Playing by Heart

by JB Salsbury

  Playing by Heart

  JB Salsbury

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading Playing by Heart.

  Other Books By JB Salsbury

  About the Author

  Playing by Heart

  Copyright © 2018 by JB Salsbury All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including pho- tocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is in violation of the International copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Pixel Mischief Design

  Editing: Joy Editing

  Interior Design & Formatting: Tattered Quill Designs

  Prologue

  Two months ago…

  Bethany

  Will the heartbreak ever stop hurting?

  I figured after a few days, the pain in my chest would go away. Even now, as I rub the sore spot on my sternum, the emptiness only intensifies. From the backseat of my car, I stare through blurry eyes at the neon DQ sign across the parking lot and bring the bottle of Malibu rum to my lips. Tilting it back, I gulp, then I gag at the pungent coconut flavor. I accept the burn and twisting in my gut as my punishment. I deserve this after how badly I messed things up.

  I was too needy.

  Too in love and somehow blind to my own faults.

  My head is heavy as I look at the gray upholstery to my left, then to my right. I can still smell him here. Tears fall in sloppy splashes from my chin to disappear into the fabric. Poetic, really. The last place I remember feeling happy is right where those tears belong.

  I sniff back my emotion and take another gulp of rum.

  My phone lights up in the front seat—another text from my roommate asking where I am. I snort as I imagine her reaction if I told her what I’m doing. She’d be pissed, accuse me of wallowing.

  I take another sip.

  Maybe she’d be right.

  If only there was a way to erase some of the past. A way to start over. Try again. Maybe he’d give me another chance.

  A small voice in my head whispers I might not be thinking clearly from being three-quarters of the way down a bottle of booze, but I close my eyes and push away the nagging voice of reason.

  I just want to be rid of the memories.

  I set the bottle down next to me and thumb the book of matches I had kept in my purse. The gilded resort emblem catches the distant streetlights. We were happy there. At least, I think we were. Memories bring a fresh onslaught of tears. I close my eyes, and the darkness makes me sway. I throw down a hand to keep from toppling over. The scent of coconut rum permeates my nose.

  Moving slowly, I snag the bottle, but I’m too late. Its contents soak the cushions of my backseat.

  “Great…” My voice sounds foreign, lazy, my tongue thick and heavy.

  I fumble with the door handle and kick the thing open before crawling out and spilling onto the asphalt. Deranged laughter falls from my lips and mixes with my gentle sobbing.

  “I’m a mess.” I flip over onto my back, then sit up and stare through the open back door of my car.

  My mind’s eye flashes with images of naked skin pressed against naked skin. Hands gripping, lips sucking, the sound of our lovemaking wrapping us in a blanket of ecstasy.

  Whispered words between heated moans…

  I love you.

  I close my eyes as more tears spill.

  You’re the kind of woman a man marries.

  Anger stirs in my gut, chasing away the heartbreak. I open my eyes and glare into the backseat.

  Before I’m even aware of what I’m doing, a lighted match flies, then another, and another, each one burning out in the air. I look down and rip at them furiously, lighting the entire book before tossing it away.

  “Burn,” I growl through a cascade of sadness.

  Flames crawl up the fabric.

  I feel my lips pull into a deranged grin as I watch what was left of us burn, and with the flames, the pressure in my chest lightens. With stiff, robotic movements, I stand and grab my phone and purse from the front seat.

  I give the fire one last glance and nod. “Good.”

  Now I can start over. Become a better person, the kind of woman he’d never leave.

  Drunk, I stumble away without a single regret.

  1

  Present Day…

  Jesse

  I know what’s happening the second the freezing water hits my face. I’ve felt it before. The bite of the cold combines with the bruising force of ice cubes, and I’m aware of the degree of trouble I’m in by the force with which they’re thrown. On a scale of one to ten, these cubes bitch-slapped me at an eight.

  I put my hands up to protect my face—admittedly too late, but my reflexes are for shit. My skin stings like a motherfucker. A low growl of irritation reverberates in my foggy head as I cling to the cold and try to peel my eyes open.

  I’m more fucked up than I thought.

  “Wake up, Jesse.” The disappointment in my manager’s voice is as familiar as the ice-bucket wake-up call.

  My mouth tastes like a garbage dump in a one-hundred-year-old wasteland. I rub my eyes, push away a few small chunks of ice, and roll toward the voice. Peeling back my eyelids takes effort. I’m tempted to use my fingers to pry them open, but I don’t because I’ve got a reputation for bouncing back after a party. At the ripe age of twenty-eight, nearly the Golden Years for a rock star, I refuse to admit I’m getting too old for this shit.

  “What time is it?” My voice sounds as if it’s being raked over broken glass, which is about right considering my throat feels as though it’s coated in thorns.

  After a long sigh and frustrated puff of breath, the man speaks. “I think the question you mean to ask is what day is it.”

  With every blink, more blood flows back to my eyes and his blurry form comes into focus. He offers me a tall to-go cup and my mouth waters. I clear my throat and sit up slowly. The walls spin until I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant them firmly on the carpeted floor. The world stills. Works every time.

  I smile, feeling victorious as I grab the coffee. The first few sips do wonders for my throat, and when I speak again, my voice sounds a little more like me—still rough as usual, but less Walking Dead. I run a hand through my hair and feel it sticking out at all ends—again, my usual. “Are the guys warmed up? I have a good feeling about today. We laid down some pretty sick tracks yesterday.”

  Dave’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. For as young as the guy is—only a few years older than me—he
looks double his age with bags and premature wrinkles around his eyes. He’s every bit the high-powered LA talent manager and works the parental scowl better than my parents ever did. “Is that right? You laid down sick tracks yesterday, did you? Good feelings?”

  My smile falls a little. He’s doing that question thing he does when I’m in really big trouble. “Um…” There’s never a right answer when he gets like this. He’s not looking for answers anyway—or rather, he is, but there’s only one answer he wants to hear. “Sorry, did I fuck up again?”

  “Did you fuck up. Again.”

  Oh shit, it’s the non-question repeat of my question.

  I must’ve fucked up again.

  I toss aside the comforter and stand up, because action is always the best response to Dave’s anger. Just get up and start moving. There’s a cold breeze between my legs. The naked puzzle piece works to make a full picture that points to why my manager of ten years is looking at me as if he caught me fucking his sister.

  My toes flex on the luxury shag carpet. I swing my gaze to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Los Angeles. My stomach sinks.

  “I’m not at the house,” I mumble.

  “What gave it away? The crystal fucking chandeliers? The fact that not a single one of your band members is here with you? Speaking of, where the fuck is Trey?”

  Oh shit, we’ve graduated to rapid-fire questions. Not good.

  My head throbs when I turn around to take in the room. The filigree wallpaper, white-gloss molding, tables covered in empty bottles of Dom and Macallan, and the remnants of white powder my nose must’ve missed.

  I spot the door on the far end of the room and I nod. “He’s probably in there.”

  Dave leans back in some ornate, French-style foo-foo chair, crossing his arms as if he’s waiting for the fireworks show—a.k.a. my memory to fall back into place.

  “Look, I’ll grab my shit and meet you back at—” I step on something. I peer down to see a ripped condom wrapper. And it’s not alone. At least a dozen are scattered all around the bed.

  From the look on Dave’s face, he saw them before I did, and he shakes his head as more disappointment tightens his expression.

  Right, I need to find my clothes. I twist around, and every muscle in my body screams in pain. My gaze snags on a head of bleached-blond hair on the pillow next to mine. All right, so I picked up a groupie and brought her back to a hotel room for a night of absolute debauchery. Dave can’t blame me for that.

  There’s also a lump at the foot of the bed. A big one.

  I rip the comforter back to reveal two bare-ass-naked women.

  “Huh…” I would’ve thought I’d remember them, but my mind is a black hole.

  “Huh? Huh?!” He’s yelling now.

  I cover the girls back up and spot my jeans on the floor. I slip them on as quickly as possible without falling face first into the bedside table. “Look, I know you’re pissed.”

  “Pissed? You think this is pissed? No, I’m fucking beyond pissed.”

  His voice follows me as I make my way around the room, searching for my shit. My wallet, where’s my phone—oh my shirt!

  “This is a PR nightmare! I ask you for one thing, one fucking thing, and you can’t even do that! I rented you a mansion with a top-of-the-line recording studio for the band and even that’s not enough. Your album was supposed to release in six weeks, Jesse! Six weeks!”

  The door at the far end of the room opens and my bodyguard, Trey, comes stumbling out, wearing nothing but black boxers. “What the fuck is going—oh, shit.” He sounds like a kid who got caught with his dad’s Playboys. “Dave.”

  My manager’s head whips around and glares at the six-foot-five wall of pure muscle as Trey cowers a little. “You’re fucking fired.”

  “Hold on.” I spot my phone on the coffee table and snag it. “Don’t overreact. This isn’t Trey’s fault.”

  He stabs a finger toward the spot Trey is no longer standing in. My guess is he’s on a mad dash to grab his shit too. “It’s his job to keep you safe.”

  “I’m a grown-ass man.” I pull my T-shirt over my head.

  “Really? A grown-ass man, huh?” He gets right in my face. At just over six-feet tall, I’ve got a few inches on him, but you’d never know it by the way he’s glaring at me. “Then tell me, what day is it?”

  I have no idea, so I chuckle. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I want you to tell me—”

  A symphony of female whispers erupts from the door Trey came from as he ushers two girls in tight mini-skirts out of the bedroom. They lock eyes with me, and I smile. The brunette with big hair runs up to me and throws her arms around my neck. I stumble backward—thanks to my hangover—and hold her around the waist to keep from taking us both down.

  “You’re so hot.” She smells like stale perfume and last night’s binge. “I love you.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I love you too.” I loosen her arms from my neck as Trey hooks her around the waist from behind and pries her off me.

  I notice he’s holding the other one back too, her big eyes rimmed with black makeup as she blinks at me. After eight years of mega success, I fall easily into meet-and-greet mode and flash her a lazy grin that has her reaching for me.

  “Party’s over, ladies.” Trey escorts the two women out, then he goes to fish the girls from the bed I slept in.

  I lock myself in the bathroom, take a piss, splash cold water on my face, and check my phone so I can finally answer Dave’s question about what day it is. The piece of shit is dead.

  I brace my weight on my arms and hang my head. The last thing I remember is working on music at the mansion. Nathan and I got into it over a drum solo he wrote, and I left to grab a drink and cool down. Trey took me to a little dive bar where he knows the owner, and we were drinking Jameson, I remember that. Connecting the dots, we must’ve gone somewhere else, picked up some chicks, and grabbed the penthouse for the night.

  Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do with the deadline for the album looming, but one night off seems reasonable.

  I grab the little bottle of free mouthwash and try to gargle the taste of rotten ass from my throat. I’m sure Trey had the girls sign NDAs before we made it to the hotel. No matter how drunk or high we’ve gotten, he’s never let me down when it comes to making sure my private life stays private.

  When I open the bathroom door, I’m grateful to see the bed empty. The door to the hotel room closes, and Trey comes into the living room, looking apologetic. Dave is on the couch with one of the women from my bed. Her back is toward me as she speaks quietly to my manager.

  “Please, you can’t do this. Think of the band,” Dave whispers.

  The blonde is sniffling, and Trey hands her a tissue before looking at me. I grin and he refuses to meet my eyes. What the fuck?

  “I’m sorry, I can’t go back.” More sniffles.

  What the hell is going on?

  She pushes back her long hair, and her profile catches me off guard. “We’re in love, Dave. I know it’s not the answer you want, but it’s—”

  “Kayla, please—”

  The name is a punch to the ribs. “Kayla?”

  She whirls around to face me and—oh fuck!

  I rip my hands through my hair and close my eyes. “I didn’t. No, I didn’t, I didn’t, I—”

  Warm, feminine hands come around my waist, and she presses herself to my front. My eyes pop wide open to stare at the ceiling, but my hands stay firmly tangled in my hair.

  “Jesse, it’ll be okay. We’ll tell Nathan—”

  “Shit.” I step back out of her arms and look at her as if seeing her for the first time—her tight red mini-dress, long thick hair, big lips, and even bigger eyes as she stares at me in shock. “Listen, Kayla, this was fun and all”—I think. Flashes of us kissing hungrily and falling into bed assault me. Yeah, it was definitely fun.—“but I have to think of the band.”

  “What
?” She blinks slowly. “What are you saying? You told me we were forever. You said…” She clears her throat as her eyes fill with tears. “You told me you love me.”

  Dave groans and throws his hands in the air before falling back on the couch and rubbing the shit out of his face.

  “I do love you.” Love the way your lips feel against my skin, love the way you worship me in bed, love the way you apparently let me bring another woman into bed with us, but… “You’re engaged to my drummer—”

  “Ex-drummer,” Dave groans.

  I whip my gaze to him so quickly I get dizzy. “What do you mean ex-drummer?”

  Dave stands and stares at me with cold-hearted detachment. “Nathan quit. Three days ago.”

  “That’s impossible! We were recording yesterday—”

  “Five days ago.”

  “No, I was—”

  “Nathan called me and told me you walked out, throwing a hissy fit, five days ago.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kayla broke up with him the next day to run off with you, and he quit.”

  “Jesse”—she tugs on my shoulder—“come on, baby. We don’t need this.”

  “Wait, I need a second.” My head pounds and my gut churns.

  “Sure, yeah.” She rubs against my side, tucking in close. “Whatever you need.”

  Her presence is annoying and confusing. I step out of her hold. “Trey, please make sure Kayla gets home.”

  My bodyguard gently ushers a crying Kayla toward the door.

  “You told me you love me!” The door closes behind her, and I hear her yelling all the way down the hallway to the elevator.