Drake (The Powers That Be, Book 5)

by Harper Bentley

  You can contact her at harperbentleywrites@gmail.com, at harperbentleywrites.com, on Facebook or on Twitter @HarperBentley

  Check out other titles by Harper Bentley:

  The Powers That Be series:

  Gable (The Powers That Be Book 1)

  Zeke (The Powers That Be Book 2)

  Loch (The Powers That Be Book 3)

  Ryker (The Powers That Be Book 4)

  CEP series:

  Being Chased (CEP #1)

  Unbreakable Hearts (CEP #2)

  Under the Gun (CEP #3)

  The High Rise series

  The Fighter

  Serenity Point series:

  Bigger Than the Sky (Serenity Point Book 1)

  Always and Forever (Serenity Point Book 2)

  True Love series:

  Discovering Us (True Love #1)

  Finding Us (True Love #2)

  Finally Us (True Love Book 3)

  True Love: The Trilogy: The Complete Boxed Set

  The Wait series:

  Thursdays (The Wait Book 1)

  http://harperbentleywrites.com/

  Rock the Dream (Redfall Dream #1) by B.B. Miller & Leslie Carson

  Rock the Dream

  Chapter 1

  Kennedy

  “DON’T YOU WANT more?” My voice sounds disembodied, dry, and raspy, like I’m a seventy-five-year-old chain smoker who doesn’t give a shit about what a lifetime of nicotine has done to his lungs.

  A booming bass fills the penthouse suite at the San Francisco Fairmont, where my band, Redfall, and a host of strangers party into the night. “Mmm... You’re so fucking hot.” It’s a slurred and intoxicated whisper against my neck from some nameless groupie sitting on my lap. Gin and desperation roll off her in waves. She licks the curved chaos of ink snaking down my shoulder and grinds her skinny, naked body against mine. I shudder at the feel of skin and bones against me. She pushes her tits forward, and breathes in my ear. “Touch me, Kenny.”

  “I always want more. So do you.” The voice of my tour manager, Brodie Dixon, drifts to me from somewhere far away. I lean back against the couch, trying to open my eyes in an attempt to find him. I feel like I’m floating in a dream or a nightmare; it’s hard to tell which. I’m stuck somewhere between reality and a fucked up fantasy.

  “Name’s Kennedy,” I mumble.

  “Kenny, Kenny, Kenny,” she chants as she rolls her hips against mine.

  I turn my neck in the direction I think Brodie’s voice came from, making a feeble attempt to brush away the hand flattening against my stomach, and drifting south. I can feel her jagged nails scratching over my hip, fumbling, as she attempts to unhook my leather belt.

  Her hot, liquor-laced breath fans over my exposed chest, and her fingers lazily drift along the tatt that covers my neck. She doesn’t give a shit about me. She’s just here because I’m Kennedy-Fucking-Lane and she wants to say she fucked me.

  Somehow, I manage to open my eyes. Through an intoxicated haze, I can make out Brodie—at least I think it’s him—bent over a table, slowly moving his face along a mirrored surface. I lift the dead weight of the bottle of Jack to my lips, welcoming the burn as the whiskey hits my throat.

  Muted light filters in from the gaps in the curtains, catching the glare from the mirror and splaying prisms of color over Brodie’s body. He leans back in the chair and lifts his hand to his nose, snorting back any excess coke he may have missed. He cracks his neck like he always does when he’s finished, and pats his thigh.

  It feels like I’m watching in slow motion as a groupie appears like an apparition out of nowhere and floats to his lap, immediately wrapping her arms around his neck and crashing her lips to his.

  I shut my eyes, guiding the heavy bottle back to my lips, hoping the magic liquid will block everything out. It hurts to swallow. My throat feels like it’s on fire. I wonder how much is enough to numb the pain.

  “No. I mean more than this,” I say, setting the bottle back on the couch.

  “I’ve got more right here, man.” The unrelenting music pounds in my head, and I hear the sound of the chair scraping across the hardwood floor as the room spins.

  Shuffled feet make their way across the room. I hear a crash, broken glass hitting the floor, and then a fit of giggling.

  “I fell. Kiss it better, Brodie.” That high-pitched voice is like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.

  I open one eye to find Brodie leaning against me. “Mmm... You’ve got more, too, I see. What’s your name, sugar?” Brodie gives a lazy grin to the blond perched in my lap.

  “Whatever you want it to be,” she says slowly, leaning forward to press her lips to my neck.

  I try to roll my eyes, but it’s too much work in my current fucked-up state. From the floor, the giggles continue and Brodie laughs, big and boisterous, reminding me I’m, in fact, still alive.

  The girl on my lap rolls her head back, her bleached hair spilling against my jean-covered thighs. Pouring a stream of whiskey over her tits, my tongue lazily follows the trail. “Mmm... More, but not real. I miss real tits.”

  “They’re tits, man—real, fake, what’s the difference?”

  “More... The difference is more.”

  Brodie leans over me and cups her breast in his hand. “Well, I like them, sweetheart. Come here.”

  It doesn’t take much coaxing to pull her from my lap. She squeals while I try to make my escape, pushing off the cushions a few times to get somewhat vertical. The room sways, and I stumble back against the arm of the couch.

  My vision blurs to the point I can only make out shapes—changing, shifting, and morphing shapes that seem to deliberately block my path.

  I take in the bodies currently grinding together in an erotic, tempting dance. They’re everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Against walls, windows, furniture, molded to the floor. It’s like a fucking funhouse in here.

  “I’m just gonna...” The world tilts, and my eyes slide shut.

  “You’re high as a motherfucking kite, Lane,” Brodie yells from the couch.

  My grip tightens around the neck of the bottle as I step over a pair of endless long legs pushed into high-heeled fuck-me boots. I register something slicing into my foot, and I welcome the pain.

  I stumble to the black grand piano where there’s a couple of plastic bags open, their powdery contents spilling out. I can almost hear them calling my name.

  Somewhere in all the haze and drug-induced madness of my currently fucked-up, fried brain I know if I take another drink or do another line, it may be my last. The scary part is that somewhere in there I kind of want it to be.

  Through my blurry vision, I see a solid mass of muscle standing ready in the hall. I think it’s Tucker Pearson, my security guard, and one of the only real friends I have left. He shakes his head in my direction, and makes the decision for me.

  Leaving Brodie and the rest of my band to the squealing groupies, I shuffle my way to the first door I find, push it open, and welcome the softness of the bed as I collapse face first into it.

  Welcome to the life of a motherfucking rock star.

  

  “Get up, asshole.”

  I groan from a tangle of covers and pillows. Maybe Tucker will go away if I just lay here. It hurts too much to move anyway. The warm covers fly off me, exposing my bare back to the assault of the cool air conditioning.

  “Fuck, man. Give me a second.”

  He opens the blinds to the terrace, and I blink at the harsh sun streaming in. My head pounds and I burrow my face into the pillow, waiting for the welcome darkness to descend. I made it to another day. Halle-fucking-lujah.

  “You look like shit.”

  He grips my hair, forcing my head back as I fight to open my eyes. Even in my fucked-up state, I can see the disappointment in his face. He shakes his head and tightens his hand in my hair.

  “Is this what you want, huh? This is what you worked so hard for?”

  “Fuck off, Tucker.”

 
; “You’ve got the meeting with the charity today. Did you forget about that? The dream for the sick little boy?”

  “Mmm...” It hurts when I try to shake my head. “T’morrow.” I try to push him away. It’s almost impossible at the best of times, given Tucker’s sheer size and strength let alone trying it after a night like the one I just survived.

  “It is tomorrow, idiot.”

  He pushes my head forcefully into the pillow. The bed dips with his weight. “This has got to stop, man. You want to be that cliché? Musical genius who drank and snorted himself into oblivion?”

  “What I don’t want is a lecture from you right now.” My voice is muffled against the pillow.

  “You’re better than this, Kennedy.” His voice is quieter, and I manage to turn my head in his direction, opening my eyes.

  “Not anymore.”

  “You are. Why don’t you let me check out that rehab place? The one in Malibu?” It’s not the first time he’s suggested it.

  “Right, ‘cause that’s not a cliché at all, is it?”

  “They deal with celebrities all the time. They have confidentiality rules and—”

  “And what? You want me to sit and talk about my goddamn feelings like the last time I tried rehab? That’s bullshit, man.” I wince as the jackhammer rattles in my head. “Fuck, where’s the goddamn Oxy?”

  He moves from my vision, and I close my eyes, welcoming the quiet. I stretch my arm out beside me, my hand making impact with warm skin. The room spins as I turn my head, glancing over at the body beside me. I think she might be the giggler from the floor last night, but I’m not sure.

  “Shit.” I manage to push myself up and lean back against the plush headboard. I don’t want to see her half-naked body draped over the rumpled bed. At least I still have my jeans on. Little victories amuse me, and I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.

  My stomach rolls as she lets out a moan, lifting her head just off the pillow, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she stares blankly at me. “Ready again so soon, handsome?”

  In the cruel, harsh light of the morning after, everything is different. Here I am, in a lush penthouse suite with a strung-out junkie, whose name I don’t even want to know beside me.

  The raccoon eyes are in full force as she clumsily wipes them, leaving more mascara smudged beneath her lashes. “I just need a little something first. Got any smack?” She tries to push herself up, but doesn’t seem to have the strength. She dissolves back to the bed with a giggle.

  I close my eyes and swallow down the razor blades lining my throat.

  “Tucker?” I strain to hear him moving around in the bathroom. I think I doze off right there, leaning up against the headboard with my head feeling like a tire iron has been rammed through it, until ice-cold water splashes down over me.

  “Jesus, fuck!” My body convulses when I try to push off the bed. I glare at Tucker as he holds an empty ice bucket. The giggler squeals louder in hysterics.

  “You—in the shower. Now.” He scowls at me, daring me to defy him.

  The frigid water drips from my damp hair as I push off the soaked bed. He shakes his head, his lips curling up into a knowing smile. I think Tucker’s patience is running out, but for now, I know I’m forgiven for another night of debauchery.

  “Do something with that, will you?” I tilt my head in the direction of the giggler. He knows the routine. Wipe her phone, pay her well, and remind her of the confidentiality agreement she no doubt has forgotten she signed when she was sober.

  “I’m on it,” he replies, while I drag my sorry ass to the bathroom. I curse as pain shoots through my foot, and I struggle to remember what happened last night.

  It’s not unusual for me to have blackouts where I have absolutely no idea what I did or how I got to be in the place I wake up in. I know I’m existing on a very thin and unstable line. I’ve been looking to the bottle to fill up a gaping hole in me. If left unchecked... the siren call to make the pain go away is too strong for me to resist.

  It’s one of the reasons I’m grateful for Tucker. He’s the one who pulls me back to reality after a night of excess. Why he hasn’t left me is a miracle. But he’s here, dealing with what I can’t. I can hear shouting from the giggler behind the closed door while he cleans up my mess one more time.

  Leaning against the cool marble vanity, I squint in the harsh lighting. I hardly recognize the gaunt face staring back at me. Fumbling with the tap, which is harder to figure out than it should be, I finally get the cold water to turn on. I lean over the basin and splash water on my face.

  I hate myself for admitting that Tucker is right. I’m getting too old for this shit. You could easily mistake me for an addict on the street instead of a successful musician who should be on top of the world.

  Under the glare and buzz of the fluorescent lights in the luxury of the bathroom bigger than my first apartment, it dawns on me: I’ve just used the word I have always refused to associate with myself. Addict.

  The bathroom door opens, and Tucker steps into view in the mirror beside me. He’s the picture of health and life. A sharp contrast to what I’m becoming.

  “What are you doing? If she was here, if she could see you—”

  I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Don’t go there, man. Just don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  I glare back at him. “If I piss you off this much, why the fuck do you stick around?”

  “You know damn well why. I promised Rob—”

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare say her name.” I clench my teeth, feeling my jaw set.

  He glares at me in disgust. “Do you think this is what she would’ve wanted for you?”

  We stare at each other in the mirror in a silent standoff, neither one of us wavering.

  “Oxy is beside the sink. Drink this.” He tosses me an energy drink—some pink colored shit that tastes like hell, no doubt. “All of it. Shave the forest you’ve got growing on your face, and take whatever you need to appear somewhat alive and coherent. The charity team will be here at one.”

  My hands shake as I go for the pain meds. It’s a fight to get the lid off. Finally, I pour a couple of pills into my wet palm and lift my gaze to meet his in the mirror.

  “You’re really living the dream, Lane. Living the dream.”

  

  Abigail

  “Got a minute, boss?”

  My eyes pop up from the spreadsheet I’ve been struggling with. Tessa Baker, my assistant, is poised at my doorway. Grateful for the interruption, I smile.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  She strides into my office and hands me a sheaf of papers. “We have the final report on the Peterson Dream.”

  “Oh, good. We really lucked out on that one.” I still can’t believe we’d been able to fulfill ten-year-old Ryan Peterson’s dream of being with his beloved Seattle Seahawks when they won the Super Bowl. The lucky part hadn’t been sending Ryan to the game—the Seahawks and NFL had been only cooperative. It was whether Ryan’s bone cancer, which had accelerated, would allow him to attend. It had been a race against time.

  I scan the report with my usual mixture of pride and sorrow; pride because we were able to provide this for a spunky young boy who sorely deserved it, and sorrow because he had lost his fight with his illness only three weeks after the event. As the executive director for What’s Your Dream, I’m more than familiar with the emotions.

  Although we’d only been in existence ten years, we’d already fulfilled more than three thousand dreams of children with terminal or life-threatening illnesses. Since I’d become director three years ago, we’d doubled the number of chapters. Soon, we’ll have one in every state.

  “His parents were so grateful,” Tessa comments, her eyes full of understanding.

  I nod again, my brow furrowing as I recall his mother’s voice when she’d called to let us know about Ryan’s passing. I couldn’t help but cry with her over the phone as she’d described his last days. How happy and thank
ful he’d been to not only attend the game with his family, but to also have the chance to hold the Lombardi trophy—with the help of a few of his favorite players. It had been all he’d talked about, right up until the end.

  Moving the report aside, I take a settling breath and stand, smoothing my black pencil skirt. “Okay, then. Everyone waiting for me, I suppose?” I look at my assistant.

  Tess ticks something off on her clipboard. “Just April, of course. But the others are on their way.”

  We leave my office and Tess follows me down to one of our smaller meeting rooms. April is seated at the table, texting someone. I swear, the girl was born with a phone in her hand.

  “You’re late.” She doesn’t look up.

  Smirking, I take the seat opposite her. “Happens to the best of us once in a while, April,” I quip as the rest of our group files in and take their places.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she retorts with a sigh, and places her phone on the table. She flips her glossy, straight black hair over her shoulder. April Morrison is our public relations director and damn good at her job. I’d managed to coax her away from Make-A-Wish last year, and I constantly thank my lucky stars. She’s sharp, tireless, and loyal, and her penchant for punctuality has become legendary.

  “So, what do we have this week?” I open the folder in front of me and glance up to our giving director, Nadia Baskov, sitting next to April.

  “Sixteen dreams were already approved by the Eligibility team this week”—she takes a sip of her tea—“but they bumped these seven cases up to us.”

  I hum in understanding. Although our Eligibility team is responsible for evaluating each request, they only implement the relatively straightforward dreams, such as those for new pets, birthday parties, or trips. The more complex requests are sent upstairs where the four of us—April, Nadia, Duane Allen, our finance director, and I—deliberate on the possibilities and appropriateness of the requests.

  I skim through the seven cases before sitting back to let Nadia take us through each one. Her fingers toy absently with a lock of her silky blond hair. With her sharp green eyes and stylish navy suit, she looks the epitome of a cold, calculating businesswoman, but underneath her austere demeanor beats a sensitive and compassionate heart.