Crashing East (The Save Me Series Book 4)

by Aly Stiles

  This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.

  Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Design: Maria @ Steamy Designs

  Cover Image: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Andrew Biernat

  CRASHING EAST

  Copyright © 2021 Aly Stiles

  All Rights Reserved

  CRASHING EAST CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

  MORE FROM ALY

  Excerpt from ASHTON MORGAN: Apartment 17B

  STAY IN TOUCH

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  JULIAN

  “C’mon, man. Just for a week. Two at the most. Please!” Allan grips the open doorframe of my apartment, eyes wide and desperate.

  My own fist tightens at my side as I peer behind me at the young girl hovering in front of the TV. The backpack resting against her leg looks way too small to hold all the things I think a little kid would need. Thank god her headphones are stuffed in her ears so she can’t hear her father pleading with someone to give him a break from his own kid.

  “Dude, my life is shit. This is the last place you want to leave your daughter.”

  “She’s your niece.”

  “I barely know her!”

  “And who’s fault is that?”

  I flinch at the attack, narrowing my eyes at my brother-in-law—heavy emphasis on in-law. We never got along before my sister’s death last year. Now?

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with a kid? I don’t know anything about any of that stuff. I can’t even take care of myself right now.”

  “She’s eleven, not an infant. Julian, please. We’re going to kill each other if I don’t get a break.”

  “I get that but—"

  “Fine, a weekend then. You can put the TV on and buy her some pizza. I’ll pick her up on Monday.”

  “Allan, seriously, I—”

  “Do it for Ashley.”

  Low blow.

  I let out a long breath, casting another glance behind me. Big mistake, because this time I get blasted with a wide-eyed eleven-year-old return stare. Doesn’t he get that I’m looking out for her as much as myself on this? I’m not kidding that my life is so messed up, rock bottom is looking pretty damn good above me. Pale lashes blink over green eyes, and for a split second I see a flash of my sister. Interesting that my niece is the same age as Ashley when I was born. She looked out for me most of my life. Gave up everything to give me a chance.

  TV and pizza. Did I even have other plans anyway?

  “Fine,” I groan out. “Two days. That’s it. Not a second longer.”

  “Just the weekend, I swear. Thank you!” He leans forward, and I step back before he can do something stupid like hug me. No way this dude gets to hug me for this, or anything. Clearing his throat, he retreats into the hall. “I’ll see you Monday, J. Thanks again.”

  He shuffles down the corridor.

  “Wait, you’re not going to…” Say goodbye to your daughter, I finish silently.

  Guess not. Fucker. I’m not surprised.

  With a heavy sigh, I close the door and plaster a smile on my face. Two days. I can survive anything for two days.

  CHAPTER 1

  One month later…

  JULIAN

  “Naomi! You eating or what? We have to go!” I storm down the hall and bang on her door, yet again. Nothing. Just the loud blare of guitars and angsty metal screaming that has even my musician-worn eardrums bleeding. Yesterday it was dance-pop. The day before the honkiest honky-tonk. I swear she’s throwing anything on her speakers that she thinks will mess with my alt rock sensitivities. But joke’s on her. Just because I made—and lost—a career in modern rock doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate other genres of music.

  Just maybe not so damn loud, and not when I need to be out the door in a minute for one of the biggest rehearsals of my life.

  “Naomi!” I shout over the commotion, slamming my fist against her door again. When she still doesn’t respond, I push it open and flinch. “Ah shit…” I back out and shield my eyes way too late as she shrieks.

  “Uncle J!”

  The music cuts off mid-screech, probably so I can better hear her hysterics. “You can’t just come into my room!”

  “You weren’t answering! I have to go, Naomi. Like, now. Scratch that, five minutes ago.”

  “I’m getting dressed!”

  “I saw that.”

  “You’re not supposed to, that’s the point!”

  “Oh chill out. It’s not like you were naked.”

  Wrong answer.

  She wasn’t, but I guess “underwear” to an eleven-year-old girl in front of her uncle is indistinguishable from naked. I’ve been learning all kinds of things from preteen glares over the last month we’ve been stuck together.

  “Also, you shouldn’t curse so much around me,” she adds with impressive venom as I hover in the hall. I release a tiny smile at that one. Pretty sure the mouth on that girl is worse than mine. She’s just looking to pick a fight. Too bad I don’t have time for that.

  “Sorry. You’re right.”

  Her retort lands in an audible choke I can hear from outside her door. She wasn’t expecting that. Probably because we’ve done nothing but argue since her dad dropped her off a month ago. She doesn’t want to live here, fine. I get it. She hates me. Fine, get in line for that too. Her life is fucked up. Plenty of room in that club as well. But I’m doing everything I can to fix the mess I’m in. She’s… eleven. I keep forgetting that.

  Eleven sounds so young, and yet, this girl-slash-kind-of-woman is not at all how I pictured kids. There’s no drool or snotty debris, just lots of grunting and snarky mumbling.

  Should I have called some government agency when Allan never came back? Probably. I’ve seen evidence he’s not dead, just a deadbeat. And I almost did call more times than I can count. But every time I’d pick up the phone in a bout of exasperation, I’d think of Ashley, smelling like grease and holding that glorious bag of burgers from the restaurant where she worked so I could eat that night. That’s right, the job she took after dropping out her senior year to support us and, well… I couldn’t make the call. I couldn’t sign my niece up for a life of foster care and group homes, same reason Ashley gave up her life to give me one.

  Our mother was non-existent, our father useless. Pops did his best until age turned him from guardian into dependent. He’s passed on, though our parents are still alive somewhere, I think. Who knows. They didn’t give a shit about us then, they sure as hell don’t now. Probably don’t even know their daughter died of a brain aneurism at age thirty-six.

  Naomi’s father clearly comes from that same deadbeat mold. Kind of think I tried to warn Ashley about that when Allan first ent
ered our lives and ditched the second Naomi was born, but alas. What did her kid brother know? Nothing apparently.

  I still don’t, because holy hell, what is happening right now?

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at my niece’s exposed stomach as she pushes past me into the hall.

  “A shirt?” she says, glancing down at the strip of fabric covering boobs she doesn’t even have yet.

  “No freaking way. Put a real shirt on. We’re going to a rehearsal.”

  “This is perfect for a band thing.”

  “In ten years maybe. Put a fucking shirt on!” I wave my hand toward the closet I spent way too much of my dismal savings on to stock.

  “You shouldn’t say fuck in front of me.”

  I clench my fist and pull in a calming breath. “Fine. Put a damn shirt on.”

  “You could just say shirt, you know,” she snaps, but at least she’s moving toward her closet. I bite back more inappropriate language when she grabs a hoodie instead of a new top. Whatever. Small victories.

  “Thank you,” I mutter as she pulls the ripped black fabric that’s four sizes too big over her head. Yes, we bought it that way. Yes it matches perfectly with the black lipstick she insists on wearing. Her long blond hair is also dyed black. I’m still cleaning that shit out of my shower. I’m a rocker by trade and don’t get the choices of an eleven-year-old girl. Is this goth? Is that even still a thing? God, I have no clue what I’m doing.

  “Is it true you’re going to be playing in a band with Genevieve Fox?”

  I glance at her sharply. Damn, I guess she picks up more than I think. Have to remember that.

  “Yeah, but she’s not a popstar anymore and has a whole new identity. She goes by Viv Hastings now. She’s kind of a badass, actually.”

  I brace for the retort. The drama. The stark reminder that I’m not her—anything—except another inconvenience in her life.

  “Cool,” she says, brushing past me.

  Now that I think about it, the dance-pop from yesterday was vintage Genevieve Fox.

  My nervous energy shifts from familial conflicts to something more invigorating when we pull into the lot of the studio that will host our first official rehearsal as a band. To say my former band fell from grace is an understatement. No label or manager would touch us after that fiasco. Not that there was anything left to touch once the copyright lawsuits drained our bank accounts and reputations. Forget the fact that our lead singer ended up in prison for sexual assault.

  When I joined Eastern Crush shortly after they got signed by a major label, I had no idea any of this shit was on the horizon. I certainly didn’t know they’d screwed over the founder of the band, Mason West. There was a point over these past months that I honestly thought I’d never perform again. My life would be anonymous studio gigs and indie solo tracks, scratching out riffs behind the scenes for other artists at a contract fee—if I was lucky. Then I ran into Mason… and well, let’s just say Karma knew what she was doing when she picked him as the winner in that battle. The guy is a saint, the fucking king of redemption, and here we are.

  I stare up at the warehouse-looking building, excited and completely terrified.

  “Doesn’t look like a studio,” Naomi says, shielding her eyes from the sun. Is that a hint of a smile on her lips? Not sure I’ve ever seen one of those.

  “No, but it will inside. Come on, let’s find a lounge or something where you can hang out while I work.” I grab the handles of my cases but stop moving when I realize she’s not following me. “What’s wrong?”

  Her shoulders droop, and for a split second I think I see something new in her face. Sadness, maybe? Disappointment? But it’s gone so fast I don’t even have time to brace for the familiar scowl.

  “Nothing. I just thought I’d be… whatever,” she mutters, stalking past me toward the entrance.

  I stare after her in silence, as usual having no clue what I did wrong or why she’s upset. Is this still about the shirt thing? Grunting, I adjust the weight of the cases and follow my niece.

  Once inside, my sour mood lifts. I was right. This place may look like a warehouse on the outside, but the converted space inside is any artist’s wet dream. A sleek, comfortable reception area gives way to a line of glass-faced studios. Alcoves weave throughout as well, probably leading to artist lounges and conference spaces. This place was designed to be a musician haven, and I’m positive it’s our lead singer Viv Hastings whose clout hooked us up with this musical wonderland. Yet another thing to put us in debt to our newest bandmember. At least she kept her word now that she’s finished her farewell tour as Pop Barbie.

  Freaking weird twilight zone I’m in.

  Was I happy when I found out Viv Hastings, the new solo artist we drooled over after her underground indie single went viral, was actually Genevieve Fox, iconic pop goddess? Actually, no. It was Sam, our new manager who talked me into a sit-down with the pop queen. I still don’t fully understand why she threw away everything for nothing, but she seemed legit when we met a couple of months ago.

  I glance around the lobby, already losing sight of my niece, and drop my equipment to go on a search. A flash of black catches my eye to the left, and I follow to find her peeking into an empty studio. Wait, is she actually interested in this shit?

  “Julian Campbell. That you?”

  I don’t get a chance to find out at the call from two doors down in the opposite direction. Spinning around, I spot our drummer and my only remaining Eastern Crush bandmate, Wyatt Maxwell.

  “Max. What’s up, man?” I say, stalking toward him. We exchange hand clasps, but I’m pulling away to go after Naomi at the same time he seems to be dragging me toward the door.

  “Been a minute. Hey, we’re all in here. Waiting for you, actually.”

  “I know. Sorry, man. I gotta take care of something quick. See you in a few. That’s my stuff if you don’t mind grabbing it.”

  I totally feel the annoyed scrunch of his brow, but I have to make sure Naomi is settled first. No one in the band knows about my weird situation yet. We have enough obstacles and trust issues to overcome as a new band forming from the muck like we are. The last thing we need is me dropping fresh doubts about my commitment by introducing a kid to the mix. I’ve seen what kids do to careers through Mason’s experience. I don’t need that headache right now when I’m about to get back on my feet.

  Gonna be hard with an eleven-year-old who keeps running off, though. Shit.

  I check a few more rooms, resisting the urge to call out like I’m combing the deep woods, not a high-end studio building. There are other artists hard at work, and now I’m worried she’s going to crash their sessions as well. How many people can I piss off in one day? After the Eastern Crush disaster, I thought that record could never be broken.

  “C’mon, Naomi,” I mutter to myself. “Just this once, you could’ve helped me out.” We were already late, thanks to her. Now I’m going to be unforgivably tardy.

  I finally find a pair of combat boots dangling over the armrest of a couch in an artist lounge and flip on the light. A glare fires back at me when I approach.

  “Can I trust you to stay here?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “Can I trust you to…” I take a deep breath and point to my ears.

  She rolls her eyes and jerks an earbud from her head. “What?” she snaps.

  “Will you just stay here? You’ve got your backpack and some snacks. If you need anything else, text me and I’ll find you on a break. But please, Naomi, I’m begging you. Just this once, can you do me a favor and cooperate?”

  She blows a lock of hair from her face as she moves to re-insert the earbud. “Stay out of your way, got it,” she mutters.

  I bristle at the venom in her voice and know I should let it go, but… “What do you want me to do, Naomi? I have to work. In case you didn’t know this, food and rent take money. I have a chance to get back up, and I’m doing my best. What do you want me to do here?”
r />   “Nothing! Don’t worry, no one expects anything from you. Least of all me.”

  Ouch. “Naomi, come on. I just…”

  “It’s fine! Whatever! Go do your band stuff. I’ll be invisible. You won’t even know I exist. Poof.” She flashes her fingers with magic dust and shoves her earbud in all the way, drowning out any response I could have. Just to be sure I have no chance, she closes her eyes as well, and I grunt in frustration before backing out of the room.

  Clenching my fists, I have exactly a minute to rein in my frustrations before facing my new band. I don’t get it. Any of it. She seemed fine when we left the apartment, almost excited. Even when we pulled into the lot there was that flicker of a smile I hadn’t seen before. Then… this. She looked like she could stab me if she wasn’t able to get rid of me fast enough. What changed? What did I do wrong? Will I ever figure out any of this shit? She’s got food. A roof. An adult who’s making sure she gets to school every day. She already has more than I did half the time.

  Now I’m down to ten seconds.

  I still feel the blood boiling in my veins when I round the corner back toward the entrance. Max was coming out of Studio Three, so I beeline for that, grabbing my cases that are still sitting on the floor where I left them.

  “Thanks for the help, dude,” I mumble to myself. Also, the short walk from the artist lounge wasn’t nearly enough time to reduce my boil to a simmer. I do my best to force the heat below the surface and plaster a fake smile on my face as I plow through the door with my cases.

  Laughter dies abruptly and five sets of eyes settle on me as I break into the room like an elephant on steroids. The door smacks against my guitar case, and the other facial expressions dim at varying degrees, ranging from lopsided smiles to full-on scowls. The worst coming from… wait.

  No.

  No fucking way.

  23G?

  Why is that unbearable girl from the apartment below me in my studio space? I blink at her in shock, then disgust, then filtered rage. I did not need this right now, and my only consolation is that she seems just as unhappy to see me.