Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  Unsure, Penny fades into the background. She’s got no choice but to take my spot, blend in with the backup dancers.

  Clapping high over my head, the audience turns its eyes to me. Interested, there’s a few claps until I belt out the lyrics.

  If you don’t shout yourself out, who will?

  The audience has no choice but to bend my will. Every seat is empty as they cheer me on. The energy returns, and I’m high. Flying, the spotlight chases me at a dizzying pace as I run across the stage.

  Waving, I’d run into the wings, for a wardrobe change and run smack dab into the broad chest of none other than the king of the pencil pushers, Jerry Whim. And he was not happy with me. “Way to tone it down, Candy.”

  With the echoes of Penny’s hissed Bitch! In my ears I look up and realize the montage of my life has moved on without me.

  It’s jarring to see it from the point of view of a fan.

  There I am, sitting on a wooden stool, playing an acoustic guitar. MTV Unplugged.

  Same way I live my life, my eyes are closed as I sing. The lights glisten off my tears, while all around me, adoring fans sit cross-legged, swaying to the soulful strains of my music.

  NovaKain. This won’t hurt a bit.

  Coming soon.

  No, it won’t. With a sigh of relief, I see there’s no mention of the overdose. Shamus could have capitalized on my fuckedupedness, instead he chose a video clip of me that was complimentary.

  The show is replaced by the neon lights of the strip. All around me, the lights come on. As if a traffic light changed to green, the crowd begins to move, taking me with it towards two open air stages with warring artists.

  To my left is a female rapper, shimmying to the beat of her music inside of a hula hoop. That’s some serious breath control, she doesn’t even sound out of breath as she raps. But there’s too much going on, I don’t stop here.

  Instead, the stage on my right is what draws me. Homey, there’s an old-fashioned truck, bed filled with bales of hay, and a jazz musician belting out warm butter taffy through his gleaming saxophone. My shoulders relax, right here, is where I want to be.

  Maybe I’ll grab a glass of wine, it looks like there might be a seat for one at the outdoor bar overlooking the stage, if I could just make it through all of these people.

  Waiting for a break in the crowd, I take peeks over my shoulder, and almost run into a hungry eyed sample girl handing out eye cream.

  “No, thanks,” I say, but she thrusts the packet at me anyway.

  Out the side of her mouth, she says. “You need it. Good for those bags under your eyes.”

  And I take the sweet-smelling sample, if only so she’ll move on to the next haggard woman and dammit, I missed my exit. Instead of ending up in front of the bar, near the empty seat, I’m almost past the stage.

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” I say, ducking out of the wave of sightseers. Along the seams of the stage, where the shadow falls, an older man missing several teeth makes a sound only druggies and dogs can hear. It’s a low pitched, che! che!

  Unable to help myself, I look over. Between his dirt crusted fingers is a cellophane baggie from a cigarette box. Pinched inside is what looks like the dust from the muck bins of Angels. I meet his lecherous eyes and he motions to a spot behind the stage.

  I get it. What he wants in return. Meeting his leer, I say. “Even I’ve got standards.”

  But do I? Even a week ago, I’d have been crawling under that tarp. What’s changed?

  From a tinny speaker, I hear the seductive strains of my song, NovaKain Kisses.

  In the middle of a loose cluster of people, two blank-eyed girls gyrate without any real enthusiasm. Their arms hang listlessly at their sides while dollar bills are waved in their faces. Dressed in playgirl outfits, but not the kind you’d find at one of Hugh’s rooftop clubs. These bunnies have the added accessories of track marks and bruises to match their threadbare tails.

  Somewhere along the line they might have been able to grace the cover of a men’s magazine, but now, with bathing suits sagging off their butts, they just look used up. And I make myself stop picking a zit on my face and grip my own bony wrist. Pot meet kettle. That’s a good title. But I know it won’t be a hit. No one wants to hear about the realizations, just the fantasy.

  If I started the junky anthem, there’d be boos from the crowd. A gruff man in a dirty NovaKain shirt would surely stand. Shaking his fist in the air, he’d bellow. “Do what your paid for and just sing. We don’t want to hear the junky blues, how about some bubble gum pop!”

  And the crowd would concur, and I’d do it.

  It’s like looking in a mirror. I’m one step away from taking pictures with strangers for dollar bills.

  I don’t want this. I turn, in search of Shamus and the promise of something better in his eyes.

  It’s him, I realize. The respect he gives, I want to earn. He makes me want to be better. Clean, reborn, and untarnished. He makes me want to try really hard.

  One of the rabbits has been doing more staring then dancing. I raise both hands to signify that I’m all tapped out, but if I had any more of that one big chance I keep fucking up, I’d be glad to share it.

  Behind a cupped hand, she says something to her dance partner. The listless shuffle stops and now, they’re both staring. At me. Which draws too much attention.

  Whispers to my left become too bothersome to ignore. Can’t I just have a moment to let this sink in?

  But no, an insistent finger jabs my collarbone. “You look just like her.”

  “Who?” I ask, trying my hardest not to look like myself. I turn and there’s a girl in braids and one of my shirts.

  She puffs out her chest and points to an Angels Tour T-shirt. “NovaKain. I told my mom, but she said it couldn’t be you. Too skinny.”

  “Wow. Skinny. Thanks kid.” I say and try to make a break for it, but she lays a bear trap on my upper arm. “Wait. Mom, give me some money.”

  Her mom pulls a dollar from her fanny pack but the teen waves it away and holds up five fingers. “She really does look like her mommy.” She implores.

  And smiles up at me for good genes.

  “I’ve never heard of her, but I’ll take the money,” I say.

  As a crowd forms around us, I pose for at least five pictures, holding up my fingers in the horns symbol, sticking out my tongue.

  The teen is impressed. “Wow. She does that too.”

  A voice I’d know anywhere speaks from behind me. “It’s not her. She wouldn’t take money from little girls.”

  We both turn, and there’s Shamus, fresh out of a shower, looking at me like I’m the biggest horse’s ass.

  In jeans and a t-shirt. I’ve never seen him this casual, he’s hot. It’s Justice that’s wearing the expensive suit. But they wear the same expression. I’ve fucked up again.

  The mother grabs her tween. “Let’s go dear. I’m sure the real NovaKain doesn’t smell like tuna.

  “I bet she does.” I say under my breath.

  Chapter 21

  NovaKain

  The elevator ride is awkward to say the least. Both brothers stand behind me and breathe down my neck, the whole time. Besides them, there’s two other people but the only one that will meet my gaze is Ilsa. A buxom blonde that I’d briefly met in the lobby. There was no judgment in her brown eyes when she’d introduced herself and I liked her immediately.

  Pretending to watch the numbers move, I sneak a side peak at the hottie with a beard standing next to me. Who is he and why does he look familiar?

  I let the hoodie fall back and now I’m full on staring. It’ll come to me…jello, charcoal, and a fear that wore me like a blanket when I couldn’t fight. Couldn’t flee. Held down, there’s no way to sweet talk your way out of restraints. Everyone professional and robotic, ignoring my pleas, treating me like a criminal. Except for one. “If you chill, I can take the restraints off.” A sweet kid that talked a mile a minute and brought me jello.


  Incredulous, I ask. “Cody? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Working. Hey Nova,” he says.

  “Thanks for being decent.” I say.

  Tears prick my eyes as I take him in a big hug, but he’s stiff beneath my arms. I step back and he’s looking over my shoulder like the devil himself is behind me. Expecting the worst, I turn. Puffed up and ready to fight, Shamus is glaring at Cody like he’d like to murder him.

  “Easy, Shamus.” I say.

  Why won’t he look at me? Clearly, there’s history there and then it hits me. 2+2=4 and I get it.

  “Back at the hospital. He was you’re in.” I say, but no one answers me. Great, now I’m being ignored.

  Pissed, I turn on the dynamic duo behind me just as the doors open.

  “You’re two are so buttoned up, and I’m such a fuck up is that it?” I ask, but neither have the balls to answer me.

  Justice steps around me and exits. Like he’s bored, he checks his watch.

  Rolling my eyes, I follow him.

  “Need the time, Justice? It’s half past rule time. This should be good. I was waiting for this. You’re the one that’s going to save me, huh? Leash me? What are my rules, dad? What rehab am I going too?”

  Justice looks at me with the patience of a parent with a two-year-old and asks. “Are you finished? Let’s go.”

  My new team follows. Everyone except Shamus. Guess he’s not on my team anymore.

  “You’re not coming?” I ask.

  But he won’t even look at me. Hasn’t since he found me pimping for pictures. Just leans against the back of the elevator. Hands in his pockets, it’s his turn to stare at the numbers above my head.

  “You’re not coming? I didn’t use, I promise. I gave you the last pill I had.”

  Shamus winces.

  “Did I forget to tell you?” I ask Shamus.

  “You said you didn’t take anything.” Justice turns to me and says.

  “Shamus is an enabler and needs to “smarten up.”

  “Let’s go Nova. Shamus needs a break.”

  “Well, I’m not coming without him.” I sniff and it’s like I yelled fire! in a crowded building. Shamus puts a beefy arm between the elevator doors and takes me by the arm. 6’4, bulked up with a crazy not fucking around look in his eye, he clears a path better than any red-carpet bodyguard I’ve ever seen.

  His brother’s eyes are pained when he says. “Shamus, for God’s sake.”

  After he opens the door, and throws me inside, he turns to his brother. “Talk for me one more time, see what happens.”

  No one attempts to stop him as he carries me through the hotel suite and drops me on the bed.

  Another slammed door, and my eye travels to the carpet. “I thought you said no one would hurt me.”

  Pain fills his eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

  The way he looks, over seasoned, if I said yes, he’d probably never look at me again.

  “No. I’m fine.” I lay back and close my eyes.

  “Nova, look at me.” His tone measured, I can hear the restraint he’s using not to throttle me.

  My eyes open, but I can’t look into those tortured eyes. Red rimmed and beaten, he stares at me like I’m dynamite that’s sweating through the wrapper. Where did those sweet eyes go? Should’ve bottled that look when I had the chance.

  He’s so pissed, his voice shakes when he says. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  Everything about me is defensive, my posture, my tone. I’m not feeling good and I still have the Justice show to sit through. Titled, Nova gets a new boss…same as the old boss. Straighten up and fly right or we take everything you love. The adoration of a loving audience.

  And why is Cody packing a gun?

  And if Shamus, had even an inkling of how hard it was to flee the scene of an almost crime? He’d be singing a different tune. Pissed, I jump off the bed.

  “Sorry to hurt your feelings, Shamus. Should’ve just fucked you, then we’d both be in a better mood.”

  Ready for this to be over, I almost faint when he pulls me into his arms.

  Cradling my head to his shoulder, he whispers. “I thought something bad happened to you. Don’t ever do that to me again.” His voice hitches in his chest.

  And I feel like the biggest ‘D’.

  “Nothing happened, Shamus. I’m alright.” Poor thing, he’s shaking. I put my arms around him and squeeze with all my might.

  He puts his head on my shoulder and holds me tight.

  “The last person to give me the slip was my dad. His funeral was two weeks ago.” the anguish he holds in check sounds painful.

  “Let it out, Shamus.”

  Pulling him to sit beside me on the bed, I stroke his back and hold him close. His grief is palpable, touching and utterly complete.

  What would’ve happened to him if I’d taken up the offer of drugs…and other things?

  This time, when I say sorry, I mean it.

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. It was me that was asleep on the job. I’m just going to have to get up a little earlier in the morning to keep up with you.” He says and kisses the tip of my nose.

  I could sit on this bed forever if he would keep holding me like this. Eyes closed, I bathe in the attention, that is, until the bedroom door is kicked open and the Justice League comes in, earpieces squawking, like I need to be rescued.

  “God dammit, Justice. Enough!” Shamus is up off the bed and stampeding towards his brother. When they’re toe to toe, and I mean right up close. Shamus explodes. My head snaps around to see if fire is coming out of his nose.

  “She’ll come when she’s damn good and ready. Give her a fucking minute to breathe.”

  My mouth is hanging open, I don’t know how Justice isn’t shaking in his boots. With an eye on Shamus, he speaks like there’s a tiger loose in the room.

  “Nova, we need to talk about those “other needs” you mentioned in the hospital. Should we do that now or later?”

  Other needs. I don’t need it spelled out, my addict is already clapping her hands in anticipation.

  “I’ll never be clean, Shamus. It’s not the withdrawal that I’m afraid of, it’s the monsters hiding under the bed. I can’t face them alone.”

  He kisses my lips with the barest of touches, which warms my heart. “You’re not alone anymore. You have me.”

  “That’s great. I might want you, but I need the drugs.”

  Taking me in his arms, he asks. “Are you hurting right now?”

  I nod and press a cheek to his chest.

  “I need it, Shamus.”

  His body stiffens against mine. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck,” he says and strides out of the suite.

  Chapter 22

  NovaKain

  Good luck? What’s that supposed to mean.

  The rooms too quiet. I look around the living room and everyone’s staring at me expectantly.

  Brilliant negotiator that I am, I ask. “Huh?”

  “I said…Is this real or just a poorly acted out script?” Justice shakes his head. He’s too serious.

  I look down at “all this” he speaks of. In borrowed clothes, in a borrowed room, with a borrowed habit. This beard’s getting awfully scratchy.

  “Nope, this is me. A mess this big take practice.” I say.

  “Do you want help?” It’s an odd question, one I’m not ready to answer.

  Instead I turn to Ilsa, my “medical handler”, that’s wearing my clothes.

  “Very nice. Is that my Vera Wang? It looks cute on you. Keep it.” I say.

  Impatient, Justice says. “I’m glad you approve. But this is not, let’s braid each other’s hair and trade clothes. She might be wearing your clothes, so she doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb, but she’s not your best friend. Think of her as an angel on your shoulder, one that’s there to make sure your heart keeps beating. She’s a fully credentialed nurse and if you get in a jam? She’s trained in martial arts. So,
Ilsa, if you want to start?” He says and she walks over and sits in the swivel chair next to me.

  Wearing Calvin Klein readers, she looks down at a screen and asks the usual. Medical history. “Oh, I’m bipolar. I just don’t take my medicine. It makes me too fat.” I say and she nods.

  “Any allergies?”

  I almost say edibles, but I’m not sure that counts, so I just shake my head. Everything’s going well and then she slips it in. Without looking up from her tablet, she asks. “Favorite drugs?”

  I look up and Justice is busy on his phone. Is this for real?

  “I don’t do drugs, should I speak into the wire?” I say.

  Ilsa’s trying to explain but Justice just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Nova, what’s said in this room stays in this room.”

  “For what? Like weaning me off?” I ask, starting to feel nervous, I swivel in the chair. What if this is like one of those churches where they tie alcoholics up and only give them one nip a day to keep the pink elephants away? A shiver runs through me. What would they do to sex addicts?

  Justice interjects. “Nobody’s weaning unless you want that. It’s you that’s in charge, we need to know your vices so we’ve got them on hand. Isn’t it possible that you’ve been getting your recreation from less than reputable drug dealers?”

  I think of Jimmy, the homeless guy with the soulful eyes and nod.

  “They could have anything in them. Baby formula, rat poison. Bath salts.” He says.

  “What? Isn’t that the zombie drug? That makes you eat people’s faces off?” I ask in disgust.

  “Yep and we don’t want you getting mixed up with anything that might hurt the brand.”

  Perplexed, I ask. “What brand?”

  “You.” He hands me a card, which I take.

  The Handlers

  Handling things for you, until you’re able too.

  “There’s nothing worse than a woman losing her shit, but nothing better than a woman with her shit together. And we’re here to help you get there.”