Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1)

by Lyrica Creed

  He was about to twist the cap from his bullet again, but stopped when a voice hailed from the direction of the house.

  “What’s shakin’, bacon?”

  Colt’s home appeared to be an older architectural design than Gage’s. I had seen very little inside the main house but when passing through the previous night, I’d noted that despite its spaciousness, it was rustic with lots of wood and rafters. Instead of opening completely to the outside as Gage’s did, this one had French doors that folded back accordion style. Caroline stood in the doorway now, pushing one French door back until it stopped in the track. “Your house is stuffy,” she announced.

  “Can’t have that,” Colt returned. “The neighbors are stuffy enough.”

  Caroline giggled and made her way around scattered deck furniture to sit with us. “Aw, come on. In all fairness, the realtor should have disclosed a musician was living next door, with wild parties going on at all hours of the night and day—and naked women running through the neighborhood.”

  “You’re never going to let me live that down are you?” Dipping his head, he replaced the necklace without partaking of its contents.

  “Nope.” Caroline sat back with a smug smile.

  “So, the brat’s home?” The affection Colt laced into the nickname was accompanied by a special light in his eyes and a smile.

  “Yep. He’s all yours for the next few days. Be good.”

  The current transmitting between the two of them was a tangible thing, and again I found myself wondering about their relationship. How they could have this easy closeness, obvious affection, private jokes, and a child together, yet not be together.

  “Dad!” Seth hung over a balcony on the second level. “I’m going to skate, right? Jeter’s mom is picking me up in an hour. Hi, Scarla.”

  I waved and listened to Colt and Caroline converse for a minute before Colt hollered his okay up to their son.

  Caroline lingered, visiting, for a bit more before standing. “I’ve got to get going. Second shift today. Nice to see you again, Scarla.” Here I responded likewise, and then the other woman tipped her head to Colt. “Can you walk me out?”

  I assumed Caroline had something more to discuss with Colt about Seth, and I used the opportunity to scurry toward the guesthouse. I would Google Bradley Walker’s home, and see if it was on one of the celebrity tours. I didn’t want to have to ask Gage for anything anymore.

  With that thought, I entered my accommodations and headed straight for the bathroom first. What I didn’t count on was the room being directly below the incline where Colt and Caroline stood conversing on the driveway and their voices carried clearly somehow, through the intake vent.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not asking for me! I’m telling you what I know. And if you want your band to stay together, you need to get her out of here.”

  “And you know about her and Gage how?”

  “I have eyes. It’s that simple. Keep your cock in your pants with this one. And if you’ve already fucked her, then get ready for the fallout!”

  At first, I was startled and couldn’t seem to stop eavesdropping. But finally shocked enough by Caroline’s words, I backed out of the room.

  Chapter 26

  The walls trembled with the aftershocks of his frustration. Every agonizing emotion went into the instrument and manifested into a thunderous symphony of sound. The chord progression was angry, rising and holding through several measures before falling again. As the abuse to his instrument began to tax his limbs, his mind, and the jaw he’d held clenched for too long, the trip back down the G scale slowed. He plucked at the strings instead of tearing at them. The melody declined from a raging hurricane to a spring shower and then to the gentleness of falling tears.

  He ceased playing and flicked the pick aside. Using both hands, he tucked his sweat-dampened hair behind his ears. Ironically, when the hush fell around him, he could hear his cell phone ringing beneath the placid surface of the pool. This caused a fresh wave of pain—a reminder that only minutes before flipping out and chucking the phone into the water he’d maxed out the volume so he wouldn’t miss Scar’s text or call.

  Trading the guitar in hand for the pool skimmer, he scooped the now silent phone from its watery resting place and wondered how deep one point five meters was, when converted to feet. The factory advised safe depth must not have been exceeded, because the phone chirped with a text as droplets rolled from every surface.

  Nothing from Scar.

  He checked Colt-the-traitor’s thread to see if anything had been sent after the ‘idiot’ text.

  Nothing.

  He ignored all other blinking names. Returning inside, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and paced. He wanted nothing more than to crank his bike and roar down the mountain the few miles to Colt’s. Colt would only hurt her. He was capable of being a decent guy, but that wasn’t going to happen until he and Caroline got their shit straight and committed to one another.

  The next minute he cursed Scarlette for the way she’d acted and hoped he didn’t see her again. Who was she to be judgmental? To assume because she didn’t agree with something, it was wrong for everyone?

  This seesaw from one emotional extreme to the other had plagued him all day. And what was beginning to bother him even more was the thought of the other Clear Morning packet. The one he’d been so sure he wouldn’t use—but not sure enough to dump it into the toilet this morning with the shredded paper of the empty one.

  He fisted his hair, trying to remember how far back he’d graduated from user to addict. He never deluded himself. But he had never cared either. Until lately. Colt had told him he couldn’t write a hit song when he was fucked up and it was true. But he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared he’d wasted the detox stage of rehab and that there was only one cure for his crawling skin, until Scar had made him feel like a loser junkie.

  The trash bag outside was calling his name.

  He ventured out to the containers and stood a moment. Rascal searched the tiny side yard, looking for a stick and finally broke off a twig from a hedge. Still eyeing the trashcan, he absentmindedly threw the ‘stick’ and wiped dog slobber from his fingers to his pants.

  Finally, he scrolled through his phone looking for the brunette from a couple of months ago who had refused all party favors except beer. It took several minutes to skim through the notes by the contact names until he found the one he wanted.

  Her face filled his phone screen on the second ring and she smiled a happy grin. “Hey.”

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  “Hi!”

  “Want to hook up?”

  And what happened next was not surprising considering his day. From beyond her side of the phone, a male voice demanded to know who she was talking to. The screen went black, and he heard her call back to this unseen man, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  And then in a normal tone she spoke back into the phone with a giggle. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  “What? No. No you won’t.”

  “Huh?”

  “Who’s that? With you?”

  “My boyfriend. But we have an open relationship.” She practically whispered.

  “No you don’t. Go fuck your boyfriend.”

  His thumb ended the call.

  What the hell had just happened? For sure, he never knowingly messed with married women. But boyfriends; game on. What was going on inside his fucked up head? The trash bin tempted him again. It was easy to imagine his black goodie bag inside the knotted plastic bag.

  Unlocking his screen, he dialed desperately again. Please. Please. Please. He put distance between him and the trash and threw a fresh ‘stick’ for Rascal. The rings went to voicemail.

  “Hey. Scar? I wish you were here. But I understand why you’re not. I do. Yeah, I do. I’m not happy about it, but… Anyway, I was just hoping to hear your voice. To talk…”

  He ended the call.

  Wandering to the trash can, he opene
d the lid. Flipping open the blade of his pocketknife, he slashed a hole in the bag and retrieved his kit. It was early, but he made sure the house was locked and turned out the downstairs lights before going up to his room. Dropping the kit to the vanity, he pulled the zipper and delved his fingers inside for the folded paper.

  For several seconds, he lost himself, eyeing the stamp. A half sun and half cloud. He unfolded it, dumped it into the toilet. As he’d done this morning, he ripped the paper into tiny bits. But this morning, the paper had been empty. Now, when he flushed, both paper and powder swirled in the whirlpool of the bowl before disappearing.

  That was that. Temptation removed.

  Chapter 27

  We went to the sushi restaurant Colt had suggested when asking me out the day I’d met him.

  I drank too much wine and knew this to be the case when I found myself wanting to slide into his lap. He’d pinched a rainbow roll between his chopsticks and held it out to me to try. That’s all. No holding my hand or sneaking a touch here and there. No brush of his long legs against mine at the bar. A freaking taste when I’d shaken my head that I’d never eaten that flavor, and he could have pulled me into his lap and had his way with me.

  Excusing myself, I escaped to the bathroom and wiped at my neck with a cool hand towel. Giving myself an extra couple of minutes to sober up, I pulled my phone from my purse and saw the missed call. Putting it to my ear, I listened to Gage’s voicemail. If I hadn’t known him so well, hadn’t grown up with him, I might have missed the forlorn pitch of his voice.

  Quickly, I dialed and breathed in relief when he answered, but then I found myself tongue tied after the initial greetings.

  “I miss you.” He repeated that part of his voicemail. “You still at Colt’s?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we’re eating now at that place he’s so crazy about. But yeah.”

  “You’re breaking up. Sorry I didn’t get that.”

  “I said yes. But we’re not there right now. At his house.”

  “Dammit, I can’t… You’re breaking up.”

  “I’ll call you in a little bit.”

  “Yeah. Dammit.”

  When the call ended, I texted him for good measure and hoped it went through.

  Feeling surer of my ability to resist the rock star charm, I rejoined Colt, and we left the restaurant. While we were waiting for his car to be brought around, he asked with amazing ESP, “Heard from Gage yet?”

  “I missed a few calls from him. Tried to call him in the ladies room just then, but there was no signal.” As I slid into the passenger seat and watched him tip the valet, an idea struck me. When he folded into the car, I asked, “You hear from him?”

  “Sort of. This morning. He wasn’t in a talking mood.”

  “How often does he… How often does…” I couldn’t say it.

  “Get strung out?”

  I nodded.

  “A lot now. It was a ‘once every few weeks’ thing until this last year. Then the second we were off tour, he’d be fucked up all the time. He cleaned up enough to make another album, go on tour again. But halfway through the tour he was using so much he was fucking up the shows. And getting us sued.” Here he downshifted and threw me a meaningful look. “I know you think the rest of us have no pity at the possibility of him doing time. But that may be the only way to clean him up—the only place he can’t walk out of.”

  A tremor ran through my limbs at the idea of Gage behind bars.

  Colt only scanned music stations, and a few miles, exits, and turns later stopped in a parking lot. “Want to see something cool?”

  I was already beholding the ocean at sunset, and the sight rendered me incapable of much more than an agreeable nod. Golden hues shimmered on cresting waves, and an ethereal glow bathed pedestrians on and near the beach as the sun melted into the horizon.

  The car locked as we left it. Colt was carrying a hoodie and a cap. He slipped his signature-tattooed arms through the jacket and jammed the cap onto his skull, pulling the bill low over his forehead. A pair of shades completed the transformation of rock star to average Joe.

  Yeah right. Only if the average Joe wore over a grand of clothing and accessories!

  Rubbing my bare arms against the chilling gusts rolling in from the sea to our left, I enjoyed the beauty around me as we traversed a concrete path in the sand, which ran parallel to the beach. When the sight of the surf disappeared behind walls of graffiti art, my eyes rounded. Colt and I roamed the exhibition, and although I knew he’d seen it hundreds of times, he was patient while I took it all in. Even the trunks of the palm trees were beautifully painted.

  We resumed following the path, and the beach-at-sunset view on our left was again unhindered. His destination was just ahead. As we drew closer, I saw bodies in various gliding stages. Scattered spectators watched skateboarders leap from ramps, glide around concrete bowls, and what I later learned were ollie stairs. Colt chose a vantage point near a large curved ramp, and I propped on the guardrail beside him.

  It was amazing to watch the skaters, who ranged from nine or ten through to adult, navigate the course. When one particularly skilled teen glided by, his long hair cascading from beneath his helmet and flying behind him, Colt elbowed me. As the skater circled again, I recognized Seth. The board gathered speed, ramped up the wall, caught air, twisted, and came down again.

  This impressive display incited shouts and calls from specific bystanders, including Colt and me. A particularly vocal group of teen girls shouted his name along with hoots of encouragement… “Helluva handplant, Seth! Yes!”

  Colt flicked his eyes their way, and thinking he’d be proud his son was apparently the babe magnet he himself was, I teased, “Hot fan club.” But the curve of Colt’s lips was more automatic than amused, and he didn’t reply.

  After a few more minutes of filming with his phone, Colt sent a text—apparently to his son. Because almost immediately, Seth waved at the girls as he glided beside them and then stopped in front of us. As dusk encroached, the bystanders had thinned, and an exodus had begun from the skate park.

  Colt and Seth high-fived, and Seth skated alongside of us as we began to walk back the way we’d come. A few boys rolled over and some goodbyes were said. One of the teens joined us in our migration to where we’d parked. Now it made sense why Colt had opted for the Jeep and not one of his sports cars.

  “Jeter’s getting picked up at our house.” Seth spoke of his friend.

  “Okay,” Colt agreed, and then teased Jeter. “We’ll see you when we get there then, buddy.”

  The boy expelled an embarrassed laugh, and Seth rolled his blue eyes. “My dad thinks he’s sooo funny.”

  At that point, Colt grinned and sent an identical smoky-blue eye roll to me. “I am sooo funny. Scarla thinks I’m funny. Right?”

  I responded with a smile and he reached for my hand.

  At the boys’ request, Colt swung through a Taco Bell drive-through. While waiting for their food—which included at least half the menu—Seth asked to borrow his dad’s phone. Colt passed it back without question, but Seth alluded to his intent reprovingly. “You haven’t tweeted in days.”

  “Don’t get too crazy,” Colt warned.

  “I’m just adding one of the videos you took tonight.” Seth read aloud as he typed. “Tricks @Venice Skatepark. Hashtag myson. Hashtag nograsshopper.”

  Bags of food passed through the window, and the subject dropped. A fast food aroma filled the car, but I was still too stuffed with sushi to be affected even by the smell of soft tacos—my weakness. The talk in the back didn’t slow much while the boys ate. Music thumped through the speakers, and Colt seemed wrapped up in the current song as he navigated the snail’s pace of the freeway. His lips moved, silently syncing the words in the lyrics. From the back seat, cackles grew more frequent and gradually increased in volume.

  “All right. Too much fun. Can’t be good. Give me that!”

  I couldn’t hide my amusement when Seth evaded his
father’s blind backseat grab for the phone. I turned in time to see the teen type something, and both he and Jeter whooped loudly as they watched the screen.

  “I mean it!” Colt warned as the car rolled to a stop behind the red taillights ahead. “You’re having way too much fun. What’re you doing?”

  “Told you. Just playing on Twitter.” And Seth laughed again. “Shit, Dad. You gotta see this!”

  “I’ve been trying to…”

  Seth shook again with laughter and surrendered the phone.

  The traffic inched forward and stopped again. The glow of the phone screen and the dash lit Colt’s features. His scowl soon lifted and he too, chuckled.

  Curiosity got the best of me. “What? What’s going on?”

  Seth leaned forward, resting an elbow on each of the two front seats as he told his story. “Some girl tweeted Dad.” His voice elevated several pitches as he mimicked a female voice. “’If ‘at Colt Powers’ tweeted me, I’d cry.’”

  When Seth dissolved into a laughing fit again, Colt finished. “And apparently…” Here, via the rearview mirror, he narrowed his gaze on the actual culprit. “’I’ tweeted back―”

  “Get ready to cry!” Seth unanimously finished the sentence along with his father and fell back into the shadows with another fit of laughter.

  “What happened then?” I had seen the guys interacting on Instagram and Twitter with their fans a couple of times, and it had always been entertaining.

  “She selfied herself screaming.” Colt grinned and twisted the phone screen to me, but the line of traffic through the windshield again claimed his attention.

  I giggled at the seven-second image and then sobered slightly, realizing I had never been a young teen who’d mancrushed over teen and twentyish celebrities. That was Ivy. Ivy had Pinterest boards of superstar hunks and hundreds of Tumblr reposts of her favorites. Was she now living her dream? Had one of her men jumped off of social media and into her arms?