On the Road: (Vagabonds Book 2) (New Adult Rock Star Romance) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

WE WOUND UP getting on the beds—two girls per bed—and watching something funny on TV.  Or at least it
seemed
funny at the time.  I felt so goddamned floaty and happy.  Really happy.  Unbelievably joyous and relaxed—beyond anything I had ever known.

It lasted until I felt asleep.  I remember thinking
CJ who?
and giggling as I drifted off.  In fact, I’d felt sleepy most of the evening, like I was on the verge of passing out, that peaceful sensation of almost drifting off and knowing that you won’t be awake much longer.

When I awoke the next morning, Vicki was already gone.  I got up and realized I didn’t feel hung over or anything, but Barbie was stirring when I came back after using the restroom.  “Man, that’s some fucked up shit,” she said.

“Not bad.”  But I already knew one thing.  That stuff?  Jesus Christ.  I could see myself get addicted to it quickly.  I’d never felt euphoria like that before, and I understood immediately why people could get hooked.  That was an amazing feeling, and I could see why users would much rather go through life like that instead of the normal way we existed from day to day.  Damn.

I could never—
never
—touch the shit again.  No fucking way.  It would be a death sentence.

And then I wondered why something that made me feel so good was so bad, but that was the siren call of the drug already singing to me. 
It’s not so bad.  It
can’t
be bad.
  But I knew—I’d seen too many rock heroes die from it, nearly die, or give themselves over completely.  It was an all-consuming demon, and I knew I couldn’t listen to my brain’s cry for more.

Barbie, however, had had a different experience.  “God, I felt like shit.  And I kept throwing up.  My entire insides were clenched all fucking night.  I don’t see what the big goddamned deal is.”  Oh,
I
knew—but I wasn’t going to say a word.

“Feel better now?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Liz rolled over and sat up.  “That was some intense shit.”

“No shit.  It’s already eleven.  I think I need some fuckin’ coffee.”  Barbie sat on the floor and pulled on her boots.

“Great idea.  You in, Kyle?”

“Yeah, sure.”  But I had something else I’d have to do right after.

* * *

Before we got back to the hotel from the Starbucks three blocks away, I texted Peter and asked him if he had a few minutes. 
If it’s quick.

He told me to meet him in his room and, when I knocked on the door, he said, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Okay, so he was worse than usual.  The moniker of
slick
that I often pinned on Andrew was definitely fitting of Peter, and definitely on that day more than usual.  He acted like he was once again trying to sell me something, and I didn’t appreciate it.

I tried to ignore it, because I needed to talk to him honestly and directly.  “I know you’ve heard this before, Peter, but it needs to be said again.  Vicki is addicted to heroin.  She’s not just dabbling—she’s hooked.  We need to get her help.”

Peter waved me over to sit in a chair by the tiny round table next to the sliding glass door before sitting down himself.  “Do we get her help
now
…or after the tour ends?”

I frowned.  “What do you mean?  We have to get her help now—before she kills herself.”

“So do we stop the tour dead in its tracks?  Perhaps you forget that we have obligations, Ms. Summers.  We’ve made promises to venues, to fans, to the acts the Vagabonds are supporting.  How do you think your new fans would react if, on your very first tour, you backed out of almost half the dates you promised to play?”  I started to counter, but he continued.  “I suppose we could find someone else who could drum, but how long before they learned your set, and would they fit with you ladies?  And how would the fans feel about one of you leaving just when you’d begun?”

I took a deep breath as his truths—or his
versions
of the truth—washed over me.  “And, last but not least, how do you think Ms. Graham would feel if you all kicked her out of the band, whether permanently or temporarily, for her good or not, and kept going?  Do you think she would feel betrayed or unloved?  Do you think that would help or hurt her condition?”  He paused for that dramatic effect he was so well known for.  “I’m sure you’ve heard that addicts can’t be helped until they admit there’s a problem, and the last time I talked to Ms. Graham about it, she didn’t think she had any issues.  I voiced concerns that both I and you ladies had, and she told me not to worry.  She insists that she can quit any time she likes.”

“You know that’s bullshit, Peter.”

He pursed his lips in that creepy way he often did when he was trying to make it look like he was considering what you’d said, but I suspected it was just an act.  I was pretty sure he already knew what he wanted to say and was simply trying to figure out how to say it.  “Yes, but she has to realize she needs help.”

I tried to keep the anger out of my voice.  I knew Vicki was stubborn about the whole matter.  “So what do we do?  What if she dies before she gets the help she needs?”

Peter blinked.  “I’m not saying we don’t keep an eye on her.  And we need to keep encouraging her to go easy on the junk.”  He paused and sat up straight.  “Unless, of course, you want me to throw her in rehab and cancel all our dates.”  Fucker.  He was hitting me in my sorest, most tender spot.  “We can talk to the entire band if you like…put it to a vote.  Would you prefer that?”

Peter, the dream seller, had me pinned against the wall—and he knew it.  He was the car salesman continuing to throw in as many bells and whistles as he could, knowing I couldn’t walk off the lot.  He damn well knew he had me by the balls.

I shook my head and left, feeling forlorn and guilty as hell.  Apparently, my fame meant more to me than my friend’s health and yet I also knew Peter was right.  We could force her into rehab and she’d leave as soon as she could and start taking drugs again as soon as she could score them.  Nothing would work, but I’d wanted to give the adult in charge the reins, hoping he could magically change what was happening.  Instead, it felt like he was hiding something more sinister but I had no idea what that could be.

I left his room, deciding to talk to Vicki one last time, see if I could hold her to her promise to quit because we’d tried the drug.  It was all I had left.

* * *

We were an hour away from going onstage but we’d been at the venue a while.  I knew Vicki was high again, because she was acting mellow.  I managed to get her alone, though, and I asked her if we could chat for a few minutes.

“Sure.  I need to head outside for a smoke anyway.”

It wasn’t long before we were outdoors.  I wasn’t used to southern winters.  A cold rain was falling; in Colorado, it would be snowing.  Of course, I did remember a few winters on the road with my parents where we were in California and Arizona, but this felt different.  I was glad I had a jacket on.

Vicki lit up a cigarette.  “So what’s up?”

God.  Where to start?  I figured it would simply be best to spit it out.  “Well…you said if we tried your stuff that you’d try quitting.”

She took a long, hard drag on her cigarette, and when she looked at me, I thought I saw something, maybe almost a little fear—in her eyes.  “Nope.  Kelly backed out, so no dice.”

“Oh, come on, Vicki.  Why should we make her do something she was clearly not comfortable with?”  And, if I would have been honest with my friend, I would have told her I never should have done it either because I was now drawn to it, but that would have been a weakness she might exploit later.  I didn’t dare divulge that information to her.

“I know—but that was the deal.”  She took another puff on her cigarette and I gritted my teeth as I tried to find the right words.  But then she said, “I promise to cut back, though.  I think that’s fair.”

Well, it was better than nothing, and just hearing her promise to ratchet down her usage made me feel better.  So I nodded.  “Okay.”  I hugged her and her body got stiff.  That was strange, but I wasn’t going to question it right now.  She’d been acting odd for a while and this was probably just part of that.  I also noticed how thin she felt compared to the way she’d been at the beginning of our tour.  Damn Andrew.  Asshole.  “I care about you, sister.  I just want you to be okay.”

“I am,” she said.  Famous last words.

Chapter Twenty-five

A LOT OF the remainder of that tour was kind of a blur—and for many reasons.  The first was thanks to drugs.  After crossing a line and trying one of the big baddies on my top three list, it felt like I could try a lot of different drugs—and so I did.  I kept my promise to myself to never try heroin again, and I also kept meth and crack on my taboo list; other than that, everything else was fair game.  There were plenty that I didn’t have the chance to try, but those I was offered, I didn’t say no to…and alcohol and pot continued to be my first choice.  Some substances I tried that spring included things like Ecstasy, shrooms, acid, Quaaludes, ketamine, and downers.

That said, there were a few incidents that spring and summer that didn’t escape my memory, in spite of the haze I was in.  It was strange how I just kind of jumped over the edge.  I think it was over my guilt about Vicki, and what better way to numb guilt than to drown it?  Drugs weren’t the problem necessarily.  It was that I got drunk every single damn day after my conversation with Peter.  I couldn’t tell you where we were half the time or how many shows we’d played.  I couldn’t even tell you how many guys I’d fucked.  But one rule I had with myself—if I liked a drug too much, if it seemed to tug on me like H did…then I had to part ways with it and never touch it again.  I couldn’t trust myself, and I didn’t want to be hooked like I saw Vicki.  Of course, I was addicted to the rush of sex and drugs after every show—but I wasn’t hooked to one particular drug.  As I said, alcohol was my number one drug of choice.

I couldn’t tell you why I took the plunge.  It might have been that it was free and easy…and mostly fun.  It could have been that I had a tendency to be a wild child, especially when I wasn’t on a leash anymore, and so I just embraced it.  It also might have been that I felt like it was an expectation.  I was a rock star now, dammit, so I had to live the lifestyle.

But it was probably other things entirely—like the fact that my heart had been broken by CJ, and I wasn’t going to admit it, whether in the presence of friends or to myself in my mind.  I felt like I was a bad ass rock guitarist, so there was no room for sadness or regret.  Never mind that if I had enough to drink and stayed up till after the party was over that I’d wind up crying myself to sleep anyway.  I know too that I did it to cope with my fears and guilt over Vicki, and maybe I had some weird ideas that if I didn’t die from the shit I was doing, she wouldn’t either.  Dumb, I know.  But I think it was also a way to cope with the band itself, because things got rockier as we went.  Peter became a raging asshole—yes, more than he’d been before, and his villainous nature continued to reveal itself.  Andrew was no more a buffer from him or protector for us than a flyswatter against an angry mama bear.  But it wasn’t just Peter.  It was learning how to deal with paparazzi.  Most of them were okay but there were some real winners out there—leeches who only wanted to earn some cash, and the more compromised or vulnerable they found you, the more desperate they were for the pictures or the story.  I was also having a hard time dealing with the fame, something I never would have predicted.  We weren’t just popular with the music crowd—somehow, we’d crossed over into pop culture—probably because we were being looked at as “teen phenoms.”  God, I grew to hate that fucking phrase.

The worst part, though?  The women I was bonding with, the ones I should have been able to cling to had become unbearable.  None of us could stand being around each other anymore.  So I drank.  I drank to drown out the
shk-shk
of Barbie’s emery board.  I drank so I could look away from Vicki’s sunken eyes and gaunt frame.  I drank to block out the constant bickering—and it was all of us, and it felt constant.  We were all on edge and pissed off with each other.  It would have helped if we could have had separate rooms, but Peter said that would cut into our profits.  I’ll give Liz credit—she could have continued paying for her own room as she had on occasion when she’d been exploring her sexual appetites, but she did try to maintain a sense of solidarity, so she stopped.

One for all.

But all for one?  Not so much.  We were dividing, and while our differences should have strengthened us, I think they contributed to the feelings of animosity and resentment and all the misunderstandings we had during the second leg of the tour.

I hated being around them…so I fucking drank.

But drinking also set me up for trouble, more than I could have foreseen then.  There was one show, in Mississippi or Alabama, I think, but don’t quote me, because those were what I now call
the hazy days
.  But this show had been like any other—fun, rocking, and we’d had the fans eating out of the palm of our hand.  Anyway, we had a shitload of them backstage that night.  Usually, they flocked to Barbie first, and who could blame them?  She was the face of our band, and she knew how to work the crowd.  I had no doubt there were hundreds of boners every night in the crowd, thanks to her.  They’d come to Liz or me second, and it varied.  But this night I had a flock of my own hovering around, and it took me a bit to realize that five of them were friends there together.

And, holy shit, were they hot.  They looked to be college aged…and their physique reminded me of Decker.  Just that resemblance made me suddenly homesick and nostalgic—so I began pounding the vodka like it was water.  And I made the mistake of telling those guys where we were staying and asking them to come party with me later.  It was Vicki and me sharing a room that night—or so I’d thought at the time, and I knew she’d be with Andrew, meaning I had the room to myself.  A little Kyle-only party sounded like the remedy for all that was ailing me.

See, that just shows how stupid I was.  I should have called my mom and dad and talked.  Hell, even CJ.  He had, no doubt, experienced a lot of the emotions on the road that I had and, whether or not we had a sexual truce, we were friends if nothing else.  And, as much as I tried to push it aside, I knew he cared about me.

But nope.  I preferred the booze to people therapy.

Anyway, this incident should have made me wary—that was how bad it was.  But I think I was too young and too stupid (and, frankly, too lucky) for it to make much of an impression on me.  By the time we got to the hotel, I was completely trashed.  I had already blacked out part of the events that evening, but at least I had one thing in my favor.  Anymore, I performed sober.  I might have a drink or two before going onstage, as either a warmup or something to help me relax, but I was coherent.  It was
after
the show that I’d get wasted.

So we got to the hotel and those guys were in the lobby.  They looked even bigger and hotter now that I was swimming in my alcohol stupor.  The girls, Andrew, and Peter were all gone by the time I’d chatted with my boys.  Shit—I couldn’t even remember their names and, in my mind today, they all looked the same:  All-American, dishwater blonde hair, blue eyes, chiseled cheekbones, long eyelashes, all built like the offense line of a football team.  Very Decker-like.  That was why I was attracted to them, I think.

I invited them up to my room.  I remember giggling my ass off in the elevator, and one of them pulled me close and kissed me. 
Wow.
  Okay, I could go for that.

I was feeling loose enough that even an orgy wouldn’t have made me say no because, after all, I’d be the center of attention, right?

Those were my thoughts as we stepped off the elevator, and the other elevator right next to it opened at the same time.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but Bad Dog and TT were exiting that one, so they followed little ol’ me, surrounded by these meaty football players.

I felt like I was in heaven.

When we got to the room, I pulled out my keycard.  I shoved it into the slot, and I remember giggling my ass off.  The little LED light stayed red, though.  It wasn’t clicking the lock release and there was no green, and if I hadn’t been so damned blitzed, I might have either questioned it or gotten pissed.  Instead, I giggled some more.

It was less than a minute that Dog was standing beside me and he gently removed the card from my hand.  He flipped it upside down and put it back in my hand.  “Arrows gotta point down, darlin’.”

I smiled and hugged him.  “Oh, thanks, Dog.  I love you.”  I kissed him on the cheek and turned to my entourage.  Then I grabbed his chin and said, “This is my friend, Bad Dog.  I think he’s my best friend.”  Okay, yeah.  So the liquor was talking and I was an obnoxious drunk sometimes.

“You okay, Kyle?  You just wanna go to bed?  These guys’ll understand.”

“No!” I shouted, way louder than I should have.  “I want to party!”

He nodded, taking the card from me and sliding it in the slot, turning the light to green and making the door unlock.  “Okay—but call me if you need me, okay?”

“Okay!”  And in I went—where angels feared to tread.  Most of that night is gone from my memory, because I blacked out a lot.  I’d had way too much to drink.  But the part I do remember is when one of the guys asked me to do a strip tease for all of them.

I blinked my eyes.  I was a little sleepy and relaxed, but I was considering it.  “We need music, though.”

It wasn’t long before one of the guys pulled music up on his phone.  Another guy said, “You need to finish your drink, Kyle.”

I shook my head and wagged my right index finger at him.  “I think I’m drunk enough, don’t you?”

“Aw,” he said, standing.  “I don’t think you can ever have too much to drink.”  He turned and looked at the guys, all sitting in various spots on the two double beds in the room.  “Ain’t that right, fellas?”

I’d already kicked off my shoes, but I had a brief moment of clarity.  Those five guys suddenly looked like big, bad wolves…and they wanted to fucking eat me.  I felt a ping of fear then, for the first time that evening, when—in reality—those alarm bells had probably been going off the whole time.  Unfortunately, the bells had been under water (or under liquor, that is)—and I wouldn’t have been able to hear them to save my soul.

“Um, guys.  I think I just need to go to bed now.  Sleep it off.”

The one guy who was standing said, “Yeah, I think we all need to go to bed.”  He grabbed the front of my t-shirt so hard that it dug into the back of my neck.

“
Ow!
  What the hell are you doing?”

His voice was a growl.  “You promised us a goddamned strip tease; you’re gonna
do
a goddamned strip tease and then I’m gonna come all over your fucking face. 
And you’re gonna like it.
”

Uh,
no
, I wasn’t.  My shirt wasn’t doing what he wanted, so he placed both hands on the collar and pulled at it from both sides until it finally gave way.  The thin inch-wide collar actually stayed intact, but the front—Harley logo and all—split in two, ripping to the bottom.  The hem gave him a few problems too, but he managed to pull it apart, and there was my lacy black bra and navel, bared to these animals.

These animals who were now standing, hovering over me.

I swallowed.  Oh, shit, I was in trouble.  “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

The ripper grabbed my jaw.  “We’re going to love you.”

Uh…this didn’t feel like love, and when the guy next to him started kissing my neck, I felt my skin try to recoil from his touch.  I think I might have screamed, but I don’t remember.  All I know is that it took all of them to throw me on the small table in the corner and then pull my jeans off.  I had a lot of strength in my legs and I kicked and pulled and clenched—unfortunately, I was no match for five athletes.  The next thing I remember is being held down—there was one guy for each limb—and the ripper was standing in between my legs.  I was wearing the black panties that actually matched the bra, but he didn’t give a shit if they were a set.  He pulled on them until they also tore, and I could feel the fabric dig into my skin as it finally gave way to his demands.

I must have screamed again, but suddenly, I had a hero.  Dog was standing in the doorway, slamming the door open.  “Get your fucking hands off her, you monkeys.”

All five guys looked up from me to him.  “Yeah.  Come stop us, scumbag.”

“I gotta Smith and Wesson that’ll do that.”  Between two of the guys, I saw part of Dog and damned if he didn’t have a steel-gray gun in his hand.  Where the fuck had he gotten it?  Well, it didn’t matter.

“She was askin’ for it.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight.”  Dog moved closer to the beds so they’d have to pass by him without being able to reach for the gun.  “You have ten seconds before I start shooting—and the cops are already on the way, so if you’re smart, you’ll get the hell out of here now.”

The last guy to let go of my arm and follow his friends paused in front of Dog.  “Motherfucker.  If I—”

“You really ready to meet your maker, asshole?  I’d be happy to send you, and I don’t think any jury in the world would hold it against me.  Do you? 
Wanna try?
”

Damn…Bad Dog was downright scary—and good thing, because those wannabe rapists were out of my room in a flash.  The next thing I remembered, I was sitting up on that table hunched over, my face in the palms of my hands, and I was bawling my eyes out.

Dog was by my side in no time, an arm around me.  “Are you all right?”  I couldn’t talk past the sobs.  “Did I get here too damned late?”