Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1)

by RB Hilliard

  I mulled over his words as we stepped onto the elevator and wondered what else Blane had failed to mention. Marcel let me into my suite and waited outside the door. On the way to the bathroom I pulled out my ponytail and whipped off my shirt. In warp speed, I put on makeup and brushed out my hair. Then I raced to the closet where my jeans and sleeveless blouse were hanging. After changing, I returned to the bathroom where I spritzed with perfume and put on lip gloss. All I had with me were my white Converse, a pair of running shoes and my suede peep toe ankle boots. Settling on the boots, I slid them on, grabbed my phone and purse and headed out the door.

  Marcel briefed me further about security measures on the drive over to the venue. I’d had a small taste of fame once upon a time but it was nothing compared to this. This was a whole different level of crazy. My pulse spiked with excitement as we turned into the arena parking lot and pulled around back to the loading dock.

  “Hold”, he said, and began speaking into his earpiece. A few seconds later he said, “Clear,” and unlocked the car doors. A door to the right of the leading dock swung open and Hank appeared. “Wait for me to exit first and come around to get you,” Marcel instructed. I surveyed the parking lot for anything out of the ordinary but all I could see besides three identical black security vehicles was a mostly empty lot.

  As Marcel opened the passenger door and helped me out of the car, I asked, “Is this really necessary?”

  “Right now, no, but it will be. My job is to get you used to it,” he explained.

  “Right this way,” Hank said, as we neared the open doorway. With Hank in front and Marcel in back, we walked in a single file line down a long, wide hallway and up a small flight of stairs to a second hallway. This one was even wider than the first. Laughter spilled from a room full of people and I wondered if they were with the band. Hank paused in front of a door with dressing room #1 stenciled across it and pulled out his keys. “The band locker is located in the far left corner behind the potted plant. The security code is 2622. If you don’t want to carry your belongings you can leave them there and they will be safe for the night,” he instructed. After dropping off my purse we continued down the hall to another flight of stairs. Marcel stopped at the bottom while Hank and I continued on. When we reached the top of the stairs all eyes turned to us, and it suddenly it hit me that I was on stage. “The building is secure. If you need to leave, please tell security and one of us will escort you,” Hank spoke in my ear. I gave him a nod of understanding and he returned it with a smile before walking away.

  Grant and Nash stood directly in front of me on the stage. Both had guitars in their arms and smiles on their faces. After this morning’s meeting the low key, relaxed atmosphere surprised me. A woman to my left was shooting pictures of them and I wished I’d thought to grab my phone.

  “Testing, testing,” Nash said into the microphone. My head snapped back to the stage and I let out a silent cheer. Someone seriously needed to pinch me. This is Meltdown. This morning was business but this was one hundred percent pleasure. If only CiCilia could see me now.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot this morning,” a voice spoke loudly in my ear.

  With an unladylike squeak of surprise I teetered sideways on my heels and a pair of hands reached out to steady me. “Sorry,” Blane murmured. The overwhelming smell of booze and cigarettes wafted from his mouth and I tried to pull away, only to have him tighten his grip on my arm. “My intention was to more or less lay down rules, not to ambush. I can see how it might have been misconstrued.” I didn’t want to hear his lame attempt at explaining away what happened earlier. I wanted to watch the practice, but this was my boss and I couldn’t lose sight of why I was here. Blane Hamilton was a slippery fellow and if I didn’t watch myself I would end up out of a job. Slowly I pulled away from his grasp and turned to face him with a smile on my face. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Hamilton.”

  He returned my smile with one of his own and I couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were. Up close his face looked more orange than tan and I noticed he’d missed a few spots when applying the self-tanner. “Please, call me Blane,” he said. Blane Hamilton was plenty attractive if you liked pretty boys who spent way too much time caring about their looks. His problem was that he was insincere, and that alone made him quite repugnant.

  Not wanting to be overheard, I leaned in and said, “I would have liked to have been introduced in a less hostile environment.”

  “You’re right. Again, I’m sorry,” he repeated, “How can I make it up to you?” A loud bang from the stage interrupted the conversation and we both turned to see what caused it. Amber eyes glared at us from across the stage.

  “Not to interrupt or anything but could you two fraternize somewhere else?” Grant asked. It took me a second to realize he was talking to us.

  Behind me Blane let out a disgusted huff. I knew I should look away but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth to apologize, but clamped it shut when Grant lifted his guitar and began playing the opening chords to Petty Little Princess. This was probably my least favorite Meltdown song, and with good reason. The lyrics were harsh and mean. Just because I disliked the lyrics, however, didn’t mean I disliked the music. Nor did it mean I was immune to the man standing in front of me singing the song. Never had ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt looked so good. From the television set and tabloids Grant Hardy seemed shorter, smaller…less intimidating. I was surprised at how much bigger he was in person. Then again, compared to my five foot three inch frame, everyone seemed big. Still, my dad was five ten and, from the looks of it, Grant had at least three inches on him. His height wasn’t the only surprising thing, though. Most addicts were lean and some even emaciated. The man on that stage was far from emaciated. I watched the cords of muscle dance across his arms as he played his guitar. If you asked me Grant Hardy looked down right fit as a fiddle. My eyes lifted from his muscles to his face and my pulse leapt into my throat when I caught him staring straight at me. His gaze seared through me as he sang the chorus,

  You think you have me wrapped.

  You think I won’t split.

  You think you fucking know me but

  You don’t know shit…

  “How about we step off the stage so we can hear each other better,” Blane suggested. I’d been so lost in the song I’d forgotten Blane was standing there.

  “Oh, uh, sure,” I said. I took one more glance back at Grant before following Blane off the stage and down the stairs. Blane led me back down the hall and into a large and very comfortable looking dressing room. He settled into a chair and motioned for me to sit across from him. Once seated, I addressed one of my many concerns.

  “You may not know this but rehabilitation takes trust. Trust has to be earned. The last thing I need is to be seen as the enemy. Today you made me public enemy number one.”

  “And I repeat that was not my intention. Today’s meeting didn’t go quite as I’d planned. I think, however, the point was made clear and Grant will now cooperate with you.”

  I gritted my teeth to keep from snapping at him. “Yes, but only because he feels he has no choice.”

  “He doesn’t have a choice, Mallory, and neither do you or I.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.

  “Mr. Hamilton, I feel like I’m missing something here.”

  His brow shot up in question. “Such as?”

  “Was Mr. Hardy telling the truth this morning? Did someone try to kill him?”

  After a long pause, he answered, “You’re job is to rehab Grant Hardy, no more, no less. If you find you are unable to do your job then you are free to walk out that door right this minute with no questions asked.” Leaning forward he pierced me with his pretty boy stare. “You and I both know what a foolish mistake that would be, don’t we?”

  Ignoring his question I addressed my other concern. “You mentioned wanting to keep the press from discovering the truth about what really happened that night. Did you take into considerat
ion when you hired me that I’m not a complete unknown?”

  He waved his hand dismissively through the air. “That was over ten years ago. Since then you’ve changed your name and…er…grown up quite a bit.” He was right on both accounts. Mallory Stephens no longer existed and Mallory Scott looked nothing like the girl I once was.

  “But you found out and so can the press. What happens when they link the Mallory Stephens tragedy to Mallory Scott the drug and alcohol counselor?” I challenged.

  “First off, CiCilia told me who you were. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known. Second, the press is good but not that good. If, and I mean it’s a big if, they were to discover who you are, we will do what we’ve always done.” His cocky smile worried me.

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “We spin it.”

  I had no clue what he meant and was too much of a chicken to ask.

  Chapter Five

  A Change Is Gonna Come

  Grant

  Dick move Grant, I thought, as I watched her run out the door. What did Blane say her name was? Misty? No, that wasn’t it. Maybe it was Marlene? With her ice blue eyes and tight little body she was a tempting package. Too bad I wanted her gone like a bad case of the crabs. If I blamed anyone for this mess, it was Blane.

  At the time Meltdown joined the label all we cared about was breaking into the industry. Who held the power in the label didn’t mean shit to any of us. Our goal was to spread our music as far and wide as we could. Getting paid to do what we loved was simply icing on the cake. Blane called all the shots but he was fair about it. He listened to our input and valued our opinions. Then things began to change. Blane wanted more. He wanted sponsors and backing that he alone couldn’t get. His father, however, could. None of us really understood what this meant. Blane was good at what he did and we trusted him. So, when he put together a management team comprised mostly of family members, we didn’t say a word. He assured us nothing would change, and for a while he was right. After about a year Blane’s father began showing up at meetings. He would sit in silence and listen but rarely said a word. I don’t know what happened but at some point he began voicing his thoughts and opinions. Sometimes we agreed with him and sometimes we didn’t. What I didn’t realize, until this morning, was how much the power had shifted. The old Blane would never have let his dad call the shots. Blane still talked a big game but it was apparent his dick of a father was now holding the cards. If it was up to me I would tell Blane, his asshole father and Happenstance to shove the contract up their asses and walk away.

  “Are we starting set one with Breaking Stride?” Nash asked. Breaking Stride was our first song to hit the Billboard’s top 100. It had also been the first song on our set list for the past three years. I was hesitant to change it up.

  My eyes darted to Chaz and he quickly looked away. I could tell by the tilt of his head he was listening in on the conversation. Chaz’s anger the night I screwed up his song was warranted. I made a promise and then turned around and broke it. Even though it wasn’t my fault, it was shitty. It also wasn’t lost on me that even though Chaz was pissed at me, he was the only person to step up and show me support through all of this. If rehab did one thing, it made me realize how self-centered I’d become. The road to fame and fortune was paved by stupid fuckers who cared only about themselves and I’d become one of those fuckers. Who cares if his song bombs? All he wants is a chance.

  “No, I think we should change it up and start with Afterthought.”

  Chaz’s head spun around and he gaped at us. “Are you serious?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged, and tried to play it off as no big deal. Luke smiled and Nash gave me a blank stare. Nash and I needed to talk, but not until I calmed down. If he tried to talk to me right now I would beat the shit out of him.

  “Thanks man. I mean seriously, thanks,” Chaz gushed.

  “How about we run through both Afterthought and Avalanche a few more times before calling it quits,” I announced.

  After rehearsal we rubbed shoulders with a few of the VIP ticket holders and grabbed a bite to eat. I stuck to water only, and made sure it came from bottles which I opened with my own hands. During dinner I walked past Misty, no, that wasn’t her name. If Nash was speaking to me, I’d ask him what her name was. I couldn’t help but smile when I noticed her glaring at Blane. Welcome to the club, I thought.

  “What’s up her ass?” Chaz asked from behind me.

  “Who knows or cares,” I responded.

  “Listen, can we talk?”

  “Yeah, walk with me.” I wanted a beer from my own fridge and to get away from the bullshit.

  We’d barely reached the dressing room when he started gushing again. “Thanks for giving me a chance tonight.”

  “After your show of support, it’s the least I could do.”

  For a second he looked like he was about to cry. “For the record, I meant what I said. I believe you didn’t take the Oxy,” he stammered.

  Grabbing two bottles of beer from the fridge and the opener, I handed him one and flopped down onto one of the chairs. “That means a lot to me, man.” I opened my beer and tossed the opener to him.

  “Do you have any idea who would do that to you?” he asked.

  “Not a clue, do you?”

  He jerked back in surprise. “Why would you ask me that?”

  Before I could answer Luke, Nash and…Misty walked in. Like a vulture zeroing in on its prey she spotted the beer in my hand. It was hard not to notice how perfect her lips were when she mashed them together in disgust like that. As if sensing my amusement her eyes narrowed into squinty little slits.

  “Got anymore?” Luke asked.

  “Help yourself,” I answered, nodding to the fridge.

  He walked over to the fridge and opened it. “Nash? Mallory?” he asked.

  Mallory. I hated to admit it but I liked it a million times better than Misty or Marlene.

  “Yes,” Nash replied.

  At the same time Mallory said, “No thanks. You,” she directed at me, “should not be drinking, and you,” she directed at the guys, “should not be enabling him.”

  “It’s only one beer,” I playfully whined. Inside I was seething. The fuck if she’s going to dictate what I can and can’t drink.

  “One beer has destroyed many a man,” she challenged.

  “Only if the man has the tolerance of a pussy,” I flipped back at her. Both Chaz and Luke snickered. I waited for her to give me another sassy comment and was slightly disappointed when she turned and walked out of the room.

  “Awww, come back,” I called after her.

  “You probably shouldn’t taunt her,” Nash said.

  “You’re probably right,” I agreed. He smiled and I returned it with one of my own. It was progress.

  “Cheers to a good show,” I announced, and held up my bottle.

  “Cheers to a good show,” everyone repeated. Four bottles tapped together and for the first time in a long while I felt hopeful. These were my boys. They’d always had my back and I sure as hell always had theirs. Maybe we could find our way back to that place again.

  That night the show went off without a hitch. I was surprised at how receptive the crowd was to the new song and I couldn’t help but think that maybe I was too hard on Chaz. As usual, after a great show, our adrenaline was at an all-time high and we were ready to blow off steam. The back of the house was packed, which included our dressing room. Groupies, which we referred to as Melties, were piled in like sardines.

  “Melties, Melties everywhere,” Luke muttered.

  “Grant, sign my tits!” one screamed.

  “Sign mine first!” another shrieked, and the room erupted into a cacophony of shrieking female voices.

  Luke laughed and patted me on the back. “Good luck with that.”

  As I started to make my way over to the group of Melties, who were now zestfully stripping off their tops, Hank stepped in front of me. “Blane needs to speak to you,” he said.
>
  “Tell him we can talk business tomorrow.” I nodded toward the waiting women and smiled. “As you can see, I have titties to sign.”

  “He said no excuses. He’s in dressing room #2.”

  “Fuck,” I hissed, and held up my finger to the flock of waiting Melties indicating I’d be right back.

  “Sorry, man,” Hank said, as he led me out the door and down the hall to the dressing room where Blane was waiting.

  “This better be good,” I snapped. The serious look on Blane’s face made me swallow my derogatory comment.

  He began pacing back and forth in front of me. “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  Blane ran his fingers through his perfectly gelled hair and I knew something was seriously fucked.

  “Talk,” I commanded.

  He paused long enough for me to see the pained look on his face.

  “Now,” I pushed.

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, he said, “I need your help.”

  “With?”

  He gave me a pleading look and my gut clenched.

  “My help with what?” I repeated.

  “I never bought into the whole you’re an addict thing,” he confessed. “I personally think you’re too much of a control freak to let drugs take you down.”

  I threw up my hands. Finally someone was listening. “What do you think I’ve been trying to tell you? Someone tried to kill me. Now that I have you on board we need to investigate.”

  “Believe me when I say I would if I could but we just can’t risk the exposure of an investigation right now.”

  It took a minute for his words to sink in. “You told me this morning you would look into it, and what do you mean by can’t risk the exposure?”

  “The label can’t take another hit. Losing Jet Matthews’ contract last year really hurt us. The only thing holding us afloat right now is the sponsors. We both know how skittish they are. They’ll pull the plug for any damn reason. If they find out what really happened that night…that we’ve hired an in house rehab specialist because their golden boy of rock is a supposed pill popper, they’ll pull their endorsements. If they pull their endorsements, we will terminate your contract. If we terminate your contract –”