beat. My stomach rolls, but I don’t care. If I vomit all over my drum set it won’t be the first time.
Cannon starts picking up the trash.
“Stop drumming, Rush. I’m taking you to the hotel.”
“No, ye can’t make me.”
“Is that so, Captain Jack Sparrow?”
“Aye.”
“Why do I always have to clean up everyone’s mess,” he grumbles to himself.
“No one asks you to.”
When he has everything thrown away, he pulls out the trash bag and ties it off, swinging it over his shoulder so no evidence of my misadventure is left behind.
“We’re going,” he says sternly, grabbing my arm.
I drop my sticks and make like I’m going along with him, then I run for it, tossing the keys in my pocket behind so good, responsible Cannon will stop and lock up.
I push the door open into the cool night air. It stings the bare skin of my arms since I don’t have a coat or anything.
“Rush!”
When I hear Cannon’s voice, I run faster down the street away from the hotel.
His footsteps thump behind me and I laugh loudly at the fact I’m running down the street away from my friend, who’s carrying a bag of trash.
“Rush! Dammit!”
I trip over a bench and go sprawling on the ground.
“Aye, mate, when did that get put there?” I ask, rolling over and looking up at him.
“It’s always been there. You’re just a fucking idiot.” He grabs my hand and hauls me up. He tosses my left arm around his shoulders so he can steady me.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“You don’t understand—”
I throw up all over the bottom of his jeans and his shoes.
“I should throw you in the fucking sewer and let you rot. You have a fucking problem, Rush.” He bites out the words in disgust and anger. Sober, I’d be bothered by his tone, but I’m too drunk to care.
“No, I don’t,” I say as he guides me down the street, back toward the hotel.
I don’t have the energy to try to get away from him anymore.
He stops walking and glares at me.
“You’re an alcoholic, Rush.”
“No, I’m not,” I defend, blatantly offended by his accusation.
I’m not. I can’t be. Yeah, I like to drink. A lot. And often. But that doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic. I can handle my liquor.
“Clearly, you can’t.”
Did I say that part out loud?
“Yes, you did. Which further proves my point. You need help, man.”
“No, what I need is people to stop pissing me off and fucking confusing me. It makes my brain hurt. Then I drink to feel better.”
“Drinking is a weak ass, pathetic excuse and you know it.”
I sniffle.
“I watched you go on a downward spiral when you lost your parents.”
“Don’t talk about them!” I shout with all the force I have in my body.
He barrels on anyway. “You drank yourself into oblivion, you partied hard, and for all I know you did drugs too.”
I stop him. “No, I never … I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”
&n
bsp; He stares at me for a moment and must see the sincerity in my eyes, because he nods.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but this has to stop. You can’t turn to alcohol any time things get a little tough for you.”
“God, can you shut up?” I groan, my head pounding. I’d been focused on playing the drums and didn’t realize I was giving myself a migraine—not to mention the shit ton of booze cruising through my system.
“No,” he thunders, his voice firm as he drags me into the hotel and over to wait for an elevator. He props me against the wall and stares me down. “You’ve got to get your life together, man. Your parents wouldn’t want this for you.”
I glower at him, pointing a finger in warning. “Do not bring my parents into this. No one knows what they’d want since they’re dead.”
He pushes my shoulders roughly and my head knocks into the back of the wall.
“I won’t watch my best friend throw his life away.” If I wasn’t so wasted I would swear there are tears in his eyes. He grabs my shirt between both his hands and holds me upright. “You’re so fucking selfish you never stop to think about what it would do to me, to all of us, your friends, if you were gone, and that’s exactly what’ll happen if you continue down this path.”
The elevator opens and he drags me inside.
“I have nothing worthwhile to give this world,” I sigh, tilting my head up toward the mirrored ceiling—bad idea as my stomach rolls.
“Is that what you really think?” he asks, his mouth parted in horror.
A second passes, two, three.
“It’s what I know.”
13
Kira
“How are you feeling?” Mia asks me, as we take our break at The Sub Club and sit down to eat our dinner.
I pick at the sub I made to eat. I’m not hungry, but I know I need to eat. I haven’t touched anything resembling food all day and I can’t keep going if I don’t give my body some sort of fuel.
Wild Flame (The Wild: A Rock Star Romance Book 2) Page 10