Confessions (Tattoos & Tears Book 3)

by Amiee Louise

  In a few more cruel and unrelenting thrusts, I find my release with a deep rumble from within my throat.

  “FUCK ME!” I bellow as I empty my cock inside her anus.

  I don’t give her the chance to say anything, or try to cuddle me, as I pull out of her, pull up my boxers, and my pyjama pants.

  “That was incredible, Sammy, darling,” she says, with a sigh.

  I need her to go, and I need her to go right the fuck now.

  “Get your clothes on, Lyla, and fuck off,” I spit angrily.

  She gathers her clothes and pulls them on haphazardly. She narrows her eyes at me.

  “I made it clear from the start that this was just sex, nothing more,” I say flatly, and she sits up, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ shape.

  “You know, like a fucking fool, I thought things were going to be different this time, Sam. I thought after we fucked, you’d see that it’s not her you want,” she whines, as I roll my eyes and shake my head.

  “All you’ve ever been is an easy lay, Lyla.”

  She has the audacity to look offended, and she goes to slap me across the face, but I grab her wrist before her hand can connect with my cheek.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” I say roughly, and I pick up my glass of Macallan.

  I take a long pull, enjoying the warmth as it settles in my stomach. A few moments pass, and I look up to see Lyla fully dressed in her red trench coat and heels. She looks thoroughly fucked. She twirls her mussed blonde hair around her finger suggestively, and as she moves closer to me, I smell the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume. I take another long sip of my whiskey and take a few steps away from her. Give me fucking strength; I could do without this shit.

  “The only spark that has ever been between us was in the bedroom, babe, and it was average at best,” I say unenthusiastically, and this time, she manages to lash her hand across my cheek.

  “How fucking dare you, Sam Newbolt!” she shrieks dramatically as I hear the door to my apartment close.

  “Sam? It’s me.”

  Cole’s voice echoes through my apartment.

  “I’m in the kitchen, mate,” I shout, and he leans in the doorway.

  “Everything ok?”

  I nod as I take a long gulp of my whiskey, and Cole rounds the kitchen island until he comes to a stop in front of Lyla. He looks from her to me and observes the exchange between us. Her dishevelled hair, her smudged lipstick, my mussed hair. Shit! He fucking knows I shagged her.

  “Come on, Miss Hudson, you’ve had your fun. I think it’s time for you to go home.”

  Cole takes her by the wrist, and she struggles against him.

  “Get your filthy fucking hands off me, Cole! Sam, are you going to let him manhandle me like this?” she screeches.

  Cole rolls his eyes at me, waiting for the signal from me.

  “If I ever fucking see you here again, I will have you escorted from the building, no questions asked. I’ll also personally see to it that you’re issued with a fucking restraining order. That’s not a threat, Lyla. It’s a fucking promise, and I never go back on my promises. Remember that, sweetheart. Don’t fucking test me.”

  I leave her with one last warning, and I nod curtly to Cole. He lifts her up, as if she weighs nothing, throwing her over his shoulder. She is pounding on his back for him to let her go, but it doesn’t faze him as he strides out of my apartment with a screaming Lyla hanging off his shoulder.

  As the door slams shut, I am overwhelmed by the silence that greets me. I pick up the almost full bottle of whiskey and stride into the living room. What the fuck have I done? I sit down on the floor and close to the window of my apartment, which overlooks the breath-taking New York skyline by night. That’s when I break down; gut-wrenching sobs wrack my whole body, until I’m trembling with absolute and utter fucking desolation. I unscrew the lid from the whiskey bottle and swallow it down, as if it is going out of fashion. I need to be numb to deal with this; I need to be totally obliterated to stop this constant, crippling ache in my chest and to quiet the overwhelming sense of guilt I feel.

  The events of the past week have crept up on me, completely overwhelmed me, and hit me head on like a ten-tonne fucking truck. My fiancée is alive, we have a son, and my ex-manager, the man I trusted for almost my entire life, the man I trusted to take care of me and my band's interests, the man I considered a friend… he turned out to be a complete psychopath. He is currently locked up in prison for attempted murder and false imprisonment. What kind of sick, twisted person does that? On top of all that, I shagged my ex-girlfriend, and I find out that after all this time Peyton’s family knew she was alive and didn’t think to tell me. No wonder they weren’t at our comeback gig.

  I take another large guzzle of whiskey, enjoying the burn as it slides down my throat and warms my stomach. I put the bottle down beside me and sob hard. It feels like a whole years’ worth of tears are breaking free and pouring their way out of me. As I think of my beautiful Peyton and my son, a pain lances through my chest. I let out a distressed scream, and I don’t hold back. I scream until my lungs feel like they are burning, and I feel like I have lost every ounce of control I had over my feelings. The dam has well and truly collapsed, and I’m drowning in sheer sorrow. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. I pick up the whiskey bottle and knock back the fiery liquid. I am halfway to feeling comfortably numb.

  I catch my reflection in the glass, and I don’t recognise the man staring back at me. My eyes are red, bloodshot, and puffy from the tears; the green is a dull, sludgy green and not the usual emerald sparkle that usually stares back at me. My hair is dishevelled and unkempt, and my clothes have the sickly stench of Lyla’s perfume clinging to them. The man staring back at me isn’t Sam Newbolt; he is a version of me with subtle differences. This version is broken and so full of agony that it’s debilitating.

  A loud bang on the door pulls me out of my head and back to the here and now.

  “Sam, sweetheart, it’s me.”

  My mum’s soft, soothing voice fills my ears, and that makes me sob harder.

  “Sam, let us in, son. We’re all worried about you.”

  My dad’s concerned voice is muffled through the apartment door, yet I make no effort to get up and open the door. I want to be alone. I need to be on my own to deal with all this shit.

  “Sam, open the fucking door, you prick.”

  I hear Brody’s brash, loud voice. Tactful as ever.

  “So help me God, I’ll break this motherfucking door down, with my bare hands if you don’t fucking open it right now!”

  He rattles the door handle as my mum softly berates him.

  “Mrs N, no disrespect, but your son is a selfish dick that needs to get his head out of his fucking arse!” Brody shouts and continues to bang on the door.

  The thud-thud-thud causing a dull throb in my alcohol-soaked head.

  “Are you fucking Lyla in there? Because if you are, I swear to God, I’ll kick your arse so high you’re going to have to take your shirt off to have a shit!”

  If only you knew. I gulp down another large mouthful of whiskey. My mind is swimming, and I feel like I’m floating. I hear the sound of the door handle rattling vigorously.

  “Sam, let us in sweetie, please,” my mum says tenderly.

  I manage to clamber to my feet, in a way that I would describe as ‘Bambi on the ice’. I stagger drunkenly to the door and pull it open, stumbling as the door opens. I sway on the spot as I lock eyes with my mum. The look on her face breaks my heart and starts my hysterical sobbing off again. Fuck me, I’m losing it.

  “Oh my darling boy,” my mum soothes, and I practically fall into her arms.

  I am instantly transported back to when I was a kid, being comforted and soothed by my mum. She rubs her hands up and down my back, in a gesture of reassurance.

  “Hate to break up the pity party, but you need to sober the fuck up, Sam. Peyton’s been taken in for questioning.”

  Brody’s chastising voice break
s through my despair, and I look up, trying to process what Brody has just said.

  “What?”

  He folds his muscular arms across his chest.

  “She’s been taken in for questioning. I’ve had that Remy geezer on the phone, and he’s freaking the fuck out, man.”

  A perplexed look crosses my face, and his words are struggling to break through my hazy, inebriated brain.

  “Fuck me backwards, dude.”

  He hauls me from my mum’s arms and pulls me into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He pushes me down on the sofa and stands in front of me with his arms folded.

  “Are you hearing me, fuck face, or are you completely retarded? Do you need me to speak slower? Peyton has been taken in for questioning. She fucking needs us, dude.”

  I look up at him, and I’m faced with two Brody’s standing over me. Fuck me, I must be drunk.

  “Did she tell you? Her fucking family knew she was alive and didn’t bother to share that delightful snippet of information with me!”

  I laugh bitterly. Pity party for one, anyone?

  “Fine, maybe this will fucking explain it better for you.”

  Brody snatches up the remote control for the T.V, and the news is on.

  “Breaking news just coming in, Peyton Harper, tattoo artist and former fiancée of Rancid Vengeance front man, Samson Newbolt, has been found alive and well after being allegedly murdered in twenty fourteen by the band’s then manager John Dalton, a.k.a Johnnie Diamond. Police are questioning Miss Harper, following up on their line of enquiry. Nevertheless, the question on everyone’s lips is, was this a genuine incident, or a cruel publicity trick to fool Newbolt and the world into thinking she was dead? Only time will tell. Harper’s family refused comment, and we are eagerly awaiting a statement from Rancid Vengeance.”

  Brody switches off the T.V and folds his arms impatiently in front of me.

  “Now do you fucking get it? She’s front-page news, dude. The press are going to eat her the fuck alive, Sam. She’s terrified, and she’s alone. No matter what shit went down with you two tonight, she loves you and she fucking needs you. Jesus, your fucking kid needs you too,” Brody says, through clenched teeth.

  What the fuck is he talking about again?

  “Are you fucking her?” I suddenly blurt out, and the look on Brody’s face says it all. It is a look of pure shock and bewilderment. I know he's telling the truth, but my drunken mind is working overtime.

  Fuck me, I'm going to regret this in the morning.

  “What the fuck, dude? Are you actually being serious right now? You know I wouldn’t touch her, she’s yours. She’s been yours from the very fucking beginning, we all knew that. I fucking love her like a sister. She’s beautiful on the inside and on the outside, but I don’t think of her that way. Fuck me, Sam. I thought you knew that at least, or are you a complete fucking dick?”

  I know I am being a complete prick, but I can’t help myself.

  “You fucked her that night on the bus, didn’t you, you cocksucker!” I accuse, and he squares his shoulders as if he is about to attack me.

  “Get your fucking head out of your arse, Sam, for fuck's sake!” Brody growls, and I can clearly hear the grinding of his teeth. “You have to know I don’t fucking see her that way, we’re just friends. I’ve told you so many times, nothing happened on the fucking bus. We talked, we drank, and we bonded, end of.”

  The truth is, deep down, I know Brody, or any of the boys, wouldn’t do that. I stand up until I am toe to toe with him and I sway on the spot.

  Fuck me, how much whiskey did I have again?

  My dad steps forward and tries to steady me.

  “Sam, son, sit. Let’s all calm down, and I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  I scrub my hands across my stubble and shake my head.

  “I don’t need you to put the fucking kettle on, dad!” I slur.

  Brody moves closer to me, putting a barrier between me and my dad.

  “None of this is your dad’s fault, Sam. You’re being a complete fucking dick. You need to sober the fuck up, and then we’re going to the police station to get Peyton. I called Alistair, and he called our solicitor, Vance. He’s on the way there to be her legal representative. She’s not fucking dealing with this alone, not anymore. She fucking needs us, and she’s part of our family, whether you refuse to admit it or not.”

  Deep down in my drunken foggy brain, I know every word Brody has said is the truth. But I’m not sure I can look past the fact that her family knew she was alive. Over the past eighteen months, I have transformed from a cocky, arrogant, egotistical, womanising arsehole into a monogamous, loving, dad-to-be and back again. This past year I have reverted to my debauched, old ways and her parents are responsible for it. I lost everything: my fiancée, my baby, my reason to live, and they could have prevented it all. I pick up the bottle of whiskey and lock eyes with Brody; I knock back the fiery liquid with a look of defiance on my face.

  “Are you being fucking serious? I swear to the baby fucking Jesus, I am going to cock drop you!” Brody roars and my mum tries to placate him by brushing his arm gently.

  “Sweetie, he’s in shock. Maybe we should leave him for tonight, let it all sink in, let him sober up. Let him sleep it off, and we’ll come back tomorrow.”

  He shakes her off, and I have to physically stop myself from telling him not to treat my mum that way.

  “No, I’m not going to let him do this, Mrs N! She’s the mother of your child you fucking cock sucker!”

  Brody runs his hand over his head in sheer frustration and moves closer to me, until he is standing over me.

  “You’re Sam Newbolt! Fucking suck it up and stop being a little bitch!” he snaps.

  As I go to take another swig from the whiskey bottle, he snatches it from me. He slams the bottle down on the table and his nostrils flare.

  “What the fuck, dude?” I slur, as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

  “You know what? I’m fucking done, Sam. Do what you want, but I’m not leaving her. I’m fighting in her corner, whether you fucking like it or not!”

  My drunken brain tries to focus on anything but the searing pain in my chest at the thought of my Peyton locked up in a police cell, terrified and all alone. However, the bitter side of me wins out again and hopes they lock her up so that she rots in prison. I attempt to stagger to my feet, and my legs feel wobbly, but I manage to stand up straight. I jab my finger in Brody’s direction. I know deep down it isn’t wise to goad him, but I can’t help myself.

  “That’s right; you go to her. You comfort her, wrap her in your arms and tell her you’re there for her… right before you bury your cock inside her and make her scream your fucking name!” I say spitefully, and as I say those words, I see Brody visibly tense.

  His eyes flash with anger, and before I can say another word, I feel Brody’s fist connect with my cheek. I totally fucking deserved that.

  "I FUCKING WARNED YOU, YOU PRICK!" he roars, and I fall backwards onto the sofa.

  My head is spinning, and my nose is bleeding, but I can just about make out the muffled conversation, going on around me.

  “It’s done, Brody, but you ever lay a hand on my son like that again, and I promise you, I will be the one to knock you down, next time.”

  My mum’s usually soft, placating tone is replaced with an unforgiving austere one.

  “I would listen to mama bear if I were you, son. She’s fiercely protective of her cubs,” my dad says diplomatically.

  I make out the broad outline of Brody’s large, muscular body and he holds his hands up defensively.

  “I...I’m so sorry,” he says softly, and I hear the door click shut as I give in to a drunken sleep.

  ***

  I’m not sure how long I have been asleep, but I wake to my dad tapping my cheek and flicking cold water in my face.

  “Come on, wake up, soppy bollocks.”

  He throws a pack of peas at me, and I look slee
pily up at him. As I go to sit up, I am struck with a blinding pain in my head and the room is spinning. Fuck me; I had way too much whiskey.

  “Fuck me, what time is it?” I say gruffly, and my dad looks at his watch.

  “Just after one a.m. You were only asleep for an hour or so,” my dad says flatly. “You’ve got some apologising to do, son.”

  As I attempt to sit up, my dad sits down on the sofa next to me. He puts the peas on my face, and I wince in pain.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  He sighs.