Treyton (A Savage Beasts Rock Star Romance Book 2)

by J. Nathan

  Trey and Z had each other’s backs when times got tough. But no one had my back. No one let me explain. They both just assumed the worst of me.

  They had to know by now that I’d never want to intentionally hurt either of them. I wasn’t a malicious person. And I’d never betray someone’s trust. But from the conversation I’d overheard between the two of them, they didn’t believe that.

  At least now I knew.

  Now I was aware before my feelings got any deeper that Treyton Collins was a coward. At the first sign of trouble, he turned on me.

  He’d told me the one thing he wanted in this world was a family. I guess that was a lie. Because you didn’t turn on the people you cared about. You didn’t just stop caring about them just because you thought they messed up.

  As the plane slowly descended, I dropped my head back and closed my eyes, having absolutely no idea what came next for me.

  Treyton

  The guys and I sat at a large table inside an Italian radio studio wearing headphones and answering on-air questions about the tour. BJ looked on from outside the glass window with our new publicist Arthur—a real tool in a suit.

  “So, what can the fans expect for your next album?” the DJ asked with a heavy Italian accent.

  We all looked to Z who did the majority of our song writing.

  “More of what the fans want,” he said. “Some slower ballads to go with the rock that gets fans ready to rage. You know, more of what they’ve come to expect from us.”

  “Fantastico,” the DJ said, before his eyes moved slowly to me. “Treyton. A story recently broke about your unfortunate past.”

  My stomach churned like I’d eaten something rotten. Beads of sweat built on my hairline. I’d been dreading this moment. And now it was here. What was he looking for? My sob story? Tears? A witty response? The only positive was no stories about Z’s past had yet to surface.

  “Glad you turned out so well, amico,” the DJ continued without a question. “Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.”

  “Yeah,” I said, relieved he didn’t intend to pry. Didn’t intend to make me relive it for his ratings.

  But as he turned to Cam, prepared to ask him a question, Brie’s words about being a voice for those who didn’t have one played through my mind. And as much as I just wanted him to move on, I suddenly felt compelled to say more.

  “I’m not sure how much of an epidemic it is here,” I began. “But in the States, there are so many children born to addicts who don’t get adopted. And all they need are some caring people to love them. If anyone out there feels like they or someone they know could be those people, please reach out to your child services department to see how you may be able to help.”

  I glanced to Z who nodded subtly.

  “I was one of the lucky ones,” I continued. “My adoptive parents were amazing. They introduced me to music. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.”

  The DJ smiled. “Thank God they did because you are pure magic on those drums.”

  And just like that, he turned to Cam and asked a question about bungee-jumping, which he’d done that morning.

  I looked back to Z who nodded his approval. Was he thinking what I was thinking? Our past. Our unfortunate circumstances. They didn’t garner us pity. They garnered us anger for the shit we’d been through.

  Z and I had made our pact when we were teenagers. That was a time when we were rebellious, angry, and didn’t want people knowing our business. But now we were in the public eye. Now we were looked up to by kids and adults. What was the point of lying about where we came from? By omitting that personal information, we’d been lying to our fans—the people who bought our music and paid to see us in concert. We may not have owed anything to the kids we went to high school with, but we did owe our fans the truth. And the truth was we had a shitty start to life, more-so Z than me since I didn’t even remember my birth mother. But that didn’t define us. That made us the strong sons of bitches we were.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Brielle

  I stepped into the office I had been away from for almost two months. Its floor to ceiling windows cast bright sunlight over the sleek white desk, side tables, and chairs lining the waiting room.

  “Hi Brielle,” Irene greeted me with a smile from her seat behind the front desk. “Welcome back.”

  “Is my father in?” I asked, walking by without stopping.

  “He’s in with a client,” she called.

  I passed some of my colleagues en route to the big office in the corner.

  “Welcome back, Brielle,” a few of them called as I passed by their offices.

  I said nothing, my attention remained solely on the closed door in front of me. I didn’t bother knocking. I threw the door open and swept right in.

  The client across from my father at his desk twisted in his seat. Flow Houz. His eyes rounded.

  “Brielle? What are you doing here?” my father asked, more pissed that I’d interrupted a meeting than surprised I was home.

  “I’ve made a decision. And I thought I’d bring you the news in person.” My eyes flashed to Flow. “But imagine my delight to find you here.”

  “’Sup,” he said, slouched in his seat and avoiding eye contact.

  “Sup? That’s all you got?” I asked. “Because from what I heard, you had a lot to say about me when I wasn’t there. What was it you said about my tits and ass?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.

  “Brielle!” my father chided. “I’ll meet with you when I’m finished here.”

  I crossed my arms. “No.”

  His head shot back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said no.” I pointed at Flow. “We should have terminated his contract the second he disrespected me. The way he spoke about me was not okay, and me not doing something about it immediately was on me. But I won’t make that mistake again.” I looked back to my father. “I quit.”

  Flow went to stand. “Maybe I should go.”

  “No,” my father said.

  “Great idea,” I said.

  Flow hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  You could’ve cut the silence in the office with a knife. But I was beyond letting my father be in charge of everything. “I quit this job, and I quit being your daughter.”

  My father leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, saying nothing.

  “You win. You get what you wanted all along. I no longer work here, and I want nothing to do with you. You never treated me the way I deserved to be treated. The way Mom treated me. But still, I tried to prove to you that I was worthy of your respect.” A humorless laugh shot out of me. “For what? You were never going to hand over this business to me. And you were never going to love me. You betraying me by running to the press with Trey’s story was the final straw. Now you not only messed with my life, you messed with someone else’s. Someone who didn’t ask to get caught up in this mess. So, I am bowing out. I put up a valiant effort. But enough is enough.” I looked up at the ceiling. “Mom. I finally did what you weren’t able to do. I’m walking away on my terms.” I spun away from him and walked out of his office.

  I exited Artists Limited with a smile on my face and the giant boulder I’d been carrying on my shoulders for far too long lifted.

  Treyton

  I smiled my way through one of our last meet and greets, amped to get on stage in Monaco. Arthur escorted in two gorgeous statuesque women. They weren’t the normal fans decked out in Savage Beasts’ wear. These two were dressed to the nines, their high-heels making them taller than all of us.

  Arthur introduced Adriana and Victoria as runway models for a famous designer, like we couldn’t already tell their beauty paid their bills. “Bonjour,” they greeted us, cheek skimming us like most models did so they didn’t mess up their lipstick. “Pleasure to meet you,” they said with French accents, as they made their way down the line.

  “Phot
o time,” Arthur announced, every word out of his mouth making me cringe.

  The models squeezed in under each of my arms, smelling of expensive perfume as a bunch of photos were snapped. Arthur would be posting those everywhere. And I’d definitely be linked to one—if not both of them—by the morning.

  “Good to meet you,” Adriana said, as she leaned in again for a cheek kiss and tucked something into my back pocket.

  “You too,” I said as she followed Victoria out of the room.

  Once they’d left, Cam and Marcus fanned themselves down with their hands. Z laughed at them, probably glad Aubrey hadn’t been there.

  I slipped the paper out of my pocket. Couldn’t say it was the first time I’d had a phone number passed my way. But it was the first time since splitting with Brie that anyone had tried.

  There was no denying Adriana was gorgeous. But the attention from a beautiful woman would not fill the perpetual emptiness I’d been feeling in my chest. No matter how much I wanted it to. And as much as it pissed me off to admit it, Brie betraying me slayed me.

  “Last meet and greet of the night,” Arthur called before walking out to retrieve our final two fans.

  A flashback of Brie and Aubrey surprising us as our biggest fans flashed in my mind. The happiness I felt in that moment had quickly been replaced by hatred when Z told me what she’d done. That’s how it had always been with Brie. Great highs and even greater lows.

  I shook off the thoughts and prepared for our last two fans.

  A man in his late forties in a Savage Beasts T-shirt holding the arm of a teenage boy with special needs entered the room. I couldn’t take my eyes off the boy who needed his father’s arm for support to walk. He and his dad shook Z’s hand first. The boy didn’t make eye contact with Z, but the joy on his face said everything he was clearly unable to convey with words. The dad said something that made Z look over at me. His lips twisted regrettably, and I had no idea what to make of it.

  The father and son approached Marcus and Cam, who stood between Z and me. They spoke for a couple minutes.

  When they reached me, the man introduced himself, and then his son, Matteo. Matteo didn’t look at me, but the smile on his face and quiet grunts told me he was happy to be there.

  “Matteo’s one of your biggest fans,” his father explained. “We were so happy you went public with your story. Matteo was born to an addict. He had multiple complications and is nonverbal as a result. But his face lights up and he bobs his head anytime we play your music. Especially when the drum solos play.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said, not sure if I should touch Matteo or not. I hated myself in that moment. I hated that I escaped unscathed while people like Matteo weren’t as fortunate. “You adopted him?” I asked his father.

  He nodded. “When he was just a baby.”

  I turned to Arthur. “Grab me some merchandise for my friend Matteo here.”

  Arthur took off and I turned back to Matteo. “Do you have a favorite song?” I knew he couldn’t respond with words, so I held up my thumb then turned it down, showing him how he could answer me.

  He lifted his hand and gave me a thumbs up.

  “I bet it’s ‘Crossover,’” I said.

  Matteo turned his thumb down.

  “What’s wrong with ‘Crossover’?” I laughed, feigning disappointment.

  His father laughed. “Think first album.”

  “Oh, I know…‘Midnight.’”

  Matteo’s eyes lifted to the ceiling as he turned his thumb up.

  “Z and I wrote that together when we were around your age. And it’s still my favorite, too. How old are you, Matteo?”

  He looked to his dad.

  “Sixteen,” he answered for him.

  “I bet you get all the girls,” I said.

  Matteo snorted and he clapped his hands excitedly.

  His dad and I laughed, loving his reaction.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “Would you like a picture?”

  Matteo’s dad nodded and Matteo flashed a thumbs up.

  “How about one with the band and then one with just their amazing drummer?” I teased.

  Matteo’s dad laughed. “That would mean the world to Matteo.”

  What he didn’t realize—what I hadn’t realized until that moment—was that it would mean the world to me, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Brielle

  I hurried into my bedroom and grabbed my ringing phone from the dresser. I didn’t recognize the number. But, I’d been putting my résumé out there, so I didn’t want to miss any calls from prospective employers. I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Patrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Elaine Newberry, neonatal intensive care unit coordinator at Las Vegas General.”

  My heart wilted. I’d forgotten I called her regarding an anonymous donation. “Yes. Hi. Thanks for returning my call.”

  “We were delighted to hear that your client may have a donation for our unit. I’d love for you to come in and see how we run the NICU and all the advances we’ve made over the last few years so you’ll know where your client’s money would be going.”

  I stood there with my mind reeling. She sounded so excited. I couldn’t bear to tell her that the money was no longer coming.

  “When can I expect you?” she asked.

  “Oh, I…” Dammit. “Friday?”

  “Friday would be amazing. Let’s say noon?

  What am I doing? “Sure.”

  “I look forward to meeting you. God bless you and your client.”

  “Thank you,” I said before disconnecting the call.

  What the hell was I doing? I no longer had money to offer and any of my own money was socked away until I got another job. I could make a small donation, but the type of money the band would have donated would actually have benefited the hospital. When she saw the meager amount I’d be able to give, she’d be upset I wasted her time.

  But I couldn’t say no. Maybe the masochist in me needed to see where Trey was born. Maybe the optimist inside of me hoped he still intended to make the donation.

  * * *

  My high heels clicked as I hurried to the fifth floor in my gray pencil skirt and satin pink blouse. My hair was pulled back and my glasses were in place as I stepped up to the glass window outside the neonatal intensive care unit on Friday.

  Babies in clear plastic incubator beds were lined up on display sleeping, fussing, or crying. Most were snuggled tightly in their swaddles and others were attached to machines with tubes beneath their tiny noses or IVs tightly wrapped around their legs. What they all had in common was they were tiny. Like two to three pounds tiny.

  Two older women in scrubs rocked babies in rocking chairs, while nurses fed some with small bottles of formula.

  A woman in a suit stepped out of the door and greeted me. “Ms. Patrick?”

  “Brielle,” I said, reaching out my hand and shaking hers.

  “Hi Brielle, I’m Elaine Newberry. So glad you could make it.”

  Would she still be glad when I broke the bad news to her?

  “Come,” she said. “I want you to see the NICU.” She walked me around the area, showing me the family room where the families with babies in the NICU spent time with their babies. She walked me through the new auditorium where doctors held conferences discussing the latest advances in neonatal care. Then, we circled back around to the nursery. She pointed out how many babies required incubators and ventilators. My heart broke for the innocent little fighters.

  “Where are all the moms?” I asked, noting only nurses and volunteer rockers in there. “Don’t they want to be here with their babies?”

  “Many of them come in at some point during the day. Their premature babies are here for months sometimes before they are released, so these parents need to work while they await their baby’s homecoming. Unfortunately, the other babies have birth parents who signed off on parental rights.”


  My gut clenched. That’s what Trey’s birth mother had done.

  “Are those babies awaiting adoption?”

  Her eyes lost their excitement. “The majority will end up in foster care. Placing babies who are born addicted to drugs isn’t easy. They’re more irritable, have birth defects, are prone to seizures, and there is no way to know to what extent they’ll require long term care once they’re grown. It’s a giant risk for adoptive parents. One they don’t necessarily want to take.”

  I nodded. “I’m aware. That was the reason for my client’s donation. He was born addicted and was actually adopted by one of the women who rocked babies here.”

  Elaine’s eyes regained some excitement. “Really?”

  I nodded. “He wanted to give back.”

  “You can’t imagine how much we need donations and outside funding to give these babies what they need moving forward. It’s never an easy road for the foster families or adoptive parents. There are a number of long-term issues that come with being addicted to drugs in the womb when all vital organs are developing.”

  “Could I hold one of the babies?” I had no idea what possessed me to ask.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Would you like to?”

  I nodded, suddenly having an urge like no other to bring some comfort to these babies. They deserved to be held and rocked like every other baby who had loving parents.

  “Let’s get you sanitized. We have scrubs if you don’t want to risk messing up that pretty shirt.”

  “I’m not worried about a shirt.”

  Within a few minutes, I was in a rocking chair and a tiny baby was placed into my arms. A tube was attached beneath her precious little nose. She was so light. I could barely distinguish her from the blanket she was swaddled in, and the knitted pink hat on her head almost covered her entire face.

  “She was born addicted to heroin,” Elaine informed me. “Her mother took off as soon as she could. We have The Safe Haven Infant Protection Act here in Nevada. Parents have the right to abandon their babies with no punishment.”

  My stomach turned at the thought of someone deserting this innocent little baby. “Will she be okay?” I asked.