Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1)

by RB Hilliard

  “So, while the media thinks you are convalescing at home, here’s what’s going to happen,” Blane cut in. “We are taking a two week break from the tour, which will cost us a small fortune, while you spend some time drying out in a nice little drug rehab that’s only a forty minute car ride from here.”

  “Fuck that,” I growled, and tried not to puke as I awkwardly threw off the covers and hauled my ass out of the bed. They could go straight to hell for all I cared because I was not going to a fucking rehab. The doctor jumped to steady me as I swayed on my feet and I pushed him away.

  Right as I reached down to rip the IV from my arm Blane spoke up, “You have no choice, Grant. If you don’t go to rehab you will be in breach of contract, in which case we will drop you from the label. Projections for the tour are upwards of ten million right now. You walk and Meltdown is responsible for every last penny. You and I know this will break you and destroy the band.” At that moment I’d never hated anyone more than I hated Blane Hamilton. If it were about just me I would walk, but it wasn’t. It was Nash who was paying for his mom’s cancer treatments and Luke who was paying for his sister’s culinary school. It was about years of friendship and love, crazy fucked up love for the music. Blane knew this. He was banking on it and I hated him for it. “Do you still want to walk?” he challenged. What I wanted was to plant my fist in his fake tanned face. Taking my lack of response as a no, he continued, “In two weeks we will meet back here in Houston, where you will put on two of the best shows of your career. After that we have five more months until the tour is complete. I strongly suggest you make the most of your time in rehab.” I glanced around the room at my bandmates and realized that not one of them was on my side. Never in my whole life had I felt so alone.

  Turning to Nash, I tried one last time. “I didn’t take Oxy, I can’t, I….” I started to explain how I had an allergy to Oxycodone and couldn’t take it but he wouldn’t listen.

  “If you hadn’t puked when you did, you could have died,” he quietly said. The pain in his voice spoke volumes.

  He was right, I could have died, which raised several questions in my mind. If I didn’t take the Oxy, which I didn’t, then someone spiked my drink. Who would do that to me? Better yet, why? It looked as if I had the next few weeks to figure it out.

  Chapter Two

  From Avalanche to Ambush

  Mallory

  As I rounded the corner I ramped up my pace. I was still behind but not by much. Each pant of breath left little puffs of steam in my wake as I pushed myself harder and harder toward the finish line. Don’t lose her, I chanted in my head. Lowering into a mid-level squat I lifted my poles to my waist. The last time around I wasn’t prepared for the jump and almost fell. This time I had to stick it or I could forget about catching the lead. My skis caught air as I relaxed into the jump and I let out a loud whoop of joy as I stuck a perfect landing. One more sharp turn and I would be at the targets. Purely out of habit, one my trainer Cheryl told me to break but I couldn’t, I reached back to make sure my rifle was ready to go, only to discover it wasn’t there. What the hell? Where’s my rifle? My heart raced with much more than adrenaline as I scrambled to figure out where I’d screwed up. Did I drop it? If so, why didn’t I hear it hit the ground? I needed to stop and assess the situation but if I dared to stop mid circuit, coach would flip his mind. Shifting my poles to my left hand I used my right to double check my rifle harness. Maybe it got tangled in the harness? Please let it be there. As I reached my hand back it brushed across a hard object. I quickly glanced down and gasped. There, strapped to my waist, was a .38 caliber revolver. Before stopping to check it out I glanced back over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me. When I didn’t see anyone I skied over to the side of the trail and stopped. As quickly as possible I slammed my poles into the snow bank, lifted the pistol from the holster and gasped when I recognized the chipped handle. How can this be? As I stared in shock at the revolver my father taught me to shoot when I was thirteen years old, my mind raced. How is a gun which is secured in a lock box at my parent’s home in Lake Placid sitting in my hand? The sound of a rifle discharging brought me back into focus. It also made me realize I was about to forfeit the race. With a growl of frustration I shoved the pistol back into the holster and slipped on my gloves. Right as I lowered my poles to the ground…

  My phone rang.

  I shot up out of bed and gasped, “Oh God, not again.” Just to make sure, I clawed the covers away from my body and sighed in relief when I saw my legs, both intact. Thank you, God. The ridiculous hot pink knee brace my mother sent me last month never looked so good. My phone rang again, and I quickly snatched it off my night stand to see who was calling.

  CiCilia.

  Pressing answer, I raised the phone to my ear. “You’re up early.” I prayed she didn’t hear my voice shake.

  “Trust me, I really wish I wasn’t,” she sighed. I stared down at my knee and wondered why now? “Hey, you okay?” she asked.

  “Other than it being eight in the morning on a Saturday, I’m dandy,” I lied. CiCilia wasn’t only my best friend, she was a mother hen. If I told her I was having the dream again she would worry and, since I’d only had this one, I wasn’t ready to go there with her yet.

  “Sorry about the early hour. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.” She paused for a second before correcting herself, “Okay, maybe I would but I wouldn’t be calling this morning if it wasn’t important.” Her agitated tone got my attention. CiCi rarely got ruffled about anything.

  “You sound stressed. What’s up?” I asked.

  “I did something and I’m not sure you’re going to like it,” she confessed.

  “Uh oh, that sounds ominous.”

  Ignoring my teasing tone, she blurted, “I signed a six month contract with Jeff Jansen this morning.” My jaw dropped. Jeff Jansen was the hottest tennis player alive, and I don’t mean hot in just looks. He was projected to win both Wimbledon and the US Open this year.

  “What?” I screeched.

  “Yeah, apparently he has a thing for uppers and downers and they’re starting to affect his game.”

  Dr. CiCilia M. Woods, or CiCi to her friends, is a psychiatrist who specializes in drug and alcohol rehabilitation. Three years ago she purchased Woodway, a large Victorian home in an affluent area of Dallas known as University Park. Woodway wasn’t just CiCi’s home but was also her place of business. The downstairs housed four offices, a full kitchen and a large meeting room. The meeting room was used for daily AA and NA meetings. While most drug and alcohol specialists worked in rehab facilities, CiCi and her employees worked on a contract only basis. In other words they were paid to travel to the client instead of the client coming to them. Over the past ten years or so there had become quite a demand for in house rehabilitation among the wealthier crowd. For the past year I’d been training under CiCi and recently I’d completed my first assignment, which was an experience to say the least.

  “Has he been through detox yet?” Typically we weren’t called in until Phase Two of the rehab process. Phase Two was when the client was fully detoxed and no longer in denial about their addiction.

  “Nope, I’m going in cold turkey,” she replied. No wonder she was tense. During my training I helped her detox a woman who was addicted to amphetamines. It was one of the scariest things I’d ever been through, and I’d been through a lot.

  “I’m sorry, CiCi, and the answer is yes,” I told her.

  “The answer?”

  “You were going to ask me to assist, right?”

  “Ummm, not exactly. As you know I’ve been trying to break into a broader market for quite some time now. Working with someone like Jeff is exactly what I’ve been hoping for, only I have a slight problem. Two hours after I signed the contract I received a call from an old acquaintance. I treated his cousin a while back and it appears he’s in a bit of a jam. He asked specifically for me but since I’m already obligated, I told him you might be willing
to help out. If I hadn’t already signed with Jeff I would jump at the chance, Mal. We’re talking big time money and seriously high profile.” I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I felt ready and on the other I was scared to death. As if sensing my hesitation, she said, “You’re past ready for this and you know it.”

  “What exactly are we talking about, here?”

  “He didn’t go into specifics but apparently they want five months and you’ll be traveling.”

  I turned up my nose. “Are we talking about a traveling salesman?” I’d heard stories and none of them were good.

  “Not exactly.” I could tell by her tone she was hiding something.

  “What aren’t you telling me, CiCilia?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she innocently replied.

  I wasn’t buying her fake innocent act for one second. “How about this, either you come clean now or you call your friend back right this second and tell him no.” I wasn’t pulling any punches. This was my career and CiCi knew how seriously I took it.

  “Fine, but promise you’ll hear me out before turning it down, okay?”

  “Talk,” I commanded.

  “Have you ever heard the name Blane Hamilton?”

  “No.”

  “Blane Hamilton, the son of Kirkland Hamilton?”

  “I have no idea who that is,” I told her.

  “Good Lord, girl, I swear you live under a rock. Kirkland Hamilton is one of the wealthiest men in Texas. His son, Blane, owns the record label Happenstance.” I’d definitely heard of Happenstance. “Blane is also Meltdown’s manager,” she finished.

  “As in Meltdown the band?” I squeaked.

  “The one and only.”

  “You never told me you were friends with Meltdown’s manager.”

  “I wouldn’t call us friends. I met him twice, once to sign the contract and once to get paid. That was it until today.”

  “Did he relapse?” I asked. CiCi took it hard when her clients relapsed. My heart went out to her.

  “No, Blane called to hire me for the remainder of Meltdown’s US tour, and since I can’t do it…” her voice trailed off.

  “No way,” I whispered. “Wait, why? Oh God, don’t tell me. It wasn’t the flu, was it?” I’d read in the news that Meltdown had to cancel their Houston concert a few weeks back because their lead singer, Grant Hardy, had the flu.

  “I honestly don’t know. For risk management purposes Blane refuses to give any details until contracts are signed.”

  There was no way in hell I could rehab Grant Hardy. He was famous, and gorgeous, and famous and his voice… “They need someone with experience, CiCilia, someone like you or Selma.” Selma was a short, pixie haired Argentinian spitfire who worked with us. She’d been with CiCi from the beginning and would be perfect for the job.

  “I am already under contract and so is Selma. Blane’s desperate, Mal. I wouldn’t have volunteered you if I didn’t think you were ready.”

  “What do you mean you volunteered me?” I screeched.

  “Girl, you had five months to rehab Mr. Eckleston and you did it in three. Even I couldn’t have accomplished that in so little time. This will be challenging but nothing like what you just went through,” she assured me. Her praise meant the world and she was right, Mr. Eckleston was a challenge. Truth be known, he was a nasty, evil little man and an even nastier alcoholic, but he desperately wanted to see his granddaughter get married. CiCi had no clue I used every trick up my sleeve to get him sober, including blackmail. I didn’t plan on telling her, either, until I’d made it well past my first year. She let out an exasperated sigh. “If you really don’t think you’re ready I can get Elaine to do it.” Elaine also worked with us. She was as old as dirt, had a dud of a personality and clients really disliked working with her. Elaine and I butted heads – partially because she was hateful, but mostly because she was an unprofessional bitch of a woman.

  “Don’t you dare,” I told her.

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “Is it Phase One?” I wasn’t ready for detox yet.

  “Phase Two, but you and I both know how challenging Phase Two can be,” she warned. She was not wrong. Phase Two could be tough but it was nothing compared to Phase One.

  After mulling it over for a second, I admitted what was holding me back. “This is more than a challenge. Other than loving his music, I know nothing about Grant Hardy or the world he lives in. What if I screw up? At this stage one misstep could sink my career.”

  “First of all we don’t know if it’s Grant you’ll be working with. Second, as I’ve said time and again, no matter the person one thing remains the same: an addict is an addict. As for your job, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re right. I of all people know this but still…”

  “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I’m nervous, too. Jeff Jansen will be the most important client I’ve ever had. Plus, you know how much I dislike Phase One.”

  Before I could think up another reason not to do it, I went with my gut and said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll do it?” she repeated. The excitement in her voice made me smile.

  “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  “Yessssss,” she hissed. “Okay, I have to run and pack. I’m out of here this afternoon. Blane is calling you within the hour with details. Make sure you check in with me regularly. You’re a natural, Mallory. It’s time you own it, woman.”

  Thirty minutes later I was pouring my second cup of coffee when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but knew it was him. Blane Hamilton, manager to a famous band. A serious case of the nerves set in and I thought about sending it to voicemail. On ring four I picked up, “Hello?”

  “Miss Scott? You do go by the last name Scott now, correct?”

  Surprised by his question, I answered, “Uhhhh, yes.”

  “My name is Blane Hamilton. I hope you don’t mind me calling you on a weekend. I got your name from Dr. Woods earlier this morning. Has she spoken with you, yet? I’m really hoping you can help me out.”

  “Yes, we spoke this morning. I –”

  “We’re kind of on a tight schedule,” he cut in. “Have you heard of the band Meltdown?”

  Who in the world hasn’t heard of Meltdown? They were only one of the hottest new rock bands out. Even I, who preferred older music, paused to listen to Meltdown whenever they came on the radio. Grunge was the first genre of music to resonate with me in the early nineties. Later, when my training picked up, Pearl Jam and Nirvana helped fire me up before competition. Grant Hardy’s voice fell somewhere between Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain for me.

  “No offense Mr. Hamilton but I think the whole world has heard of Meltdown,” I nervously responded.

  “Yes, well, as their manager I take care of all business and PR related items. I assume you’ve seen the news and tabloids by now?”

  “Uh, yes, the news, that is. I try to avoid the tabloids if at all possible.”

  “Yes, I imagine you do.” His sharp tone stung and I sucked in a surprised breath. Apparently Mr. Hamilton had done his homework. “I’m sorry, Miss Scott. I didn’t mean to offend. As you can see, the situation has put me on edge, and I apologize. On behalf of Meltdown and the Happenstance management team, I would like to hire you to finish out the rest of the US tour with us. We have approximately five months remaining.”

  Before telling him yes I pushed for more information. “Dr. Woods told me very little about the situation this morning. I was hoping you would be able to fill in some blanks.”

  “Until you sign a contract, which includes a solid non-disclosure agreement, I can’t give you any details. All I can say is that we have to finish this tour and, in order to do so, we need your services.” His close-mouthed response impressed me. If only my manager had shown me the same respect all those years ago.

  “Can you at least tell me what type of…”

  “No, I can’t,” he cut me off. “Look,
either you’re in or out. Either way I need to know before we hang up.” At first I was simply assessing Mr. Hamilton, but this time I didn’t question it. The man was rude.

  “Let me be straight with you, Mr. Hamilton. I’m not comfortable going into this blind.”

  “And I sincerely apologize for that, but to minimize liabilities I cannot and will not divulge any information without first having a signed contract. Surely you of all people understand my need for the utmost discretion,” he firmly stated. Clearly the man was not going to budge. This meant it was up to me to either accept his offer or walk away. I was tempted to walk but knew CiCi would kill me if I did.

  “When do you need me?” I hesitantly asked.

  He let out a big sigh of relief. “I need you in Houston first thing Tuesday morning. My assistant, Marcy, will call you with flight arrangements and details.”

  “Okay, do I –”

  “Welcome on board, Miss Scott,” he cut me off mid-question and then hung up.

  Seriously rude.

  An hour later a much nicer Marcy called to finalize flight plans. She also gave an address where I could ship the bulk of my clothing. On the way to the grocery store I called CiCi and relayed the details of my conversation with Blane, including how rude he was. She played it off as job stress. Try personality flaw. On the way home I called my parents in New York. As usual, Mom was excited and Dad was disappointed. I’d stopped trying to please my dad a long time ago but his disappointment still stung.

  Monday, my last night in town, I went to the movies with a few friends. On the drive home I flipped on the radio and Meltdown happened to be playing. Avalanche was possibly my favorite song of theirs and I couldn’t believe that tomorrow I would be meeting the man who sang it. The song started out with a slow, sultry guitar solo. Turning up the volume I reflected upon how strange life could be. Two weeks ago I was happily saying goodbye to a cranky but sober Mr. Eckleston, and tomorrow I was going on tour with one of the hottest bands on the radio. I’m actually going to meet Grant Hardy. His hauntingly soulful voice poured through the speakers and I cranked the volume up another notch. The beat of the music thrummed through the steering wheel under my fingertips and I tapped them rhythmically as I sang along. When Grant’s voice soared to an impossibly high note, goose bumps erupted all over my body. Louder and louder he climbed and I was right there with him, shouting the lyrics like a mad woman. As quickly as it began, it was over and I was once again left empty. The music and lyrics were paired to perfection. Life was an avalanche. If you didn’t take control of it, it could take you down and bury you alive.