Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1)

by Lyrica Creed

  What he was playing was amazing.

  “Is that the new song?”

  He answered without stopping his chords. “Hell, no. You’ve heard Fire Flight.”

  “Yeah.” Most Fire Flight songs were in your face loud, angry. This tune was bluesy, haunting. “I like this. A lot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Seth said you were teaching him some techniques.”

  “Colt and I’ve both taught him. He’s learning in stereo.” A quirk of the ‘engaging smile.’ “He’s going to be a monster.”

  “No doubt,” she agreed. Gage had won awards and Colt had played in two top grossing bands before Fire Flight. Both had graced music and guitar magazine covers. “You think you could teach me?”

  Now where the hell had that come from? She panicked once the words were out. One moment she had been in a blissful haze, hypnotized by the music, his voice, and the contrast of the white cottony clouds against the blue of the sky. And the next she was asking for guitar lessons? She had no desire to learn!

  “Yeah. Sure!” He sounded surprised, but eager.

  There was no way it would happen. There was no time. That thought was slightly comforting. Less comforting was the thought of leaving.

  A few more measures drifted over the pool and then dwindled to a pause. “You ever going to order the linguine?” he asked.

  They had hashed over what they wanted for dinner and had decided on Pace, an Italian restaurant that delivered in the area.

  “What are you going to do when I leave?” She grumbled about the chore and didn’t immediately leave her comfortable position to wade over to her phone.

  Was her leaving getting to him too? His eyes seemed sad and distant for a moment before he recovered and retorted. “Same thing I did before you showed. Throw wild parties. Fill the pool with naked models who will order me food and bring me drinks.”

  She laughed. But the sound seemed fake to her ears. The thought of nude women doing Gage’s every bidding was so not funny to her. But since he was being big brother taunting her, she served up sassy-little-sister-on-a-stick right back. “You sure you had all that going on? Pool looks empty to me. When I came I was hoping you’d have parties with hot rock stars hanging all day.”

  One second later, he had vacated the chair and was in the water. Five seconds later, he’d reached her teak island and was hauling her off as she screeched.

  “You need to cool off, little mermaid!”

  “No, I don’t. I really don’t.”

  His grip relaxed, allowing her to slide down his front until she was standing in the knee-deep water. When she shivered, it wasn’t because she’d cooled off! Quite the opposite.

  “What would you do with these hot rock stars?” His challenge was a husky rumble near one of her ears.

  Her gaze glided from the hand underwater on her waist, up his arm, taking in the decorative ink—barbed wire music scores ran up the inside of his arm and beginning at the bend, spiraled up his biceps and triceps. “Hot rock star… Half naked in the pool…” She used his own images against him. “Hmm. I don’t know…”

  In retaliation, he hooked an arm beneath her knees, prepared to unbalance her.

  “Don’t… I don’t want to be all wet again…” She was laughing so hard at his antics, she didn’t immediately grasp what she’d said until his expression became even more animated.

  “No? Are you sure?”

  She’d hiked head-on into that one. His eyes were still alight with mischief. But they also glittered dark and dangerous. In the position he had maneuvered her into, he could drop her, and she’d fall backward, dunking under before she caught herself. Or he could hold her closer… and kiss her…

  Either way, she’d end up wet.

  “Very sure.” It took every ounce of willpower to force the two words out.

  She could call Derrick as soon as her plane landed in Belize. Or she’d have a fling. What she wouldn’t do was cross what was becoming a very thin line—perhaps even a dotted one—between stepbrother and lover.

  The plunge into the water startled her. She’d been so sure Gage wouldn’t drop her when she’d drifted for a few seconds into her thoughts. Her elbows hit the smooth bottom, and she pushed above the water, sputtering and wiping the hair from her face.

  “You ass!” She skimmed the surface with her hands, raining a series of splashes until he was deluged and dripping.

  He didn’t even fight back, simply shot one of his smirks and hastened back to his chair and his ever-ringing phone.

  As she stood on the edge of the pool drying, she watched his conversation. He was speaking and throwing glances her way.

  He ended the call, and his expression was apologetic. “That was a friend I thought might be able to come up with Bradley Walker’s cell number. He doesn’t have it.

  “Oh.” She swiped the towel one last time over her face and then looped it around her neck. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “I’ll keep thinking. There’s bound to be some way to do this.”

  “What if we just ring his bell?”

  “Ring his bell?” His brows shot up, and that naughty gleam danced in his eyes again.

  “Dammit! Are you twelve?”

  “We will.” Gage seemed earnest. “We will ride up to his gate and buzz him if it comes to that.”

  She narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was supposed to be catching some double entendre, but he only plopped back down into his seat with the guitar.

  “Food’s here.” She stuck her head into Gage’s studio.

  “Not too hungry right now. Go ahead.” He spoke from the couch. His feet were propped on the back and his arm rested over his forehead. “I’ll get something later.”

  “I thought you were starving?”

  “I was. I drank a beer. Now I’m not.”

  “You okay?” Would she always have this uneasy feeling when he seemed off? His face looked pale, despite the afternoon by the pool.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “What?”

  “And don’t do that.”

  “What!”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not thinking it.”

  Aggravated with his attitude, whether or not it was innocent, she turned without a word. After fixing her plate, she ate supper alone in front of the super-screen television, watching sitcom reruns. Two shows later, she switched off the television and went upstairs to clear the food if it was still out and untouched.

  Music pounded through the house. The hard angry beat sounded more like the piece he was working on for Fire Flight’s studio session, which was coming up fast. It looked as if he’d dished himself up a serving. She put her plate in the sink and followed the sound waves to ask if he wanted seconds before she put the food up.

  Gage’s pallor still seemed different. He was twisting back and forth in a castor chair, and the song she was hearing thundered from the speakers. He didn’t turn the volume down when she entered, and she stood right inside the door, enjoying the hard beat. When it ended, Gage’s phone came alive with Colt’s voice.

  “Too hot. Thought you were going to drop the bass. And what’s with the delay?”

  Gage slumped some in his chair, and seeing the light go out of his expression, she threw up her hands as she advanced into the room whispering. “Was he always such a douche?”

  “He’s right.” Gage hit a switch, and the computer screen went dark.

  “I’m always right.” From the speakerphone. “Who’s there with you? Scarla?” Gage picked the phone up and twisted it, so the camera would frame her. She pulled a smile when she saw Colt’s eyes on the screen, and he greeted her. “Hi, Scarla. My pool misses you.”

  Gage’s face clouded even more, and he angled the camera away from her. She made another silent gesture of her hands, this one more explicit.

  “I’ll call you later.” Gage barely waited for an answer before ending the call. “He’s right. I’ve got to fix that.”

  “Whatever. He al
ways finds something to bitch about.” Picking up the guitar on the couch, she held it and sat in its place.

  “You ready for that lesson?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking. You know. That I’d be gone in six days.”

  “What if I told you, you could learn one song in a few days?”

  “You could teach me a whole song?”

  He grinned at her doubtful tone and with a challenge-accepted look, crossed to sit beside her. Waving a hand with a flourish toward the guitar she held, he said, “Scarlette, meet Claudine. Claudine meet Scarlette.”

  Running a finger down the smooth wood of the neck before relinquishing it to his tuning expertise, she inquired. “Do you have any boy guitars?”

  His face contorted into a façade of shock. “Nope. Only ladies up close and personal with my junk.”

  The answer confused her, until a moment later when he slipped into the strap and stood, strumming chords while crossing the room. He searched out a container of picks, grabbed one, and turned. “This one should be right for you.”

  She nodded, but wasn’t listening. She was too busy noticing the body of the guitar at crotch level, and although she tried, she couldn’t stop a belated giggle.

  Claudine was a lucky lady…

  True to his word, by the next evening, he had her playing the beginning lick and the chorus of Smoke on the Water. This was an accomplishment, because it was no easy feat to concentrate with him so close. His arms wrapped around her to demonstrate finger placement. His breath fanned her neck when he spoke. His fingers held her eyes captivated as they walked along the instrument.

  It was during one of these spellbound moments when she first noticed something was not quite right. His hands seemed shaky. A sheen of perspiration ran along his hairline. And like the evening before, his complexion didn’t seem right. Since asking about his welfare had been disastrous the previous night, she didn’t at first.

  “Okay. This next lick, instead of being three, two, three, one, is going to speed up so that it’s three, three, two, two, and then three one, three one. And the strokes are going to be down, down, up, down. Down, up, down, down, up.”

  Hearing Gage speak of licks and strokes in his husky sweet voice was a continuous rapturous assault on every nerve.

  His hand curved naturally around the wood and the pads of his fingers fit themselves to the strings. The pick fell to the floor, but he ignored it and used his fingers instead to show her the next progression. She almost choked on the drool pooling in her throat.

  When it was her turn to follow his lead, she played through what she knew so far. To divert her wayward thoughts, she concentrated on the guitar, taking in the faint scuffmarks, the one nick. For a moment, a skull and lightning bolt manifested. It transformed back into a black Gibson as she finished her lick and Gage pulled the guitar into his lap.

  His hands shook worse now, so much so that he couldn’t play what he wanted to demonstrate. “Well, that’s enough for tonight.” He offered it back to her. “You want to keep it with you to practice?”

  Lightning stretched across it again and the skull faded in and then out. It wasn’t that she actually saw it; it was a feeling. The same feeling she’d had when seeing her father’s guitar. Sorrow. Grief. Regret.

  “No.” She recoiled.

  One day this iconic guitar and a legend would be left behind, same as her father’s.

  Her gaze followed him as he moved across the room, his posture bent like a man forty years older. He rested the guitar in a rack, walked a few more paces, and dropped to a squat, peering into the mini fridge.

  Over his shoulder he asked, “Want anything?”

  Ignoring his offer, she asked, “What’s wrong? What has you shaking like that? What has you looking so bad?”

  Using the shelving unit the fridge was encased in, he hauled himself up and then wrestled with the cap on the beer bottle. An unsteady twist finally popped it off, and it landed at his feet, where it went ignored like the guitar picks. Only it wasn’t a pick. It was trash. It wasn’t normal, especially for this room.

  “Nothing. I’m fine, okay?” Whatever he read in her face softened his expression. “I won’t make you worry again.” The promise rang with humble sincerity, and then his voice changed a bit. “You going?” Another chugalug of the beer. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Nonplussed, she stared, and then realized she was being dismissed. In the nicest of ways—but dismissed, nevertheless. It seemed a well-used phrase coming from his lips. In a different element, he was a man who was accustomed to speaking and getting what he wanted—or sending away what he didn’t. For a moment, she saw Gage Remington-Superstar—sprawled on not only this couch, but backstage couches all over the world—and he looked so alone.

  She stood, regarding him for a few more seconds, and then left the room. Upstairs, she readied for bed, unable to believe they’d gone from the incredible closeness of the morning, and the affinity since, to this moment now. It wasn’t ‘fine.’ No matter what he said.

  Slipping on a pair of shorts, she ignored her bed and raced down the hallway, down the stairs, back to the studio. The main lights were off but a blue light from an equalizer lent a dim glow.

  The beer bottle was on its side, pooling into a wet spot on the oriental looking rug that covered the tile in this room. Gage was still on the couch, fully reclined now, on his side, curled almost into a ball.

  “Gage?”

  He groaned.

  “Seriously. What’s wrong?” Avoiding the beer puddle, she stopped beside him.

  “Fuck I hate this. I hate this part so much…”

  She touched her hand to his head, finding cold clammy skin. Yet without touching him anywhere else, she could feel the intense heat radiating off the rest of him.

  Suddenly she felt like an idiot. The shakes. The shivers. The vows of never worrying her again…

  “Withdrawals? Are you in the middle of withdrawals? How many days?”

  Croaking out another swear, he coughed, his entire body jolting with the motion. “The morning after last time. After you left. That morning.”

  Now she was the one to swear. Straightening, she crossed the shadowy room. The fridge light blinked on when she pulled it open and grabbed a bottle of water.

  Carrying it with her, she returned to his side and knelt to his level. “Drink this. You need water. Not beer.”

  “Beer takes the edge off.”

  “And dehydrates you, making the symptoms ten times worse right after you’re done drinking it!” She managed to get him sitting up enough to tip the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Where’s your smoke?”

  She pulled open the indicated drawer and found it littered with paraphernalia she had no idea how to use. Rooting through it, she picked up a prescription type container containing pre-rolled joints. She shook one out and took it and a lighter to the couch.

  He moved his legs aside and she took a seat. Sparking the lighter, she held it to the tip of the rolled paper, inhaled, and leaned in close enough so their lips barely brushed as she let the hit out. Pinching it backward between her lips, she leaned in again, expelling another breath while he sucked it in.

  Within a minute or so, he sat up and accepted the transfer of the joint from her fingers to his. After taking in a few more hits himself, he gave her a sideways look. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  Knowing he was speaking of the hits she’d shared with him, she shrugged, not up to stories of her past ruining the weirdly comfortable moment.

  His half smile quirked enough to see his dimple, but his posture still seemed pained. “I would’ve beat up whatever little punk taught you that. Still will—just tell me who.”

  She laughed, letting him think it was one of her school-aged boyfriends. Because how many teen girls had been taught to ‘shotgun’ by one of their mom’s rocker boyfriends?

  Chapter 32

  He listened to her amused giggle and basked in the moment of making her laug
h. He wondered what relationship he and Scarlette would have today if there had been no divorce between their parents. If he had been there to watch over her through high school, through college. If she had been a teenaged girl without a druggie, promiscuous mother.

  If he would have been around to make things better for her, would he be sitting here right now as her big brother? Or the man who had just inconspicuously adjusted the boner her shotgun hits had given him?

  “You can’t just quit cold turkey.” She broke the silence. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I think I can. I had already done the detox part in rehab. And I didn’t go back to using every day when I left.” He took one last hit and dropped the smoke onto a glass coaster. He could sense her mind churning. “I’ll go into rehab if I have to. But… And I know this is a lot to ask… You can help me, right? If you tell me what to do, what to take, whatever it is you studied, I could stay home, right? I can beat this thing in my own house. And not somewhere where every other junkie looking at me knows who I am.” The light beneath the pool surface created an alien-like glow on the windows and he watched it for a bit when she didn’t answer. “I know you don’t want to be in L.A. for the twentieth thing. Just… We could do this, right? I can text you or call you with questions. We can Skype. Whatever it takes.”

  At this point, he felt as if he was pleading for more than her help in home detox. He felt like he was begging her to stay in touch.

  “I’ll help you. You know I will.”

  Turning to Scarlette for help with his sobriety was starting out harder than rehab had been.

  However, it was far more interesting, he acceded as he eyed her long bare legs. She was wearing the black denim shorts he liked on her and a stretchy white cotton tee shirt with a generous vee neck.

  Her ankles were bare. The top ridge of white footie socks edged the rim of her black sneakers.

  He slowed his hiking pace, needing to catch his breath, and Scarlette slowed too. She stood several paces ahead of him, beyond the shade of an overhanging tree limb, and the sun ignited fiery highlights in her hair.