by B. B. Miller
“Oh, no,” Kennedy groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t tell me the asshole cheated on you?”
“No. Well, at least, not with a woman.” At his startled glance, I continue, “I finally found him at some guy’s place completely wasted. The place was a trashed. I didn’t know what he was high on, but he could barely keep his eyes open.”
“Ah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the pavement, a troubled look on his face.
“I was shocked. And hurt and furious.” The image of Lucas’s uncaring grin and slurring speech still rankles. “He was risking his spot on the team, his scholarship, his degree . . . everything. But I was also mad at myself. There had been other signs all along, but I either rationalized them away or blindly believed his lies. He begged me not to leave him. He promised he didn’t have a problem. That it wasn’t his Oxy—that one of his friends had the pills, and he only indulged after particularly tough practices. The guys were expected to play through the pain, so I could kind of understand, but . . .” I grit my teeth at the memory. I had been so fucking naïve. “I demanded that he get into counseling, and he agreed.”
I swallow down the lump that has appeared in my throat, a chill coming over me. “The next several weeks were awful. In trying to cope, I became someone I didn’t recognize. I started going through his drawers and his pockets checking for drugs. I watched him like a hawk, convinced that he would give into temptation. I threatened to tell his parents, but he begged me—begged me—not to. He promised he was going to therapy and would never touch another drug. “Just before the last game of the season, though, everything came to a head. There had been a string of thefts since the season began—money from teammates’ lockers, team equipment, things like that. They discovered Lucas was the culprit at the same time he failed a surprise drug test. He was dismissed from the team and lost his scholarship. I was heartbroken, and our parents were horrified.”
We pause at a corner, and I realize I’ve been gripping my elbows, my arms rigidly crossed in front of me. “My parents were just as upset as his were. Plus, they were disappointed in me.” Kennedy glances at me sharply, but I keep walking. The sting of my parents’ disappointment is still sharp even after all these years. “I don’t know why I agreed not to tell them. I was just so in love with him . . . I was young and inexperienced. Lucas had been my only real boyfriend, and it felt disloyal to rat him out. I didn’t know what addiction could do to a person. How insidious it is, how deep a hold it can have on a person. Or the lengths an addict will go to appear normal in order to maintain the façade.”
“I was a cop’s daughter, for Christ’s sake,” I continue with an angry shake of my head. “I thought I knew a few things. But addiction . . . Well, it’s a like being the proverbial frog in slowly heating water. You don’t realize you’re cooked until it’s too late.”
Kennedy is silent, a tall, brooding presence keeping pace at my side. His hands are still deep in his pockets, and his jaw is clenched so tightly I expect to hear it pop. He clears his throat with difficulty. “What happened next?”
“His parents put him in rehab, and I moved back into the dorms with my best friend. When Lucas got out about a month later, he came back to school, but I refused to see him. He kept begging me to forgive him. But it hurt too much to see him. Plus, there was also a part of me that felt I’d failed him somehow.”
Kennedy huffs derisively. “That’s ridiculous. It was his own fault.”
“It’s how I felt at the time, and a long time afterward. Anyway, I finally decided that I owed it to him to end it in person. I went to the place he’d been staying, but when he opened the door, he looked panicked. He hauled me inside and began rushing around, throwing clothes in a duffle bag like a mad man. He yelled at me that we needed to leave. I started crying and begging him to tell me what was going on and accusing him of using again. I turned to leave, but he grabbed me and kept saying he was sorry, so sorry, that he’d never meant to get me involved—”
My voice has become an almost robotic monotone, but I can’t help it; it’s the only way I can get through the rest. “Before we could leave, the door was kicked open and this guy burst in. He was Lucas’s dealer. Oxy wasn’t giving him the same high as before, and he’d graduated to heroin. Lucas owed the guy a lot of money. It’s why he’d been stealing before. The guy grabbed me by the throat. Said that if Lucas didn’t pay up, he’d take his payment out of me. He had a gun.”
Kennedy spits out a curse and gapes at me, but I keep going. “I was terrified. I didn’t know if the guy wanted me to pay him the money, or if he’d meant something else.” I swallow thickly, remembering the feel of hard metal against my temple.
“It was horrific. Lucas was screaming, the guy was screaming back. He kept pressing the gun in my cheek.”
“Holy fuck.” He takes my arm to bring me to a stop and pulls at my shoulders so I’m facing him, but I can’t look him in the eye.
“The same day, my dad was transferring a prisoner to Oakland. Lucas’s dad asked him to stop by and check on Lucas,” I whisper, my throat feeling like a desert. “It was a perfect storm of coincidence. He heard the yelling and saw the open door, so he called it in. It wasn’t his jurisdiction. But he had the feeling he couldn’t wait, so he entered, gun drawn. The dealer panicked. He shot Dad in the left shoulder. I can still see it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the horrifying image of my father’s blood soaking his shirt as he fell to the floor. “I freaked out. I bit the asshole’s arm, the one he was holding the gun with, and he pushed me away; he aimed at me. My dad shot him in the head.”
I’m shaking as Kennedy pulls me close and wraps his arms around me tightly. The scent of warm leather and spice envelops me; it’s intoxicating. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against his chest. “It’s still hard to talk about, even though it happened years ago.”
His lips brush my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Don’t apologize. I can’t even begin to imagine.” One of his hands finds its way inside my trench coat and slides smoothly over the silk shirt at my waist. His other hand moves up to sink into my hair, cupping the back of my neck and gently compelling me to look up at him. His blue eyes have darkened, and I can’t look away. He’s mesmerizing. My heart pounds, drowning out the sounds of the street. His face lowers toward mine, and I can’t breathe . . .
“Holy shit, man! You’re Kennedy Lane!”
The coarse voice is like a bucket of ice water over my head, and I instantly jump away from my safe haven. A small group has gathered, armed with excited grins and camera phones. My nerves are still raw from the emotions of my story, and I anxiously pull my coat closed and cinch the belt, as if donning my armor.
Kennedy fights a scowl and settles on a tight smile as he nods to the group. He automatically takes the pen and scrap of paper a woman thrusts at him to sign as the phones click around them. I instinctively try to step out of the way so he can do whatever it is he does with his fans, but find myself boxed in.
“Hey! Is this your girlfriend? Sweet!”
“Can I have a picture?”
The suddenness of the encounter is confounding, and I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic with the bodies hemming us in. But then Kennedy slips his strong arm around my waist and purposefully steers me toward the curb. “Sorry, man, but we need to go,” he says with a practiced smile before placing two fingers between his lips and letting out a piercing whistle. I wince, but it does its job—a cab screeches to a halt in front of us. The crowd follows, with yells of support or pleas for a photo, as Kennedy wrenches the back door open and practically shoves me inside. I barely have time to scoot over before he climbs in behind me and slams the door.
“The St. Regis,” he barks at the driver. The silence of the cab is almost eerie after the clamor that preceded it. Kennedy glances over and gives me a sheepish smile as he hesitantly takes my hand.
“Sorry about that. It’s times like that when I remember Tucker is really worth
his weight in gold. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Is it always like that?”
“They’re not always so demanding, but yeah.” He shrugs, but looks at me intently. “I’m sorry they interrupted, though.”
A fluttering in my stomach threatens to break my composure. There’s something about his eyes that draw me in, to the point I almost feel like I’m drowning. Abruptly, he shifts and looks down at our joined hands, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or bereft. “What happened next?” he asks quietly. “To your father and your boyfriend.”
“My dad was ultimately okay. He’d lost a lot of blood, and it took him a while to rehab his shoulder,” I say softly, mindful of the cabbie. “My mother had dreaded for years that Dad would be injured in the line of duty. About a year later, they came into an inheritance when my grandmother died, and Mom was able to convince him to retire from the force. Now they have a bed-and-breakfast in Napa.”
I sigh softly. “Lucas was arrested for theft and possession. He’s been in and out of jail ever since.” Kennedy is gazing at our hands with a pained expression, so I squeeze his fingers to draw his attention. “I didn’t tell you all that to badger you or piss you off, but in the hope that you’d see where I’m coming from.” I shake my head, not wanting to make this personal. “So you’d understand why I’m so vigilant concerning the kids.”
The pain in his eyes diminishes somewhat, so I continue quietly, “Addictions like Lucas’s are devastating, and not only to the addicts themselves. They wreak havoc on everyone they touch. Celebrities will likely never be confronted with a violent situation like that. But I guarantee you that someone somewhere up the supply chain has. The people who deal this shit aren’t exactly understanding.” I glance over at him.
“And then there are the innocents, people like my dad, who was only looking out for his daughter and a friend. Two inches to the right, and I would’ve lost my father that day.”
He shakes his head dejectedly. “Abby, I swear that—”
“You don’t have to swear anything to me,” I whisper quickly, seeing the St. Regis up ahead. “I’m not judging you, Kennedy, although I know it may feel like I am. Nor do I need to know exactly what your situation is. There are a million reasons why people fall prey to substance abuse or addiction. But as I think you already know . . .” I look at him searchingly. “Habits are hard to break until you resolve the root problem.”
Sorrow flashes in his eyes, and I steel myself for a rebuke, but he shocks the hell out of me. “I know that, but fuck, now I just need to play. Come with me.”
I’m stunned speechless for a beat. He needs to play? Now? But I find myself nodding as his hand clutches mine like a life rope. Before we can say anymore, the eager hotel valets open our door. Kennedy tosses a few bills to the driver and hauls me out like his ass is on fire. However, we only make it a few steps toward the doors when an insane flashing erupts all around us. This is nothing like the group of fans earlier—this is the paparazzi in all their intrusive, offensive glory. A pair of strong, protective arms hustle me into the lobby, where Kennedy’s irate manager and angry bodyguard immediately confront us.
Out of the pot and into the fire.
“Where the fuck have you been?” the manager—Brodie—demands. “Why haven’t you answered your phone?” He’s completely in Kennedy’s suddenly angry face, while the bodyguard glowers in the background next to a tall, blond man decked out completely in black leather and observing everything with mixture of concern and suspicion. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him.
“Let’s take this somewhere else,” the bodyguard advises, trying to herd all of us out of sight of the photographers outside, who are still snapping away through the glass doors and ignoring the valets’ directives to leave.
“Jesus Christ—I don’t have to answer to you!” Kennedy looks like he’s five seconds from blowing, and I know this is my cue. Whatever else he has planned isn’t happening now. Placing my hand on his forearm, I give him a sympathetic smile.
“Thank you for tonight,” I whisper, ignoring our audience. “I think I’d better head back to my room. I’m flying out in the morning. I’ll talk to you later to start on Parker’s dream, okay? And don’t give up, Kennedy.”
He rakes his hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. I level a scathing look at Brodie, who’s eyeing me with equal distaste as I turn and quickly make my way across the spacious lobby to the bank of elevators. A hissed war of words erupts in my wake and tears spring to my eyes unbidden. I hate leaving him like this, but he’s obviously got other things right now that take precedence. His manager may be a paid flunky, but his bodyguard—Tucker—seems genuinely to care about him. It’s obvious, whether Kennedy wants to acknowledge it or not. He’s not as alone as he thinks he is.
I can’t resist a quick peek back over my shoulder, needing to see him one last time, but they’ve vanished, leaving only a few random hotel guests whispering and watching me with curiosity. Mustering as much dignity as I can, I march into the steel box and wait for the doors to close with a blasé expression belying the tumult raging inside me.
Kennedy
“YOU NEED SLEEP.” Tucker’s voice echoes through the warehouse as I sit at the piano, feverishly writing lyrics. The floodgates have opened, brought on by some explosive combination of frustration, longing, and anger.
I keep hearing her words, her story, over and over in my head. It’s insidious . . . He promised he didn’t have a problem . . . collateral damage . . . two inches to the left and I would’ve lost my father . . . and maybe most importantly . . . Don’t give up.
“What time is it?” Looking up from the keys, I see moonlight spilling into the warehouse through the windows, casting an eerie shadow over his form. His chair is backed up against the steel door, his legs outstretched in front of him, keeping watch over me.
“After three.”
“Fuck.” It’s typical for me to lose track of time, although lately that’s been due to indulgence rather than creativity. I have no idea how it got to be this late, or when the rest of the band left. It’s all a blur of swirling notes, and what Matt has taken to calling, “acoustic experiments.”
While we’ve traditionally been firmly based in hard rock, over the last few weeks, our sound has begun to morph into something else. Not quite completely unplugged and acoustic, but it’s going to cause a stir.
“Tell me about it. You have The Tonight Show tomorrow or today, whatever. You’ll need sleep for that.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Tucker moves from his perch by the door to join me. “Finally, someone has gotten to you.”
“It’s not just her—”
“Mhmm. You just keep telling yourself that, my friend.” He leans against the side of the piano.
“It’s not. You think I want that? All a musician is good for is drinking and partying? Talk about feeding into a stereotype.”
“There’s places that can help with that, you know.”
Glancing up at him, l lean back on the bench. “Tucker not again.”
“All I’m saying is that AA meetings are everywhere. It could help.”
I trail my fingers along the keys, feeling the tension of the day start to take over. “Rehab didn’t help, why would AA?”
“You didn’t want help before,” he fires back at me.
The thought of baring my soul in random dingy community centers doesn’t sit well. “I don’t know, man.”
I can hear the disappointment in Tucker’s voice. “Just think about it.”
It’s almost four when we drag ourselves back to the suite. I haven’t gotten a text from Abby, and I’m not sure if I expected to or not given the way the night ended. There’re so many things I wanted to say, things I wanted to tell her tonight. Hearing what she went through with her ex-boyfriend was like a kick to the gut. A dose of reality I was totally unprepared to hear. Having gone through a stint in rehab, they tell you about the kind of effect your
indulgence of choice has, but I’ve never heard anyone tell me a story like that.
Part of me—a part I’m just starting to recognize—knows that level of self-indulgence and debauchery is part of the path I was on. I also know that in her telling me her story that she’s letting me in. I don’t think it’s something she does often. It’s a huge step for her, and I hope for us. But then, I think the whole night was.
“I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep. You okay, or do I need to put a GPS on you?” Tucker asks, looking exhausted.
I toss a pillow from the couch at him before picking up one of my acoustic guitars. “Go to sleep, idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Text me if you change your mind.” He levels me a look of warning. “I mean it.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Try to get some sleep, too. You don’t want to be looking like death warmed over on national television.”
“I thought that was the latest look? You know, zombie style?”
He snorts, moving down the hall, quietly shutting himself in the bedroom. Time to enjoy a few moments of quiet and solitude before the insane cycle starts all over again.
I lean back against the cushions of the couch, feeling the weight of the world start to overtake me. My gaze automatically goes to the bar in the corner, to the full liquor bottles left by Brodie gleaming in the muted light spilling in through windows.
It would be so easy to numb the sting of emotions rolling through me. Take the edge off, disappear for a while. The real problem lies in the fact that I’m not very good at resisting temptation. If I was, I never would’ve texted Abby, never would’ve touched her, never would’ve let her in this far.
Leaning forward, I scan over my scrawled lyrics. The song will sound different played on the acoustic, but I hope she likes it. I pull my phone from the pocket of my jacket and flip it to video mode, pressing record.