by RB Hilliard
“Yeah, and I’m a monkey’s uncle. You may have him fooled, but you don’t fool me, missy. Now, help me get to bed.”
Once Maeve was settled for the night, I cooked myself dinner and parked my tired butt in front of the television with a glass of iced tea. I’d be a liar to say I wasn’t waiting up for Nash’s call. I may be sailing down that river called deNile with a hole in my boat and only half a paddle, but I wasn’t stupid. When the time came, I would do the right thing, even if it killed me.
I jerked awake to the sound of my phone ringing. It took me a minute to find it buried between the sofa cushions.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ro. Did I wake you? If so, I can call back tomorrow.” Nash’s voice rolled over me like a downy soft blanket. I loved when he called me Ro.
“No. I’m good. Your mom is already asleep, but I can go wake her if you’d like?”
“Let her sleep. I can catch up with her tomorrow before our show. How was she after I left?”
“She was fine,” I lied. If I told him his mother had cried for a good hour after he left it would only upset him. This was the part of the job I hated the most. I was the gatekeeper, the keeper of secrets, which sometimes made me a liar. Maeve made me promise not to tell Nash how bad off she really was. I disagreed, but it wasn’t my life nor was it my choice to make. He would find out soon enough. He laughed at something someone on his end said and I couldn’t help but smile. “You can go if you need. We’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“And miss talking to you? No way. I was just laughing at Grant. He and this guy, Gage, were doing shots and the dumb ass completely missed his mouth.”
“Did you play tonight?” For some reason I thought they weren’t performing until tomorrow.
“Do you remember me talking about Hank’s friend Dillon, and how we played a short set at his bar in Charlotte while we were on our last tour?”
“Vaguely,” I replied.
“Well, Dillon was how we ended up hooking up with LASH. You remember Cas from a few months back? You met him at Grant’s house. He just got married and we played at his reception tonight.”
My mind wandered back to the time just after Luke’s death. Grant’s house was a media circus. Nash’s gunshot wound was superficial, so he was in and out of the hospital in a matter of a few hours, but he refused to leave Grant’s side. Each time Nash called home he sounded more and more exhausted. Apparently, Grant’s house was overrun with police, security, and reporters, in addition to the band members themselves. That’s when Maeve came up with the idea of feeding the masses. In truth, she really just wanted an excuse to check on her son. I didn’t blame her. I was worried about him, too. When Nash saw us heading through the police barricade carrying trays of lasagna, I thought he was going to cry. Once he handed off the trays to Grant’s housekeeper, Ava, and girlfriend, Mallory, he pulled me into his arms. It was the first time he’d touched me.
I shook the memory from my head, and asked, “So where do you go from there?” As Nash began telling me about his schedule, I settled into the cushions, and slowly let myself sink into his words.
I never fully understood what “borrowed time” meant. I now did, because I was living it.
Chapter Three
Rose Anyone?
Nash
When I first met Grant Hardy, I was at a crossroads. College was my last attempt to find respite from the nightmare that had become my life. The only reason I was even attending was to get away from home and the memories that constantly plagued me. Rachel’s death was an accident. It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The authorities assured her loved ones that she didn’t suffer. She may not have suffered, but I sure as hell did. In the blink of an eye I lost my best friend and lover, the one person with whom I shared all of my secrets. How someone could be there one moment and gone the next made no sense to me. My heart was obliterated and my mind was blown. Without Rachel nothing mattered. Every fiber of my being felt her loss. I held it together for a few months after the wreck, but then the finality of her death became more than I could handle, and I began looking for an escape from the pain. When I wasn’t drowning in memories, I was discovering new ways to abuse my body. Anything that could be sniffed, snorted, or swallowed was fair game. In the rare moments I was sober, I played my guitar. Music was both my friend and my foe. Some days it filled my soul, while others it rendered me a shredded carcass of self-hatred and loathing. When the time came to leave for college, I ran.
A little over a month into my freshman year I was called into the dean’s office. As I had yet to attend a single class, this did not surprise me. What did surprise me, however, was seeing my mother sitting across from the Dean’s giant, mahogany desk with her hands folded in her lap, and a look of disappointment in her eyes. All it took was that one look for my bravery to fly right out the window. Shame and embarrassment washed over me. My mother, the woman who’d worked her ass off to support me after my father bailed, the one person in the whole world who loved me no matter what, was about to find out what a worthless piece of shit I’d become. The meeting was short and to the point. Either I agreed to start attending classes and make up all of the work I’d missed, or I was free to go home. The Dean may have given his verdict, but we both knew it was my mother who had the final say in the matter.
“Either you pull yourself together, Nash Aaron Bostwick, or you won’t have a home to come home to,” she told me before she marched out the door.
And that was that. Needless to say, I cleaned up my act and started going to class. This is where I met a guy by the name of Grant Hardy. Grant was also from Austin. We had a few friends in common, but lived on different sides of the city. Like me, Grant hated school and loved music. Also like me, he could play both lead and bass guitar. Where I fell short and Grant excelled was on vocals. The kid could fucking sing. His voice had the rasp of Eddie Vedder and the depth of Billy Corgan. From the moment we met, we clicked. Grant taught me how to channel all of my anger and resentment into the music, and I taught him how to shred. When I wasn’t studying or in class, I poured every last ounce of myself into my instrument.
Slowly, time moved on, and with it, so did I. Rachel grew to be nothing but a sweet memory. She also became a lesson learned. Never again. Love equaled heartache. Heartache hurt. In order to prevent one, I had to steer clear of the other. This was something I was perfectly happy to do. After Rachel’s death I built walls that were both high and tight. I drank for fun. I fucked for pleasure. I lived for the music. Above all, I avoided anything that remotely resembled an emotional entanglement.
And then Dale’s addiction took him down.
And my mom got cancer.
And Luke betrayed the band.
Now my mother was terminal, and I should be home taking care of her, but where was I? On tour with my best friend, who I really didn’t know anymore, our moody-as-shit drummer, who I really didn’t like, and the new guy, who I could give fuck-all about, except that he was a damn good keyboardist.
“We’ll be at the hotel in five!” Hank called out. “You’ll be happy to know that Blane has secured the top floor of suites for us. You’ll have just enough time to pick a room and take care of business. Then we’re heading to the venue for a practice session. Thirty minutes, guys. Don’t make me hunt you down,” he warned.
“The man has spoken!” Grant called out. Hank scratched the side of his nose…with his middle finger, causing Grant and Newbie both to laugh. If Luke was with us, he would have had something funny to add. Grant was still pissed at Luke. He refused to talk about him, but I was past the point of anger. I missed my friend. If only I’d known what he was going through, then maybe I could have prevented his death.
Ten minutes later, we piled out of the bus and waited for the security team to get into place. Once we had the all clear, we headed into the hotel. Cheers and catcalls followed in our wake as we passed through an abnormally crowded lobby.
Grant gave Hank an e
xasperated look. “Did Blane leak where we were staying again?” We stepped into the elevator and waited for the doors to close. Hank pulled out his phone and called Blane.
“Fuuuuuck,” Newbie hissed. Newbie was a guy by the name of Evan Walker. Out of the fifty or so tryouts for Luke’s spot in the band, he was the best of the bunch. There was only one problem. He wasn’t Luke.
“You’ll get used to it,” Grant consoled.
A doubtful look appeared on Evan’s face. “Is it always this intense?”
“No, it gets much worse,” Chaz informed. Grant shot him a dirty look and he scowled. “What? Did you want me to lie?”
“For future reference, Chaz is a dick,” I informed.
“Fuck you,” Chaz responded.
“My case in point,” I added.
Hank hung up with Blane right as we stepped off the elevator. “Blane said that he and Marcy are the only two who have access to the schedule.”
“And you believe him?” Chaz snorted.
“Being that I hold Blane’s nuts in the palm of my hand, I’d have to say yes.” Grant responded. He glanced over at me and I looked away.
As far as I was concerned, Blane Kirkland Hamilton II was an untrustworthy snake in the grass. Six months ago he lost his label in a poker game – the same label that Meltdown headlined for. Kirkland, his dick of a father, bailed him out by purchasing the label. Kirkland wanted the label about as much as he wanted a severe case of genital warts. That is, until he realized how lucrative the band was. By that point Grant was seriously disenchanted with Happenstance, and was contemplating dropping the label altogether. Before Grant got the chance to run it by the rest of the band, Luke slipped Oxy into Grant’s drink, Grant did a nose dive off of the stage, and Kirkland had him shipped off to rehab. Not only did Kirkland occupy a seat on said rehab’s board, but he paid the doctor and nurses to hold Grant there under false pretenses, all because he was a greedy bastard. The only reason Blane wasn’t some jail bird’s bitch right now was because he’d stuck his neck out and helped Grant take down Kirkland. In exchange for Blane’s help, Grant agreed to keep him on as manager, which was a decision I wholeheartedly disagreed with.
We spent twenty minutes getting our stuff together before we were back on the bus and heading to the venue. Tonight we were playing one of Charlotte’s smaller arenas. Blane thought that playing to smaller audiences on this tour would help us garner more positive press. Blane was full of shit. Nothing was going to erase the fact that Luke tried to kill Grant in order to avenge his dead lover. The story was scandalous and had been sensationalized to the point of ridiculous.
A handful of Melties greeted us as we made our way down the hall to the dressing room. I was too busy texting Rowan to pay them any mind. I’d already sent her two texts, and was somewhat irritated that she wasn’t responding.
“Fucking hell,” Grant muttered under his breath.
“What?” I raised my head from my phone and immediately spotted Paula. Paula was Chelle’s best friend. “What the hell is she doing here? Don’t tell me Chelle’s here?” I fucking hated that bitch.
“I told her she could come,” Chaz interjected from behind us. Grant shot me a what-the-fuck look, but I didn’t have a response. I had no idea what Chaz was up to.
“Who is she?” Newbie asked.
“Grant’s stalker’s best friend,” I half-joked.
Evan’s eyes bugged. “Grant has a stalker?”
“No, Nash had the stalker. I just had a woman who didn’t know the meaning of the word no,” Grant clarified, before turning to Chaz and asking, “What do you mean you told her she could come?”
“Before Grant met Mallory, he used women up and flushed them like toilet paper,” Chaz told Newbie. Grant cut his eyes to me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. And Chaz wondered why we didn’t want to sing his songs. The douche couldn’t even string a proper sentence together.
“You better hope Chelle isn’t here,” Grant warned.
“Fuck you, Grant. All Chelle did wrong was care about you. We agreed to cut her out, but we never said anything about her friends. Paula is my friend and I want her here.” I hated to admit it, but Chaz did have a point. Except for when Chaz was trying to make Grant jealous by flirting with Mallory, this was the first time I’d seen him remotely interested in a woman. Grant gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged. As far as I was concerned Chelle was the problem, not her friends. As long as she wasn’t here, I really didn’t care.
“Fine, but the first time she causes a problem, she’s history,” Grant warned.
“Duly noted,” Chaz snarled. The door opened and I caught a glimpse of Blane. As usual he was surrounded by people.
“Shit, I forgot to tell you. We have three new interns joining us for the tour,” Grant said.
Before we could respond, Blane spotted us standing in the doorway. “Welcome to Charlotte!” he called out. “I know you’re chomping at the bit to practice, but first, I want to talk to you.” He waved us into the room. “After all of the negative publicity we’ve been receiving, I thought it would be a good idea if we participated in an intern program. With Grant’s permission, that is,” he sheepishly added. We all turned to glare at Grant.
“What? It’s a good idea,” Grant defensively stated.
“Anyway, I want you to meet Maggie, Angie, and Steve. All three are at your service for the duration of the tour. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.” I had no idea what to say to this.
Evidently, Chaz didn’t feel the same, because he drolly replied, “Funny, I thought this was our company now.”
“Awww, come on, don’t get all butt hurt,” Grant said. “It’s just an intern program. Look at it as free help.” No one said a word.
“You do realize you just insulted everyone in here,” Chaz pointed out. Grant held up his hands in supplication, before attempting to defend his point.
While Grant and Chaz debated Grant’s comment, I focused on our new interns. Maggie had short brown hair and glasses. She looked like a leprechaun in her plaid dress and dark green platform shoes. She also looked petrified. I bet if I yelled “Boo,” the poor girl would piss her pants. Angie, with her long, blond hair, vintage Aerosmith t-shirt, and skin tight jeans, was the polar opposite of Maggie. She flicked her tongue across her lips in invitation when she caught me staring at her. Yes, Angie was definitely a Meltie in the making. She spelled trouble with a capital T. Thanks, but I had plenty of trouble in my life at the moment. Steve was a tall, skinny dude with short, black hair and a face full of zits. The look of adoration on his face as he stared at Grant was both comical and pathetic.
We left the interns with Blane while we went to practice. We had to work out a few glitches with Evan, so we barely had time to rest before the show. Much to Blane’s disappointment, the band unanimously decided that the dressing room was a personnel only zone before the show. This meant no Melties, no cameras, and no partying. I had just enough time to text my mom, before Blane appeared in the doorway.
“Time to go, boys. Angie, you come with me. Maggie and Steve, you’re with the guys,” he instructed. Angie looked mutinous, whereas Maggie looked terrified. I felt bad for her. Kind of.
“Come on. We’ll show you where to hang out while we play,” I told them.
“This is so cool,” Steve said as they fell in behind us.
“Steve, my man, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Grant replied. As we waited at the door for security to get into place, Mom texted me back. She told me not to worry, that Rowan was okay, and to stop bugging them. While Grant was cautioning the interns to stay near the security escort at all times, Chaz, Evan, and I signed autographs, shook hands, and high-fived the budding crowd. The entire time I thought about my Mom’s text. What did she mean Rowan was okay? Did something happen to Rowan? I snagged my phone from my back pocket and shot off one last text, asking her to explain.
Right as we hit the steps to the stage, a crazed fan got her claws on Chaz’s shirt.
“I love you!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. Then she ripped his sleeve off and waved it back and forth over her head. Chaz dove for her, but Hank and I pulled him back, and pushed him up the stairs onto the stage.
“I fucking liked this shirt!” he yelled over his shoulder at her.
“I want to have your babies!” she screamed at him. The look of mortification on poor Maggie’s face was seriously funny. The girl needed to grow a spine or she was going to get eaten alive.
The show went better than expected, but we still had a long ways to go. One of my strings snapped and I had to play one of Grant’s guitars, which fucked with my head. That, added to the fact that Evan was off key on at least three different songs, was unacceptable. We could do better.
During the after party I kept checking my phone. Mom had yet to respond to my last text, which was typical. Sometimes I wanted to throttle the woman. Finally, I stepped into the bathroom and called her. When she didn’t answer, I tried Rowan. When she failed to answer, I left a message on her voicemail. The last time they’d both disappeared, Rowan had taken Mom to a triple feature at the movie theater. This was before I found out that Mom was dying. It was shit like this that drove me nuts.
After several beers and signing who knows how many autographs, Grant finally called it a night. If he was worried about Paula, he shouldn’t have been. She stuck close to Chaz the entire night, which was a very wise decision on her part. Grant meant it when he said he wasn’t going to put up with the bullshit. I didn’t blame him one bit. Chelle sealed her fate when she circumvented the band and took a job with Kirkland. Now she was a nothing going nowhere. Stupid bitch.