by RB Hilliard
Through most of the show Blane stood off to the side talking to a group of men wearing suits. I didn’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. Thanks to both him and his jerk of a father I was persona non grata with the band. In order to do my job I had to establish trust, but how in the world was I supposed to do that now? If I was going to successfully do my job I needed to come up with a plan of action, and fast.
I’d managed to play off Kirkland’s naked girl comment this morning but I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing it firsthand, so directly after the concert I found Marcel and told him I was ready to return to the hotel. I wasn’t being paid to be Grant Hardy’s keeper. If he was going to use tonight or any other night there wasn’t much I could do about it. I was tired and the lack of sleep was starting to get to me. The time on the bus tomorrow would give me a chance to get to know the guys a little better. My focus was on Grant, but if he refused to cooperate and I had to go through his band mates to get to him, so be it. If I had to play dirty, I would.
After getting ready for bed I grabbed Grant’s file and read back over the therapist’s notes.
Day 1:
Patient shows signs of delusional behavior. He’s convinced he didn’t take the Oxycodone and that someone slipped it in his drink. When directly challenged he becomes agitated and verbally abusive.
Day 2 was more of the same.
Delusions continue. Patient keeps insisting he’s allergic to Oxycodone and to check his medical records.
I made a note to ask if they checked his records.
Day 3 caught my attention.
Had a breakthrough in today’s session. Patient is beginning to take ownership.
Her vague observations were annoying. Did Grant confess or did he realize he wasn’t getting anywhere and give up? I made notes to ask the doctor about this as well. I kept coming back to the same question. What if Grant was telling the truth about being drugged? If there was one thing I despised it was incompetence. I made a few more notes before putting the file away. As I turned off the light my mind wandered to Grant and I wondered what he was doing right now. Hopefully he was behaving himself. I tried to focus on all of the things I had to accomplish in the weeks to come and not how amazing Grant’s ass looked in those jeans. Finally I drifted off to sleep.
Why did coach insist on doing a training run in this weather? Normally when conditions were this bad we trained in the gym. I rounded the corner and almost wiped out on a patch of ice. Shit! Quickly I adjusted my left ski and recovered my balance just in the nick of time. Close call. I could barely see the path in front of me through the falling snow. Keep going, I told myself. I had a steep incline and then another bend and I would be at the first set of targets. I was in the lead, but I knew that wouldn’t last if I didn’t pick it up. Halfway up the slope I stalled out. Jamming one pole deep into the snow above me and one below, I flipped my skis sideways and began sidestepping up the hill. When I crested the top I gathered both poles in my left hand and reached for my rifle, only to discover it wasn’t there. A sick feeling washed over me. Coach was a sadistic pig. If I screwed up this run he would make me do it a hundred more times. Jabbing both poles into the snow, I attempted to unclip my harness, only to discover my harness wasn’t there either…but something else was.
What the hell?
Before doing anything else, I glanced back down the hill to make sure my teammates hadn’t caught up with me yet. When I couldn’t see sign of anyone else I focused on the matter at hand. Clipped to my waist was a .38 caliber revolver. I had no clue as to how it got there. Without thinking I pulled my gloves off. They fell to the ground with a quiet thunk and one rolled down the hill.
Damn. Should I go after it now or wait?
Deciding the glove could wait, I dropped both hands to the holster at my waist. My fingers shook as I unsnapped the strap and lifted the gun to inspect it.
Recognition had me gasping out loud. How is this possible? I stared down in shock at the gun my father taught me to shoot when I was a kid, the gun that should be sitting in the top of my closet at home in a lock box. Yet, here I stood on the crest of a snow covered hill in Utah holding that same gun.
It can’t be.
The snow was coming down hard now and my fingers were beginning to go numb. I needed to get my gloves back on, and fast or I wouldn’t be able to grip my ski poles. Shifting my weight to my right ski, I moved to put the gun back in the holster and accidentally dislodged one of the poles. I reached out to grab it before it toppled down the hill and lost my balance. Before I could regain my footing I found myself tumbling head first down the hill. As I hit bottom the gun in my hand discharged and I was enveloped by a red hot blinding pain.
“Noooooo!” I shouted, and shot out of bed. Pain seared through my left leg as I bolted across the room. Not watching where I was going, I tripped over my bags and butt-planted on the hard as hell floor.
Ouch.
It took me a few minutes to catch my breath and to realize it was all a dream. The obnoxious pink knee brace winked up at me from my perfectly intact left leg and I began to laugh. Soon the laughter turned to tears. Always the tears.
It’s stress, I told myself. Once I get into my groove the dreams will stop. They always do. Wiping the tears away, I carefully peeled myself off the floor and checked the time. Five-thirty. Pain radiated through my rear as I headed to the bathroom. Not only was it red, but my left ass cheek now sported a half dollar sized rug burn. This definitely called for some ice. Assuming no one in their right mind would be up this early I didn’t bother with getting dressed. Grabbing the ice bucket I headed out the door and down the hall wearing a Dallas Mavericks t-shirt, plaid pajama shorts and no bra.
As I neared the open doorway to the ice machine I heard someone talking and froze. I thought about escaping back to my room, but decided ice was more important than being busted wearing my pajamas. Not wanting to interrupt, I politely waited outside in the hall for them to grab their ice and move on. The door was wide open so I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.
“Hey Grant, you’re up early.” My ears perked up at the mention of Grant’s name. It sounded like Hank. “Do you have your running shoes or do I need to get them from the bus?” he asked. Grant was going running. “Okay, give me fifteen and I’ll be down.”
Completely forgetting about my sore ass I turned and bolted back to my hotel room. I had fifteen minutes to get dressed and be down to that lobby. Opportunity was knocking and damn if I wasn’t answering the door.
As I dug like a mad woman through my packed bag for my running gear, I thought about what to say to Grant. I needed to push without being pushy and to counsel in a non-threatening way. I stared down at my outfit and laughed. Who cares if it matches? I had just enough time to pull up my hair and brush my teeth before running out the door. My heart sank when I got to the lobby and it was empty. I was about to give up when I spotted Hank through the front windows of the hotel. Standing next to him was a scantily clad, very sexy looking Grant. Before they took off without me I charged across the lobby and out the front entrance.
To say Grant was surprised to see me was an understatement. Of course, he played it off by calling me a narc and I accused him of being threatened by little ole me. I tried not to laugh when I challenged him and he blasted past me in a full on sprint. Typical man. Sporting black running shorts and a sleeveless shirt he looked like an advertisement for Runner’s World, minus the tats and hair. It was impossible not to stare at the man. He was absolutely decadent both on stage and off and I couldn’t decide which side I preferred more, his front or his back. Hank shot me a knowing smirk and I pretended innocence. While Grant attempted to prove his manliness Hank and I did a light jog and chatted away about the bus and what to expect in Atlanta. Grant eventually slowed down enough for us to catch up with him.
“You didn’t even try,” he huffed.
“Oh, I didn’t realize we were racing,” I playfully responded. He smiled and I felt it i
n places I shouldn’t.
“That’s okay. Your bum knee would have slowed you down anyway.” He was taunting me and I wasn’t biting. “Speaking of your knee, you never did tell me what happened.” I knew he would go there again, just not so soon. Hank dropped back behind us and I suddenly felt vulnerable.
“Tell me about rehab,” I challenged.
“Ladies first,” he smiled, and I fought back a groan of frustration.
When I failed to respond he picked up the pace. My knee began to protest. Instead of listening to the warning signs and slowing down, I sped up. Grant let out an evil chuckle as he passed by me and soon we were sprinting down the street. I was competitive to a fault. Apparently so was he. After a minute or so of dick measuring I reluctantly gave in and slowed down. When Grant discovered I was no longer beside him he pulled back. His concerned expression sealed the deal. Grant Hardy was a genuinely good guy.
“You okay? I shouldn’t have pushed you. That was stupid of me,” he stammered.
“I’m fine,” I panted, and waved off his concern. We jogged along in silence for a few minutes and finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and blurted, “I had an accident.”
“No shit?”
Ignoring his sarcastic tone, I panted, “Your turn.”
“Uh-uh-uh,” he clicked his tongue, “you have to give me more than that, sweetheart.” He was a smooth talker, I’d give him that. Instead of focusing on how much I liked him calling me sweetheart, I thought about how much to tell him about my accident and decided to go with facts and not details.
“Fine, I injured it in a ski accident when I was in my late teens.”
“You ski?”
Ignoring his surprised tone I dished his words back to him, “Uh-uh-uh, your turn.”
He hesitated for a second and, just when I thought he was about to blow me off, he said, “Rehab was pointless.” I thought about how to respond. I wanted him to elaborate but didn’t want to push too hard. It was all about finding the perfect balance, if there was such a thing.
“Pointless how?” I asked.
“You ski?” he shot back at me. His dramatically quirked eyebrow made me smile.
“I did. That is, I did until I hurt my knee,” I quickly retorted, and then repeated, “Pointless how?”
“Rehab is pointless when you don’t have a problem.”
“I have yet to meet an addict who admits they have a problem.” I could tell that my flippant remark pissed him off and I wanted to kick myself for making it.
“Yeah? Well there’s a first for everything,” he snapped, and took off down the hill. This time I didn’t follow after him.
By the time Hank and I caught up with him we were already back at the hotel. As I made my way up to my suite to shower I reflected back on our conversation. How I ended up giving more information than I received was beyond me. I was going to have to watch Grant. He was good at subterfuge.
I would just have to be better.
Chapter Nine
Don’t You Dare Quit Your Day Job
Grant
What am I doing? I asked myself for the millionth time. The second I saw her standing there in that ridiculous outfit I wanted her. She was the plant, the narc, the fruit hanging from the forbidden tree, and I was most definitely the snake. One minute we were taunting each other and the next she was challenging me to a race. A fucking race! Was she crazy? The second I stopped laughing I took off after her. Rule number one, never throw out a challenge you can’t win. We raced like two children down the streets of Houston and for the first time in a very long time I felt alive. So deep was I in my need to beat her, however, that I didn’t even consider her bum knee. It wasn’t until she let out a hiss of pain and began to slow her pace that I realized how much it was bothering her. I was an asshole, plain and simple. As she jogged along beside me, obviously in discomfort, a million thoughts rushed through my head, one of which was how to get Hank to go fetch the car without embarrassing her. Mallory Scott was proud, strong, beautiful… and the enemy. She was also in pain.
“You okay? I shouldn’t have pushed you. That was stupid of me,” I told her.
She let out a cute little snort and waved her hand in the air. “I’m fine.” Her heavy breathing and slight limp said different but I didn’t dare challenge her. I made sure to slow way down to a light jog. “I had an accident,” she announced, as if I hadn’t already figured that out for myself.
“No shit?”
“Your turn,” she dryly replied. I wasn’t sure but I think she rolled her eyes at me. Her ability to ignore my bullshit was impressive. It was also annoying and made me want to poke the bear, pick the scab, to fuck with her head just to see how far I could take it before she called me out on my bullshit.
“Uh-uh-uh, you have to give me more than that, sweetheart,” I taunted. The hell if I was dishing without getting something in return. Nothing was for free, especially not in the world I came from.
“Fine, I injured it in a ski accident when I was in my late teens,” she huffed. I couldn’t help but smile. A pissy Mallory was like a Christmas and birthday rolled into one.
“You ski?” I asked. I’d been skiing a few times. Just last year we took a much needed break and flew to Colorado to ski for a week. Blane rented out the entire resort so we could have some peace and quiet. We still partied but we managed to keep most of it on the down low.
“Uh-uh-uh, your turn,” she threw back at me. Sassy Mallory was cute. I tried not to stare at her body but my eyes kept wandering to that tight ass and those muscular legs. Clearly she worked out. A few times she turned and I got a glimpse of her taught stomach through the gaping sleeves of her shirt and I wondered what drove her. She glanced over at me as if waiting for something and I realized I hadn’t answered her question. I thought about how much to give her and decided on the bare minimum. She had my file. She could read it.
“Rehab was pointless,” I told her.
“Pointless how?”
Nope, it was her turn. “You ski?” I asked.
“I did. That is, I did until I hurt my knee,” she fired back at me, and followed it with a, “Pointless how?”
Without thinking, I blurted, “Rehab is pointless when you don’t have a problem.” The second the words left my lips I wanted to take them back.
“I have yet to meet an addict who admits they have a problem.” Her tone said it all. She no more believed me than the guys did, except for Chaz. Chaz believed me. Mallory Scott was just like all the rest and I was a fucking idiot for thinking she wasn’t. She was the sign in the store that said, “Look But Don’t Touch.”
“Yeah? Well there’s a first for everything,” I snapped back at her. Before she could say another word I took off down the street. Fuck her and her knee. I was many things but a fool wasn’t one of them.
By nine sharp we were loaded on the bus and waiting for Blane…and Mallory. I’d had time to shower and get my head on straight. I shouldn’t have let her get to me and regretted biting her head off. This was personal to me but only a job for her. I needed to remember that. Just when I thought I’d scared her away and was going to have to go retrieve her I spotted her walking toward the bus with Blane. The bus was configured like most tour busses. The front had a place for the driver and few bucket seats. The right side held four bunks. Across from the bunks was a small kitchen, a booth and a long table for eating and playing cards, which we did a lot of. The very back of the bus held a bathroom with a small shower and a bedroom with a double bed. We also had a large screen television, a kick ass stereo and an Xbox. It was home away from home for the band. Mallory would most likely hate it. I watched her step onto the bus and smile at everyone. My dick jumped to attention. I’d given him plenty of hands on attention in the shower earlier. He should be happy and sated but no, every time Mallory was in the vicinity he perked right up. Blane stood at the front of the bus and Mallory sat in one of the bucket chairs behind him.
“Tomorrow night we’ll be in Atlanta. L
ike Texas, Atlanta is hot in the summer. Make sure you drink plenty of water and preserve your voices. I didn’t stock any alcohol on the bus for a reason,” Blane announced. Everyone booed him, including me. Eighteen hours was long enough, but without booze to ease the monotony it was an eternity. Blane turned to Mallory and said, “I can get you a plane ticket if you’d like?”
“Mallory is riding with us,” I spoke up. All eyes shot to me and I held my ground. If we had to ride eighteen hours, so did she. Mallory gave me a strange look and I felt the need to say something. “You’re being paid to rehab me, correct?”
A look of disbelief appeared on her face. “And you’re going to let me?” she asked. She had me there. If I demanded she stay then I was going to have to talk to her at some point. Damn! Her lips melted into a knowing smirk and she turned to Blane. “I’ll take you up on that ticket.”
“Fine,” I practically shouted, “we can talk.” I didn’t say how much or for how long but at least it was enough to keep her on the bus.
After a few parting words Blane took off and we were on our way. Normally we would all Pow Wow about how the tour was going. Today we split into four different directions. Luke got on the Xbox and Chaz on his computer, while Nash took the back bedroom. I pulled out my pad and guitar and tried not to stare at Mallory.