by RB Hilliard
I knew this all too well.
Fourteen hours later…
“Welcome to Houston,” Blane Hamilton greeted, as he took the handle of my suitcase and began rolling it towards the door. I hefted my ridiculously heavy carry on over my shoulder and hurried after him.
“I’m surprised you came for me in person,” I called out.
“Yes, well, there are things we need to discuss before meeting up with the band.” His ominous tone gave me pause.
Blane halted at the curb and I finally caught up with him. “Such as?” He waved his hand and a few seconds later a black Suburban with tinted windows pulled up. A giant of a man jumped out of the front seat and jogged around to greet us.
“Mallory Scott, this is Hank Brown. Hank is head of Meltdown’s security team. He will debrief you on security protocol once we get you settled in.”
“Glad to have you on board,” Hank said, and then disappeared to the back of the truck with my suitcase in tow.
Blane opened the car door and waited for me to slide in. I was surprised when he slid in beside me. As if reading my mind, he said, “It will be easier to talk this way.” The driver’s side opened, Hank hopped in and off we went. After a minute or so of driving, Blane turned to me and smiled. “First of all, I want to thank you for taking this job on such short notice. I know I was vague on the phone but the situation called for it.”
While he was talking I had the chance to observe him. Medium brown hair streaked with subtle blonde highlights dramatically swept across a rather large forehead. His big brown eyes and perfect teeth stood out against his very tan skin. Wearing a blue suit, pink dress shirt and flowered tie, Blane Hamilton wasn’t necessarily bad looking but he wasn’t good looking either. As CiCilia would say, he was a little too well put together. I glanced down at his perfectly buffed wing tips and noticed his socks matched his tie. I tried to recall if I’d ever known a man to match his tie with his socks before, which led me to wonder if his underwear matched as well. I bet it did.
Reaching down into his briefcase he pulled out a file. “Before I give you the details, let’s get this out of the way.” He whipped open the file and set it in my lap. “Here is what we are willing to pay you for the five months.” My eyes bugged at the numbers. They were offering me three times what I made with my last client, and that was nothing to sneeze about. He flipped the page. “Once we agree on compensation, I will need you to read over and sign the non-disclosure and privacy forms. You can take your time perusing both but let me highlight the important elements for you. Under no circumstances are you to speak to anyone outside of Meltdown and the management team about what happens while you are in our employment. I’m okay with you talking on a professional basis to your superiors but not gossiping. Let me warn you, if you talk, especially to the press, you will be subject to an immediate and very costly lawsuit, and trust me, we will sue.” I glanced up and his stern expression broke into a bleached white smile. “I’m sure this is no different than the non-disclosures you’ve signed in your past contracts. It’s just protocol.” Yeah, right. His cool tone put me on edge for some reason. After a slight pause, I flipped back to page one and signed at the bottom. Once I signed the other three forms, I closed the file and handed him back his pen. Then I waited. Without hesitation he pulled a second file from his briefcase and handed it to me. I could tell by the writing at the top that it was a toxicology report. The name in the upper right hand corner jumped out at me. Grant Erwin Hardy. Once I got over his middle name being Erwin, I began to peruse the report. What I found was shocking.
My eyes flew to Blane’s. “Was he trying to kill himself?” The amount of Oxycodone in his system was beyond alarming.
He shook his head and answered, “Most definitely not.”
Wanting to get a feel for Grant’s mental state, I asked, “Has he done anything like this before?”
“Not while he’s been with the label. Grant’s wild but up until now he’s been responsible.”
I stared down at the numbers on the page. “This is far from responsible, Mr. Hamilton. Grant Hardy is lucky to be alive right now.” Oxy was known to produce some wicked side effects, especially when taken in such large doses. When I was done with the report I closed the file.
“We can’t afford to miss any more of the tour. The rehab facility recommended Grant stay for a longer period of time but for obvious reasons we couldn’t comply. This is where you come in.”
“Do you have the file from his stay in the facility?” I asked. Regardless of what Mr. Hamilton said, that was an overdose if I’d ever seen one. If Grant Hardy was trying to kill himself, I had a lot more on my hands then addiction. I would need to take a look at the doctor’s notes before forming an opinion, however.
“No but I can get it for you.”
“Thanks,” I smiled up at him. “I’m relieved Mr. Hardy was receptive to rehab. Nine times out of ten it’s a forced situation. It makes my job much easier when I’m well received by the patient.” He physically blanched and my stomach lurched. “What?”
“Grant, uh, wasn’t exactly receptive to rehab. In fact, he claimed, and is still claiming, he doesn’t have a problem and that he didn’t take the Oxy.”
“Do you believe him?” He seemed surprised by my question.
“The proof is right there,” he pointed to the file in my hand.
“But surely you checked his story out?” I questioned.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Scott, your job is to rehab Grant Hardy, nothing more and nothing less. Are we clear?” I stared at him for a long second before nodding my head yes.
Steering the conversation back to the subject at hand, I asked, “Mr. Hardy did actually go to rehab, correct?”
“He did but I’ll warn you, he came back angry.” I opened my mouth to ask why but he cut me off. “Our media team was on top of it. Otherwise Grant could have embarrassed the label and caused irreparable damage. We expect your full cooperation, Miss Scott. The label has serious money tied up in endorsements right now. If Grant refuses to comply with the rehabilitation program you’ve designed, we won’t hesitate to drop him from the label. Trust me when I say no one wants this to happen, most of all Grant.”
“Mr. Hamilton,” I started to say but he cut me off a second time.
“Can I be candid with you, Miss Scott? Grant is my friend and a brilliant musician. I don’t want to see him go down this way. None of us do. We have to get through this tour.” For the third time I opened my mouth to speak. This time, when Blane attempted to cut me off, I put my hand in his face to stop him.
“Don’t,” I warned. He managed to look embarrassed. “First off let me say that your lack of support is shocking. Second,” I pointed to his briefcase, “As you so kindly pointed out, that contract says I’m here for one reason only and that’s to rehabilitate Grant Hardy, correct?” This man had just pulled a bait and switch on me and I was disgusted by it. I did not like feeling used. “Last, I want it in writing that if you interfere with my process I can walk but will still be paid for the time I put in.”
When he realized I was dead serious he began backpedaling. “Of course I care about Grant. He’s my friend and I’m only trying to take care of him. I promise not to interfere with your process but management has to have some say in matters. Let me be clear, I want Grant to get better, we all do.” He wanted Grant to get better but he wasn’t willing to look into whether he was telling the truth or not? Something felt off about Blane Hamilton and his so called agenda. I didn’t know him well enough to pass judgment but so far I was less than impressed. We turned into a large parking lot and pulled to a stop.
Hank turned around and announced, “We’re here.” As I unbuckled my seat belt and reached for the door Blane placed a hand on my arm.
“There’s one more thing you should know before we go in.” I raised my brow in question and he continued, “Grant has no idea we’ve hired you. Don’t be upset if he’s less than receptive to the idea at fi
rst.”
Yes, I was really starting to dislike this man.
Chapter Three
Welcome Back, Or Is It?
Grant
After two of the longest weeks of my life I was finally sprung from rehab. Carrying nothing but a backpack full of clothes, which I planned on burning at the first opportunity, I walked out the front doors of hell to freedom. Okay, maybe the place wasn’t exactly hell but it had definitely been both a waste of my time and the label’s money. As I descended the front steps of the building I tried not to dwell on the fact that no one believed that I hadn’t taken the Oxy. In due time the mystery would be solved and whoever fucked with my life would pay for it. At the moment, all that mattered was getting the hell out of this place and my life back.
Leaning against the Rover with his hands crossed over his chest and a huge smile on his face stood Hank. I started to return the smile when I noticed who was standing next to him. Chaz. My first thought was, what the fuck is he doing here? But then I decided I didn’t give a shit. Chaz was a dick. I may have messed up his song but he had no right to kick me when I was down.
As I reached the car, Hank stepped forward and pulled me into a tight hug. Slapping me on the back, he said, “Glad to see you man.” I glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with a very uncomfortable looking Chaz.
“Good to see you,” he mumbled.
Hank reached for the back door and I bypassed him for the front. The hell if I was sitting in the back with Chaz. He opened his mouth to argue but saw the obstinate look on my face and decided against it. With a nod of his head, he shut the back door and opened the front for me. If it had just been the two of us I would have talked. I had a million questions, the first being what my parents knew about the incident. The hospital confiscated my cell phone and the rehab facility refused to let me see or speak to anyone in the outside world the entire time I was there. I felt like a rat trapped in a cage. The only positive thing to come from my stay was my therapist, Nancy’s, private ministrations and the three songs I wrote. All the rest was pointless bullshit.
Before Chaz could ask any questions or awkwardly attempt to make small talk, I flipped on the radio, found the most annoying pop song I could and cranked the sound up. Hank shook his head and chuckled at my antics. Chaz didn’t say a word. Smart man.
As we neared the hotel Hank turned the music off and radioed the security team. I could tell by his frown that something was up. He disconnected and said, “We have a crowd in the lobby and the freight elevator is down.” I immediately tensed up. The last thing I wanted to deal with right now was fans or the press. We pulled around to the back of the hotel and stopped in front of a loading dock. “We’re here,” he spoke into the headset. The door beside the dock immediately opened and out stepped two of our security team, Sean and Marcel. “They’ve got you covered,” Hank told me.
“Thanks man, we’ll talk later,” I said over my shoulder as I hopped from the Rover. Sean handed me a baseball cap and waited for me to secure it on my head. Then he ushered me through the door and into a hallway. A door to our left opened up and Hank’s right hand man, Sampson, appeared.
“Glad to have you back,” he smiled, and pulled me into a man hug. My security team was filled with a bunch of stand up guys. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my band at the moment.
“Get me out of here.”
“Yes sir, I’m not sure if Hank told you but the freight elevator is broken so we have to breach the lobby. You know the drill. Head low,” he advised. Lowering my eyes to the floor, I pulled my hat down and let him steer me across the lobby.
We were almost to our target when a shrill voice screamed, “Oh my Gawd, Grant Hardy!” In a matter of seconds the lobby erupted into a mass of screaming women and flashing cameras.
Sean pressed in against my back and whispered, “Faster,” and we broke into a light jog. I knew I shouldn’t care about Chaz because he clearly didn’t give a shit about me, but it was ingrained in me to know my boys were safe and with me at all times.
“Chaz?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.
“Right behind you,” Sean answered. More screams erupted through the lobby. “You’re in the penthouse.” he said, as Sampson and I stepped into the elevator. Chaz and Marcel were right on our heels while Sean stayed behind to guard the door. Twenty floors later the doors opened and we quickly exited the elevator. After a perfectly executed escape we would normally be high fiving each other but not today. Today I felt like an intruder. Two weeks ago I walked onto that stage in Houston at the top of my game. Now I felt like a stranger in a world I’d created. I’d had plenty of time to stew while in rehab. Disappointment and regret had become my closest friends. Add those to the heavy cloud of betrayal hanging over my head and I was wallowing in some pretty fucked up head space.
“Master’s on the right,” Sampson said, once we’d reached the penthouse doors. I waited for him to insert the key and open the door for us. With a nod of thanks I headed straight for my room.
“Grant,” Chaz called out.
Fuck you. You should have talked to me in the car. Without a backward glance I closed the door and locked it behind me. As quickly as I could get them off, I stripped the clothes from my body and made a mental note to add them to the pile flagged for the incinerator. When I stepped inside the bathroom and discovered the huge multicolored tile shower with three shower heads spanning the back wall, I smiled. For two weeks I’d been taking shit showers. I’m talking high school gym showers with see through curtains and lukewarm water. Stepping inside, I turned on all three shower heads and groaned when the water flowed across my skin. Once I’d scrubbed the past two weeks off my body with lemon scented soap and scalding hot water, I sunk to the shower floor and cried like a baby. For the thousandth time I asked myself the same question: How did I get here?
That night I pulled the pillow over my head, closed my eyes and for the first time in two weeks, I slept soundly.
The next morning I was awakened by someone banging on the bedroom door.
“Come in!” I shouted.
“It’s locked!” Blane called through the door.
I must have forgotten to unlock the door before crashing last night. With a sigh, I threw off the covers and went to unlock the door. Blane walked in before I made it back to the bed.
“You know, there are clothes in the drawers,” he dryly commented. Glancing down at my naked junk I smiled. At least some things hadn’t changed. Fucking homophobe. In the past I might have cared that my bare ass bothered him but not anymore. Blane could fuck off if he didn’t like it. Just to piss him off I made a show of slowly bending over and flashing him my nuts before crawling back into bed.
“Glad to have you back,” he grimaced. “Dr. Whitfield said you adapted well to rehab.” Dr. Whitfield was the director of the rehab facility and my lovely therapist Nancy’s boss. I spoke with him two times during my stay, once upon arrival and once the day I left. Even though he never said it, Dr. Whitfield knew I didn’t belong there. Nancy sure as hell knew it and so did Blane, the fucker.
I stared unblinkingly at Blane and waited for him to squirm. It didn’t take very long. Blane was good at business but shit at everything else. Knowing full well what his answer would be, I asked the question anyway. “Did you contact the police?”
“And tell them what, exactly, Grant? There were at least twenty people in your dressing room that night, half of whom we’d never seen before.” His put out tone pissed me off. I was the one who’d just spent two weeks locked away, not him.
“Yes, and one of those twenty people dosed my drink with enough Oxy to kill me, Blane. You promised to look into it while I was rotting in that place, or did you forget?” Patience was not my strong suit, especially when it came to incompetence.
“I remember, but need I remind you this isn’t the first time I’ve had to pull you out of a mess concerning drugs. We all agree you’ve been somewhat out of control lately and, if you ask me, the time of
f is exactly what you needed.” I knew he’d throw the Ecstasy incident in my face, I just didn’t know when. The first year we signed with Happenstance a group I was hanging out with at a bar all decided to take ecstasy. The girl whose pants I was trying to get into flipped out and I had to call Blane to come rescue me. At the time I wasn’t thinking about how big of a scandal it could cause. I was more worried about the girl. As for me being out of control, Blane was full of shit. If I was out of control then so was everyone else, including the asshat standing in front of me with his preacher hat on. Fuck you Blane.
“So you’re telling me you’re not going to look into it?”
Blane let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m telling you that we have other things to worry about at the moment. I hate the way things went down as much as you do.”
“Bullshit!” I snapped. Leaning forward I let him see a glimpse of just how angry I was. “You and I both know the score, Blane. Deny it all you want but the truth will come out, and when it does, you’d better hope you’re on the winning end.”
His eyebrows shot to his abnormally large forehead. “Seriously, Grant, I’m on your side. If it had been up to me you wouldn’t have gone to rehab in the first place but what’s done is done. It’s time to look to the future not dwell in the past. I need to run, but the team wants to meet in two hours to go over where we stand with the tour. I just came by to say welcome back and to tell you to call your parents when you get a chance.” The argument was dropped the second he mentioned my parents.