Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1)

by RB Hilliard

  Uh oh.

  “Good show last night,” Kirkland congratulated. Insincerity bled from the man’s pores. At least Blane actually gave a shit. All this guy cared about was the bottom line. “Too bad you had to go and blow it. From this point forward there will be no after parties in the dressing rooms.”

  And there it was, the reason we all were here.

  The room exploded. “You’re fucking kidding me!” Luke’s voice rang out over everyone else’s.

  “I asked you to keep it low key. I warned you to stay off the radar,” Kirkland directed at me, “and what did you do? You threw a party with naked women and spent over twenty-five hundred dollars on booze and God only knows what else. Are you trying to commit career suicide? Because that’s how it damn well appears!”

  “We always party after a show, and the women weren’t naked,” Chaz defended. Chaz just became my new best friend. The look Kirkland gave Chaz was the exact same look my dad gave me when I’d done something boneheaded. I respected it from my dad. Coming from Kirkland I fucking hated it.

  “Did I not tell you to curtail it?” Kirkland snapped.

  “Why are we even answering to you?” Nash challenged. It was good to see Nash showing some backbone again.

  Kirkland looked over at Blane. “You want to explain or do you want me to?” When Blane refused to respond Kirkland let out a deep sigh. I braced for the onslaught and was shocked when all he said was, “I have been asked to step in and assist in the running of this label. As I stated in yesterday’s meeting, after the incident two weeks ago we are being closely watched by the media as well as our sponsors. They will drop their support for any reason and you boys are practically handing them one.” It wasn’t like Kirkland to hold back.

  “Our after parties are for VIP fans that pay to hang with us,” Luke angrily stated.

  “Last night was not simply hanging with your fans. In fact, it was a gross display of incredibly bad taste,” Kirkland disputed. He was right, last night was not the norm but how would he know that? He was nowhere near the venue last night. I glanced over at Blane.

  “Don’t look at me. I left early. Ask Hank if you don’t believe me,” Blane defensively replied.

  Someone reported back to Kirkland. If it wasn’t Blane then who was it? I thought about who was there last night. Hank and security wouldn’t talk because we paid them specifically not to. Plus, Hank was my friend. I scanned the room and noticed Chaz staring at Mallory. Suddenly I knew exactly who the narc was.

  Mallory Scott.

  “Who told what is irrelevant. For the rest of the tour you boys will toe the line. If you can’t tone it down then we’ll have to do it for you.” Kirkland pointed a decrepit finger at me. “No more, you hear me?” He stood and walked out of the room. Blane shot me an apologetic look before following after. Once they were out of earshot I turned to the remaining people in the room. Nash was staring down at his phone while Luke, Chaz and Mallory were all staring at the now empty doorway.

  “Did you enjoy the show last night, Mallory?” I quietly asked. Her big blue eyes shifted from the door to me, and I had to admit, she was attractive. This morning she was wearing jeans and a Ski Utah sweatshirt. Last night I got a glimpse of her dressed up and I was both surprised and impressed at the transformation. It made me wonder about her. However, I wasn’t stupid. She was management’s puppet, end of story.

  “The show was great. Thanks for letting me hang out and watch.” She sounded sincere. I was skeptical.

  “Did you have fun at the after party?” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes and I knew she was onto me.

  “I did, thanks for asking.” Her sweet tone made my teeth ache. “Though, I have to admit, I prefer naked men over women.”

  Shaking my head in disappointment, but gloating on the inside, I happily announced, “I think we’ve found our narc, boys.”

  Mallory slowly stood up and smiled down at me. Someone should tell her she looks like an old lady with her hair on top of her head like that. “Well, this so-called narc is going to get changed for a run,” she announced. When she reached the door she glanced back over her shoulder at me, “Oh, I almost forgot, we need to meet sometime later today, you know, so I can get more dirt on you to report back to Kirkland. Let me know when you’re free.” With a sexy wink, she walked out the door and closed it behind her.

  “I like her,” Nash said, and the room erupted in laughter.

  After discussing Kirkland’s surprising announcement, we agreed to meet later for a quick rehearsal. When I got back to the room, I texted Blane and told him I wanted information on Mallory. While waiting to hear back from him I sat down and worked on a song that I’d been chasing the past few days. After an hour or so I put my guitar down and leaned my head against the back of the seat. Becki with an i wore me out last night. Too bad I didn’t remember it, or her. I woke to the feeling that someone was staring at me.

  Assuming it was Blane, I asked, “What do you have for me?”

  “You look so peaceful when you sleep.”

  Mallory

  “Well if it isn’t the narc,” I half teased. In all honesty I didn’t think she was the one who told on us, but I also didn’t think someone would drug me and set me up either. I was flying blind and no one could be trusted, especially not someone Kirkland hired to spy on me.

  Something between a laugh and a snort escaped from her mouth. I opened one eye to make sure she was okay, only to discover her sitting on the chair directly across from me mirroring my exact position, including the closed eyes, I fought back a smile.

  “What makes you think I told?” she asked. I waited for her to open her eyes but she didn’t. “I left early, just ask Hank. He was there when I left with Marcel.” Her statement made me happy for some reason. Her head turned and her blue eyes locked on mine. “If I was Kirkland and wanted to see what you were up to, I’d just put a camera on you.”

  She had a point but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Why put a camera on me when he has his own personal spy?” I challenged.

  She smiled. “Who says I’m his spy?” Before I could answer she lowered her head to the back of the chair and closed her eyes. “Are you a runner or do you prefer lifting weights? You look like you do both but I bet you prefer lifting over running.”

  I had no clue where she was going with this but decided to bite. “Speaking of runs, how was yours?”

  “Houston is humid,” she sighed, “I prefer Dallas.”

  Her answer made me aware of the fact that I knew nothing about her and I wondered if Blane had texted me back yet. “Is Dallas where you’re from?”

  Her eyes drifted back to me. This time when she smiled I noticed that her bottom right tooth was slightly crooked. I also noticed how little make up she was wearing. “Runner or weightlifter?” she shot back at me.

  I inwardly chuckled at her antics. “You first.” Her eyes flared with emotion, but what that emotion meant, I couldn’t tell.

  “I live in Dallas,” she finally answered. “Your turn.”

  “I do both. I also box,” I added.

  “Really? I love kickboxing, although now I have to watch out for the knee, but kickboxing is a great way to release tension.” My cock twitched in response to both her answer and her smile. I could think of a few ways to relieve tension with counselor Mallory Scott. I had to admit, she was growing on me. “Did you work out much in rehab?” she asked.

  “Why do you have to watch your knee?” I countered. Her smile disappeared and I could tell by her expression playtime was over.

  She stood and said, “Thanks for the talk, Grant.” Before I could call her back, she was gone and I was left wondering what the hell I’d said to chase her away. I also wondered if Kirkland had cameras planted in our dressing room, or anywhere else for that matter. I checked my phone to see if Blane had responded. Of course he hadn’t. Fucker. After shooting him another text, I called Hank and told him to check all dressing rooms for hidden cameras. Somehow Kirkland knew
what we were doing. I wasn’t convinced Mallory wasn’t the narc, but I also wasn’t convinced she was. Either way I was going to find out.

  That night I spotted her at stage right. I couldn’t see much more than shadows but I could tell it was her. I told myself not to look, but I couldn’t help myself. I was the moth and she was the flame. If I got close enough I could get burned. Some things were worth getting burned over. The wary look in her eyes when I asked about her knee had stuck with me all day. I was intrigued. I shouldn’t care but I did. After the show Blane told us to get a good night’s sleep because the bus was taking off no later than nine the next morning for Atlanta. Blane was avoiding me and it was starting to piss me off. I hung around the after party for an hour or so before finally calling it a night.

  Like most nights I had trouble sleeping and couldn’t turn off my thoughts. Once upon a time I would have popped two Xanax. That was before Dale. Brilliant, soulful, tortured Dale. I missed him.

  When Nash and I started Meltdown, Nash’s cousin Eddie was our drummer. Eddie was three years older, could moderately play the drums and had a serious girlfriend named Haleigh who was a slut. Seriously, she fucked anything that moved. Every time Eddie turned his back one of us was tagging his girl. After a year with the band Eddie quit and moved to Boston. His parting gift before he moved was introducing us to his friend Dale. Two years ago we flew to Boston for Eddie’s wedding and I’m pretty sure Nash and Haleigh revisited old times the night before the wedding. Told you she was a slut. Dale was polar opposite of Eddie. Not only was he single, he was a brilliant musician. He could out play all of us any day of the week but his passion was the drums. The drums and drugs, that is. Right out of college we were all into recreational drugs. Marijuana and Ex were the most popular but every now and then cocaine would appear on the scene. None of us were regular users. At least, that’s what I thought, until the morning after a wild night of partying when I discovered Dale unconscious on his hotel room floor. Like idiots we played it off as an isolated case of just partying too hard. It could have been any of us. Luke had just come into the fold and we were beginning to get noticed. We were focused on two things, building the band and having fun. After the scare with Dale we all decided to tone down the drug use, and for a while it seemed to work. Then one night Dale and I were hanging out with a few Melties after a show. One minute we were doing Tequila shots and the next we were focused on the hot chick on her knees cutting lines on the glass top table right in front of us. Cocaine wasn’t really my thing, so I had no problem passing it up. Dale, however, couldn’t. Like a sex addict who hasn’t had pussy in years he dropped like a fly to his knees and all but licked the lines off the table. I should have seen his desperation. I should have said no to the pressure. Instead, I gave in just to shut them up. Nash happened to walk in right as I finished the first line. When he asked me to help him with the lyrics to a song he was writing I didn’t think twice about leaving that second line lying on the table, or walking out on Dale and those girls. If I hadn’t left, I most likely could have prevented what happened. The next morning Blane discovered Dale and both girls passed out in Dale’s room. The girls roused but Dale wouldn’t. Like he did with me, Blane got Dale to a private doctor, where they discovered cocaine mixed with a myriad of pills. When Dale refused to go to rehab he became a liability for Happenstance. They gave us a choice, either get him help or let him go. The day we said goodbye, Nash, Luke and I made a promise to each other. No more pills and no more cocaine. Three months later Dale was dead and, to this day, I blamed myself for his death.

  I drifted to sleep that night thinking about how I’d kept my promise. Too bad no one believed me.

  Around five I woke and couldn’t get back to sleep. After packing my bags I texted Hank to see if he was up and wanted to go for a run.

  Hank showed up fifteen minutes later. “Chasing the sun this morning?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really but thanks. Did you find any cameras?”

  “No cameras but you might be onto something.”

  We stepped onto the elevator and waited for the doors to close. “You think they’ve got eyes on us?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me look into it further and get back to you.” The waiting game was getting old fast. I wanted fucking answers yesterday. As I followed Hank across a peacefully empty lobby, I thought about Mallory and the possibility that she really was the narc and had suggested the camera idea just to throw me off her trail. Right as we stepped outside she appeared.

  Mallory.

  She had on a pair of obscenely short running shorts and a barely there sleeveless top that showed off a fluorescent green sports bra underneath. Her bright pink running shoes were beyond obnoxious. They matched a bright pink knee brace that covered her entire left knee, and for the thousandth time since she’d mentioned it, I wondered what had happened.

  She smiled when she noticed me staring at her shoes. “Thanks for letting me join you this morning.”

  “I wasn’t aware I invited you.” I didn’t mean to snap at her but I was looking forward to blowing off some steam…alone.

  “That’s okay, most men are absurdly unaware,” she said between stretches.

  It was hard not to smile at her snappy answers or stare at her body. Who knew that hidden underneath all those layers was a ripped, toned, athletically perfect body? I sure as hell didn’t. I knew I should shut it down right that second but I couldn’t. Call me a masochist but I was intrigued.

  “You actually think you can keep up with me?” I challenged.

  “Are you kidding? After our bonding experience yesterday it’s obvious you need some serious levity in your life. Just call me your reality check.” Her words were funny and her smile contagious. When she patted me on the arm like we were pals and took off jogging I could no longer hold back my bark of laughter.

  Hank let out a chuckle. “I like her.”

  That was the problem, I liked her too. Fuck if there wasn’t a story behind this woman and damn if I didn’t want to hear it.

  Chapter Eight

  Sneak Attack

  Mallory

  I was upset. Upset and mad at myself. Why did I let him get to me like that? It wasn’t as if my accident was a secret. Normally I had no problem talking about it. In fact, talking about the past was part of the process. It was recovery lesson number one. With Grant it just felt…different. If my stint in rehab had taught me anything it was that honesty and humility were things to always strive for. Yet, for some reason, I didn’t want Grant to know how far I’d fallen or how low I’d sunk. If he knew I’d been baptized in the river of shame and had to scrape, scratch and claw my way out of that abyss, only to lose everything in the process, he would no longer see me. He would see that poor pitiful girl I once was. In a matter of seconds I would become less in his eyes….just like my parents…and my friends…and my teammates. I may be reformed but I would never be whole again. Due to my own stupidity I would forever be that flawed, fractured girl, forced to carry the stink of my past with me for the rest of my days… but Grant didn’t have to know this. I didn’t want him to see that girl. I wanted him to see me. Too bad the two were interchangeable. I was she and she was me and this is why I ran when he asked about my knee, and why I always would.

  After slinking back to my suite with my tail between my legs I called CiCi. To say she was angry was an understatement. Her offer to call Blane and get me out of my contract was tempting but I kept thinking about Grant and the pain in his eyes. His lack of support bothered me more than it should so I didn’t want to bail on him. Grant Hardy was in need of an ally and I was in need of some answers.

  While the guys were at practice a courier arrived at my door with Grant’s file from the rehab facility. I’m not sure what I expected but a seven page file was not it. How could two weeks of rehab produce only seven pages of notes? I spread the pages on the bed in front of me and dug in. Just as I
’d suspected, things didn’t add up. For one, a patient’s period of withdrawal is always documented. The severity and duration, along with a plan of management, should have been the first thing I turned to. At Woodway we refer to this time as Phase One. After pouring over every last detail three times over, I finally discovered one hand written sentence at the bottom of a copy of the toxicology report.

  The patient is asymptomatic.

  Asymptomatic meaning he was showing no symptoms of addiction, or was it something else? I wondered. The next five pages contained detailed notes from Grant’s therapist about his counseling sessions. Other than the one sentence about him being asymptomatic there was no other detail concerning Phase One. This made absolutely no sense. I shook my head in disgust. The therapist claimed Grant was resistant to therapy. I was beginning to think it was a lot more than that. From everything I’d witnessed over the past few days, as well as what was in this file, I had serious doubts that Grant Hardy was an addict at all. So why would both the doctor and the therapist claim he is? What am I missing here? After pouring over the file a few more times I gave up and shoved it in my bag. The first chance I got I was calling the facility and speaking to Grant’s doctor. In the meantime I had a concert to get ready for.

  That night I stood in the same spot as the previous night. The show was equally if not more thrilling to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Grant. The man was a spoonful of charisma and a heaping side of sexy with a vocal range to die for. Tonight he was wearing a pair of faded jeans that looked as if they’d been washed a hundred thousand times. With holes worn in them they still managed to cup all the right places. For observation purposes only, and not because I found the man irresistible, I could see why women lost their minds when they were in his presence. His deep, raspy voice paired with such beautifully harsh, yet poetic lyrics rendered him awe inspiring. Shivers coursed up my spine and tingles danced to my toes with each word he sang. Grant Erwin Hardy had a depth to him that both scared and intrigued me. I could get lost in a man such as this, but I wouldn’t. I’d been lost once before and almost didn’t survive. To do so again would destroy me. I glanced around the stage at the rapt, slack jawed faces and realized I was no different. However, if I was honest, and I mean really honest with myself, I wanted to be.