by Elle Greco
Unfortunately, the “just get through the tour” refrain was on repeat at this point. I thought rock and roll was supposed to be fun.
The door pushed in at my back, and I leaned my weight against it. “Come on, Nik, open up,” Jett shouted from behind the wood. “I left my book in there!”
I moved. “Sorry.”
“What’s up with you?” she asked, entering the room. “You look like someone just kicked your puppy.”
“Nothing,” I mumbled, dropping into the chair at the makeup table. I pushed one of the pills around with my finger.
“What are those?”
“Nothing,” I repeated on a sigh. “Just some anti-inflammatories.”
“For what?” she asked. Her brows slammed down, and her big brown eyes became tiny slits. “Does this have something to do with your arms?”
I licked my lips. “What about my arms?”
She shoved her hand into her bag, looking for her book. “You’re rubbing them a lot, like they’re bothering you.”
“Has anyone else noticed?” I asked.
She pulled the book to her chest. “No one’s said one way or the other.”
“Does it sound different when I play?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “Come on, Nik. What’s going on?”
“Jordan thinks I have tendinitis.”
“Jordan?”
“The EMT roadie dude.” I hitched up my leg. “The guy who patched up my knee.”
“Right, him,” she said. “He’s a doctor?”
“He’s the tour medic that Grimm—”
“Not what I asked,” she said. “Does he have an MD after his name?”
I swallowed. “No.”
“Then why the hell is he playing Dr. Google?”
“My arms hurt,” I said.
“Hurt like your legs hurt when you do too many squats?”
I bit back a laugh. I didn’t think Jett had done a squat in her life.
“No, it’s different,” I said, pressing my thumb into my forearm to try to massage the ache. Instead, pain shot up my arm and into my shoulder. I drew in a sharp breath, my face contorting in agony.
“Jeez, Nik, maybe you should talk to Devlin,” she said.
“Hell no,” I returned quickly. “I do not want anyone to know about this.” She didn’t look convinced. “I mean it, Jett. Devlin will call Grimm, and he could stop the tour.”
Jett snored. “Please. He won’t stop the tour. He needs to cover his costs.”
“Then he’ll take me off the tour,” I said, slumping lower in my seat. “That’s even worse.”
“This tour is important enough for you to drum when your arms are hurting like this? Enough to risk your entire career?”
“My entire career is riding on this tour,” I said. “If I pull out now, for an injury? I’m done. No one wants a drummer with fucked arms.”
“Rick Allen—” Jett started.
“Rick Allen was part of Def Leppard before he lost his arm,” I said. “Plus, it was a car accident. His was a triumph story. Mine would just be a tragedy.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t like this, but for now, okay. But I reserve the right to change my mind if I think it’s getting worse.”
I blew out a breath. “Okay. And thank you.”
She dropped her eyes to the pills. “So, are you going to take those? See if they help at all?”
“I’m starting with one,” I said. “These things are like horse pills.”
Jett snickered. “They’re the same size as aspirin.”
I cracked open the beer and took a big chug, hoping it would open my throat. Then I popped one of the pills in my mouth. I tipped the bottle back, letting the rush of liquid flood the little disc down and gagging only slightly.
“You joining the party?” she asked.
“I think so, once I change,” I said, chugging down some more beer, forcing the pill down my throat. “You?”
Her eyes shifted down to her feet. “It’s not really my scene.”
“Come on, Jett,” I pleaded, pulling my damp T-shirt over my head. I swapped it out for a clean tank top with the words “That’s a bad idea. What time?” plastered on the front. “Don’t make me go out there alone.”
“You’ll do fine,” she said. “You always do fine. I, on the other hand…”
I kicked off my Chuck Taylors. “You’ll have me, like moral support.”
“You know I suck at these things, Nik. And I don’t really care that I suck, but—” She looked past me to the closed dressing room door, where the sounds of the party were getting louder.
“It’s nice to kick back sometimes,” I finished for her, peeling myself out of the skin-tight skinny jeans I wore for the gig. Note to self, only wear athletic shorts behind the kit. The jeans were soaked through, and my thighs had a dusting of heat rash along the tops and sides. While I waited for my skin to air-dry, I drained the rest of my beer and reached for another one. The ice-cold liquid went down easy after the sweat session on the drums.
“I don’t know,” Jett said. “It’s not nice for me. What am I doing wrong?”
“I’m not sure you can party wrong,” I said. “What don’t you like about it?”
“I don’t like talking to people,” she said.
I laughed, pulling on a pair of well-worn loose-fit Levi’s. “Ergo, you don’t like parties.”
She looked from her book to me and back to her book. "I’ll just stay in here.”
“Nope,” I said, sliding my feet back into my kicks. I cracked the new beer open and took a healthy swallow. “You are partying with me. The sisters that play together, blah blah blah.”
She sighed, her expression apprehensive. “Fine. But I’m bringing my book. Just in case.”
“In case, what? The hot guy you meet wants you to read to him?”
Jett made a face.
“What?” I asked.
“Hot guy,” she said with a snort.
“Yeah, a hot guy,” I said. “What about it?”
“I don’t end up with hot guys,” she said, her voice so low I almost missed it.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “Johnny Frieze was a fuck head, but he was most definitely a hot guy.”
Jett shoulders hunched up around her ears at the mention of the guy who very recently dumped her. And he dumped her when he learned I was joining Rogue Nation, not him. So he dumped her. Outrageous.
“Jett, you can do so much better than him,” I said.
“Right,” she said, placing her palm on top of the book in her lap. “It’s not like I have guys banging down my door. I’m not like you or Presley.”
“No, you’re not. But you are your own breed of sexy. Crazy smart. Funny. And super pretty to boot,” I said, my words slurring just slightly from the beers.
Jett’s eyes shifted to the ceiling. “I’m not pretty.”
“With that perfect porcelain skin and shock of sexy red curls? Trust me. I’ve watched tons of guys get shot down by you just on this tour alone.”
Her eyes snapped back to mine. “I haven’t shot any guys down.”
I laughed. “You think you haven’t, but you have. They finally work up the courage to approach you, and you do something like turn your back or walk out of the room. Jett, that qualifies as shooting down a dude.”
Jett gasped. “That’s never happened.”
“I think you need to look up from your books to see what’s actually going on around you.” I reached over and grabbed her hand. “Starting now!”
I stood up fast, dragging her with me, and it felt like my head forgot to come along for the ride. “Whoa.” I grabbed Jett’s arm to steady myself.
“You okay?” Jett asked.
“Yeah. Head rush.”
“You’re probably dehydrated. Maybe switch from beer to water.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed, releasing her arm but still woozy. I ignored it and smiled at her. �
�Ready?”
“No,” she said, but she gathered up her stuff anyway. “And just so we’re clear, I get to say ‘I told you so’ when I get zero offers.”
Jett stalked out of the dressing room first, and I kind of teetered behind her. The back of her head kept going in and out of focus. I put my hand on her shoulder to slow her down. She turned and looked at me. It was like she was at the end of a long tunnel and I’d never catch up to her.
“Nik?” she asked, my name echoing like we were in a canyon.
I blinked a few times, hoping to clear my head. “Jett? I don’t feel so—”
The room went black, and I felt my ass hit the hard cement floor. The sounds in the room faded, pulling me into a soothing silence.
12
I woke up to the drone of endless beeping. My gut felt like it had been ripped out. And I had a migraine to end all migraines.
I winced when I opened my eyes, the glare of the overhead lighting in the stark room making the pain in my noggin worse.
“She’s awake,” Presley said, a note of relief in her voice.
Someone squeezed my hand, so I looked down to find Jett’s fingers twined around my own. “Baby sister,” she said. Her breath hitched.
“Hey,” I croaked, my throat scratchy. I lifted a hand to my neck, dragging along the huge IV needle stuck in my hand. “Where am I?”
“Hospital,” Devlin said, his voice gentle. My eyes darted to where he stood at the foot of my bed. He was flanked by Vince and Dion. I glanced to my right and saw Jett and Rafe squeezed into a tiny love seat by my bedside. Presley was to my left, sitting in a hospital wheelchair, the only other available seat.
“Nik, honey, do you remember what it was you took?” Jett asked, pushing my hair off my face.
“What I took?” I repeated.
She glanced at Devlin before answering. “The anti-inflammatory?”
“Jordan gave it to me for my arms.”
Knowing looks were exchanged between everyone in the room.
“What’s going on? Why am I here?” I asked, shifting in the bed to try to sit up. The movement sent a whoosh of pain and nausea through me that ended in a sharp twinge behind my eyes. I closed them and dropped back down with a grunt.
“That was no anti-inflammatory.” Devlin’s words were followed by a long stream of more colorful ones. His voice wasn’t so gentle anymore.
“Nikki, what do you remember?” Vince asked.
My eyes opened at his tense voice. His jaw was set, and he looked ready to explode. Dion stood beside him, his own body stiff and his face set in a scowl.
Shit. I didn’t know what had happened, but it was clear that I’d fucked up the tour.
I swallowed, and the pain in my throat kept my voice to a whisper. “My arms, they hurt a little—”
“No, Nik, your arms hurt a lot,” Jett said, her voice cracking when a sob broke through.
“I heard your story,” Vince snapped at her. “I need to hear it from Nik now.”
Jett sniffled, and I gave her a sad grimace. “Jett’s right. My arms hurt pretty bad.” I dropped my eyes to my covered feet, swallowed again, and pressed on. “Jordan said he had some anti-inflammatories for the pain. Maybe I’m allergic?”
“Tendinitis,” Devlin said. “That’s what Kyle had too. From the repetitive motion. Why didn’t you say something to me, kid?”
“Jordan said Grimm would pull me off the tour if it interfered with my playing. Do you know what that would do to my career?”
“Do you know what being dead does to your career?” Dion spat out.
“Dude—” Rafe started, but Dion’s rage-face shut him down.
“Oh, come on, Rafe. She could have fucking died. Just like Kyle.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
Presley reached over and squeezed my hand. “Oh, baby sister. Jordan lied to you. That was no anti-inflammatory, honey. It was Oxy.”
“Oxy? Like Oxycontin?” I whispered, letting my head drop to my pillow. “What the fuck?”
“Did you take both pills?” Jett asked.
I shook my head. “I have the other one in my pocket.”
Vince nodded to Devlin, who poked through a plain paper shopping bag and pulled out my jeans. It was then that I realized I was in a hospital gown, most likely the kind that left your ass flapping in the wind. I made a conscious effort not to look at Dion, choked back a groan of humiliation, and told Devlin, “Back pocket.”
He pulled out the chalky pill with his thumb and index finger. “I’ll get this to Mug.”
Mug—short for Ugly Mug—was the head of security for Vince Davis, Inc. I’d actually never heard his real name, but I assumed there was a different one on his paychecks. A former MMA heavyweight, his face was pummeled into something akin to pumice stone. MMA champion he wasn’t, but he had brute strength, no fear, laser focus, and extreme loyalty to Vince and his clan. In other words, the perfect bodyguard.
“Jordan’s off the tour,” Dion said.
My eyes cut to him. That was Grimm’s call to make, technically, but Dion’s arms were crossed, and the glare he sent Vince’s way dared anyone to defy him.
“Damn straight,” Devlin agreed. “Still want Mug to weigh in, but I’m sending him home as soon as I leave the hospital.”
“I just need to confirm with Grimm,” Vince said, as expected.
“No confirming with Grimm. He’s done,” Dion said. “
“Fuck Jordan. And fuck Grimm,” Dion roared. “He could have killed Nikki. Just like Kyle.”
“Kyle died with a needle in his arm, not from a pill,” Vince said, his voice measured.
“Maybe a pill is what kicked off the whole mess,” Dion said, turning to Devlin. “You said Kyle had tendinitis?”
“Yeah, his arms were jacked,” Devlin said. “But he told me he was dealing with it. He seemed better.”
Vince’s composure barely cracked. “No, Kyle was troubled—”
“Aren’t we all, Dad?” Dion spat out. “Fuck. Kyle and me? We had the same damn life. You don’t see tracks on my arms, do you?” He held out his arms, twisting to expose the underside of his forearms, then he got in his dad’s face. “Did you know about the tendinitis? Did you?”
Dion was shouting now, his face red, while he hovered over a pale Vince, who’d aged about fifty years in the past three minutes. A nurse rushed into the room.
“You all need to leave,” she said, her feet spread wide, hands planted on her hips.
“It’s okay,” I croaked from my bed.
Her reproving look swung my way. “No, this is not okay. You don’t need this excitement. You need to rest.”
“No, really.” I struggled to sit up. “I want them here.”
“You… want them here?” she asked, her lip curling up.
“They’re family,” I said with a shrug, which sent Presley and Jett into a fit of giggles.
“The doctor is on his way,” the nurse said, sending my sisters a scorched-earth look before she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.
“Great,” I muttered, laying back down and closing my eyes.
“It’s cool, cookie. I need to get to Mug anyway,” Devlin said, squeezing my knee through the blankets. “I’m real sorry this happened, Nik. I should have known about this bullshit. I should have known.”
“Not your fault, Dev,” I said, tears pricking at my eyes.
“It was on my watch, kiddo,” he said. He ruffled my hair like I was twelve again, nodded to Vince, and then left the room.
The silence between us was interrupted by Jett’s loud stomach growl.
Rafe burst out laughing. “Damn, girl, didn’t you just eat?”
“It was a snack,” she protested.
“That’s because you eat that rabbit food,” he teased, and Jett rolled her eyes. “You should eat a steak or something.”
“I think there was a pizza joint down the block,” Presley said. “Want a slice?”
I wrinkled my
nose. “Not up for swallowing anything right now, but you guys go ahead.”
“They might have milkshakes,” Jett said. “Want a vanilla one?”
I shook my head. The idea of anything hitting my sore stomach was wince-inducing.
“You coming, Vince?” Presley asked as she unfolded herself from the wheelchair.
“I need to deal with Grimm,” Vince said. “I’ll grab a coffee in the cafeteria and take care of that. I’ll be back up when I’m finished.”
“Dion?” Rafe asked. “You coming?”
“Nah, I’m good,” he said. “I’ll hang here with Nik. You guys go.”
“You sure?” Rafe asked. “I can stick around.”
“Nah, get some food. We’re good.”
Presley and Jett called out different variations of “See you later” as they left the room. I heard them bickering down the hallway about whether french fries dipped in mayo was gross—I was on the agreement side of that argument.
Their voices faded down the corridor. Since I wasn’t in the mood to get screamed at by Dion for being an idiot, I decided to cut it off before it began.
I braced myself, then started talking. “Look, I realize it was stupid to take pills without knowing exactly what they were. But in my defense, he was the tour medic-slash-roadie, so I figured it was something like ibuprofen and it was fine. Any one of us would have done the same thing.”
Dion remained silent, which was weird. He always had something to say. Especially to me. Especially when I fucked up.
So I plowed on. “I don’t think this’ll mess with the tour. I’ll sneak out of this place tomorrow morning to make it to Spokane and the recording studio on time.”
I reached for my hospital-issued Styrofoam cup and sipped water from the straw. More silence. This time, I braved a look in Dion’s direction. His face was hard.
“Dion?” I whispered.
He came to the bed and sat beside me, then pulled me into him in a careful embrace. His lips touched my hair, and he whispered, “I could have lost you tonight, Nik.”