The Complete Rockstar Series (80 page)

Abby lifts her head and our eyes meet for a brief moment before her gaze shifts behind me to the brunette. Holy shit. I actually feel ashamed when I detect a flicker of hurt in Abby’s sky blue eyes, like I’m a bigger douchebag than the frat-boy.

Eager to be out of Abby’s line of sight, I hustle the girl whose name I forgot two seconds after she said it through the backstage door and push her into the dressing room. Without a word being exchanged, she drops to her knees, unzips my pants, and swallows my cock whole. As the girl sucks me off, moaning and making a big show of it, all I can think about is the hurt in Abby’s eyes. Abby, who probably hates me now that she’s seen my idea of a date.

My climax approaches, the pleasure building in my balls, ready to release at any moment. I shove Abby out of my mind at the last second. It’s better that she hates me. The orgasm rips through me and I clutch the girl’s head, roughly thrusting into her mouth, coming forcefully down her throat. I should feel good, but all I feel is like a complete jackass for hurting Abby.

I’m tucked and zipped before the brunette can get to her feet. “Thanks.” I hurry out, leaving her on her knees, scowling.

This is exactly why it’s better for Abby to hate me. I’m a fucked-up, selfish bastard, and always will be.

The hour-long drive to my parents’ house gives me plenty of time to do nothing but think. Naturally, my mind goes straight to Hawke. The connection I thought I’d felt with him, the magnetic pull, turned out to be one-sided. During the show, my eyes were fixed on Hawke’s beautiful face as he mastered the large set of drums. His body moved so fluidly, so expertly, he didn’t even need to look at his hands as they created the rhythm for the rest of the guys to follow.

I couldn’t wait until the band was done with their set so I could huddle close to Hawke in a private booth, spending the rest of the night talking. In my mind, we’d share gentle touches and heated looks, possibly ending with him driving me home where he’d kiss me goodnight. I could practically feel the small metal stud in his lip rubbing across mine as our mouths came together.

Instead, Kate, who wouldn’t let me beg off or sit for a single second, immediately dragged me to the dance floor. When I finally gave her the slip, some random guy who thought the world revolved around him was all over me, showering me with stories of his all-around awesomeness. After Kate told the guy to take a hike, I was ready to join the guys and get a little face time with Hawke. But while I was waiting at the bar for my drink, he was busy pulling a scantily clad girl to the back of the club.

The picture I built up in my mind since sharing that incredible energy when we touched was shattered the second Hawke’s eyes met mine through the crowd. As much as I know I should, I can’t give up on him, not yet. There’s still something there. There has to be. Otherwise, it means my ability to read people’s emotions is lacking, and that’s one thing I pride myself on, one thing I’m going to rely on when I become a therapist. I know he feels it too. He’s either ignoring it or too afraid to do something about it.

I refocus my attention on the road. Mom and Dad insisted I show up for Jace’s birthday. If I skipped, Mom and Dad would be mad but Jace would understand. Evan, though, he’s home from college in New York and I won’t see him again until Christmas break.

Nervous as always when I go home, my hands are slick on the steering wheel of my little hatchback. At the next red light, I wipe them off on my skirt, praying I can get myself together before I reach my parents’ house. The last thing I want to do is revisit my past.

I can do this. I can’t let them down. But the less time I spend at home, the harder it is to step back inside.

My heart starts to beat against my ribcage, constricting in my chest, making it near impossible to suck in a full breath. I let my forehead drop to the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut so I can calm down before I lose it completely.

I can’t do this.

A loud honk startles me, the light now green. Somehow, I hold myself together the rest of the drive to my parents’ house in San Clemente, a little over an hour south of LA. By the time I pull into the familiar drive, my entire body is trembling and I’m losing the fight against the hot tears stinging my eyes.

Everything comes down to that one night almost five years ago. My entire life was thrown up in the air like a deck of cards, the organized stack fluttering to the ground in a chaotic mess. I choke back a sob and remember how helpless I felt, how I failed my older brother.

“
W
here are we going
, Mom?” I help get my brothers out of bed and dressed. A shiver wracks my body, even though the house is far from being cold.

“The hospital,” she answers.

My head whips around to face my mom. I’d been expecting her to say Nick was picked up by the police again. When he has a really bad day, he tends to do strange things that draw people’s attention, and not in a good way. Like the time he stood in the center of a major intersection, laughing as if it were a game. Or when he took a bus to San Diego and told everyone he met he was campaigning for president. I can’t count the number of times one of my parents has had to go get Nick at a police precinct and explain that he’s bipolar, or the times he’s been involuntarily committed to a mental hospital after one of his escapades.

But the hospital? “A real hospital?” I ask, making sure she doesn’t mean Clairmont, the local psychiatric institution.

“Yes.” Her voice is shaky and her skin is pale. Really pale.

My brothers are whining about getting up, but they know the drill by now. Five minutes later, we’re all in the car, the boys already slumped against each other in the backseat with their eyes closed.

“What’s going on, Mom? Is Nick okay?”

I catch her glancing in the rearview mirror to check on my brothers before answering. “They didn’t tell me. Only that he’s been admitted to the ICU.”

My heart leaps into my throat, silencing any response I might have. ICU. That means he’s hurt. Really hurt.

Neither of us says another word the rest of the drive to the hospital. Inside the lobby, the strong chemical smells burn my nose, making my stomach churn. How can anyone stand to be here every day? My mom is a nurse, but at a doctor’s office, not a hospital.

Mom beelines for the information desk and gives them Nick’s name. The bored-looking woman taps her long fingernails on the keyboard, each clack jarring my nerves until I’m ready to strangle her.

“Third floor ICU, room 303. Elevators are that way.” She extends one of her bright red talons, indicating a bank of elevators by a sad little grouping of worn-out chairs.

“Come on.” Mom grabs Jace’s hand, hurrying him along. Evan and I are right on their heels.

During the ride up, I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise. My midsection burns with nausea. When the doors open, we’re greeted by organized chaos.

Nurses in blue scrubs dart around, white-coated doctors reading large black charts. Machines beep and whir from every direction. It’s pure sensation overload, especially for a family roused in the middle of the night to find out a loved one is in the ICU.

“Excuse me,” Mom says, catching the attention of a harried-looking nurse. “We’re looking for Nicholas Kessler. Room 303.”

Her sharp gaze scans over our haggard group and her eyes soften with sympathy. “He’s right over there.”

Mom turns, facing the glass walled room on our right. She hesitates before taking my hand and squeezing it tight. “Abby, take your brothers to the vending machine by the elevators and find somewhere to sit.”

“But Mom—”

“Abby,” she snaps, her voice cracking. “Let me find out what’s going on first. Please?”

The lingering nausea flares back to life, churning my stomach. “Okay.” I motion to Jace and Evan. “Guys, let’s get something to eat and drink.”

Grumbling, they dutifully follow.

Ten, then twenty minutes pass. I’m not sure how long we wait. Long enough for Jace and Evan to demolish a bag of chips and a lemonade each before falling asleep on two very uncomfortable couches in the tiny ICU waiting room.

When Mom finally appears, her face is blotchy and her eyes are red. I shoot to my feet. Don’t barf, Abby.

“What? What happened?”

“They… they aren’t one hundred percent sure,” she explains. Mom rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “But they think he overdosed on his prescriptions, maybe. He’s…” she inhales a sob, “he’s on life support. You father is coming home. We have to… I have to…”

My mom breaks down, tears spilling over her cheeks as grief overtakes her. I reach out and she pulls me into her arms, clutching me tight. We sink onto one of the peeling vinyl couches and both cry until there’s nothing left inside but a hollow, aching emptiness.

“
C
ome on
, Abby!” Kate whines. “I don’t want to go alone.” She gives me her big, sad, puppy-dog eyes. “Please?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Kate. Fine. I’ll go.”

She jumps up and down, squealing and clapping her hands. “Yay! Thank you, thank you! It means so much to me.”

“It better,” I grumble.

“You okay?” Kate puts a hand on my arm as I get up from the couch to go get changed. She bites her lip, but stays silent.

I sigh. It’s not her fault I’m acting moody. I never told her how I felt about Hawke, about the intense moment I thought we shared at the club that first night we met. Ever since watching him hook up with that girl, I’ve begged off going to see the band every time Kate has asked.

“I’m fine.” I give her a convincing smile, which she returns.

“Lovely. Brilliant, Abby. Thanks. You don’t know how odd it feels to be standing in the crowd alone to watch the show.”

She follows me to my room, flopping on the bed while I search for something to wear. “Why don’t you just watch from backstage?” I ask as I flip through my closet.

Kate makes a disgusted noise that has me glancing over my shoulder. The way she wrinkles up her nose reminds me of someone who just smelled something gross. “I can’t face toward the audience, Abby. Watching those slags stare at my bloke…” She fake shivers dramatically. “It’s creepy, the way they eye-fuck the guys, plotting how to get into their trousers. Plus, it’s bloody offensive.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Great. Now that I have, the image of women flinging themselves at Hawke pops up in my head and sets up camp.

“Honestly, I really just want you with me for the after-party tonight,” Kate says.

My fingers clench around a cute blue dress I forgot I owned. “After-party?”

“Yeah. It’s at some other club nearby. Ross got everyone on the list and said I could bring someone as well. Apparently, he wants them to meet some big shots in the music industry or something. I can’t remember.”

Kate continues talking, oblivious to my discomfort. Going to watch the band is one thing. I’d be safe in the crowd, Hawke up on stage, no contact with each other to remind me of the powerful connection between us. A party is an entirely different story. We’d go as a group, for one thing, which would mean possibly sharing a car. Then, once we got there, I’d have to watch Hawke flirt and pick up a girl to have sex with. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through that again.

But what if this is an opportunity, another chance at seeing what Hawke and I could have together? I shiver at the thought of his touch, the electricity I felt crackle between us.

Now I’m freaking out as I strip off my shirt and shimmy the silky fabric over my head. Kate stands up, rummaging in my closet while I straighten out the dress. She produces a pair of strappy silver heels, thrusting them at me. “Wear these. You’ll be the most stunning girl there.”

As I pull on the shoes and fasten the buckles, I wonder if this is just another step down a very long path of unbelievable stupidity.

T
he venue
the guys are playing is packed. Maybe it’s because this place is bigger than their usual club or bar appearance. Eye Candy is a concert venue of sorts. The stage is enormous and as well equipped as any major concert I’ve ever been to. They have rigging with all kinds of lights hanging off it, massive speakers flanking either side of the stage, and a closed-circuit video feed that shows the performance on televisions throughout the club, including the twenty-foot screen above the stage.

“Wow.” I glance around, taking in the excited men and women crowded around. Everyone is drinking and laughing and having a good time.

“I know,” Kate replies. “It’s bloody overwhelming, isn’t it?”

I nod, not knowing what else to say. I’m still so thankful Kate didn’t make me go backstage before the show. Any reason to put off a conversation with Hawke is fine by me. I’d probably make a complete fool of myself, either by stammering incoherently because I become tongue-tied whenever he’s nearby, or by my pathetic attempts at flirting, which would undoubtedly end up embarrassing me instead of being sexy.

The club lights dim and the stage glows bright. The guys took their places in the dark, because when the spotlights turn on they’re already on stage, looking like the famous rock stars they’re hoping to become. My eyes immediately zero in on Hawke and I gasp. He’s wearing only a tight white T-shirt and jeans. The blank slate highlights the colorful sleeves of tattoos on both of his arms. When he raises them above his head and taps his sticks together to start the first song, I nearly drool at the sight of the lean muscles flexing.

Adam sings the first note and the women in the club go insane. Insane to the point Kate and I exchange stunned looks.

“Bloody hell,” she exclaims. “That,” Kate says, pointing at the women screaming, desperately reaching over the edge of the stage to get a handful of any of the three men playing guitar up front. “Is why I can’t watch from backstage. You should see the lust on their faces.” Kate shudders in disgust. “Nothing but slags.”

I shudder along with Kate, but not in disgust. No, I shudder because I may as well be one of the “slags” Kate is sneering at. Hawke may not be standing at the front of the stage, swaying his hips and making eye contact with the hysterical women, but watching him play is like watching him have sex on stage. Every movement he makes is so fluid, so sensual, and the expressions on his face only heighten the eroticism.

Who knew drumming could be foreplay?

Fire licks across my skin in a fiery caress, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. A pulsating ache begins between my legs, the sensation increasing with each beat of the drum. Every move Hawke makes ratchets up the magnitude tenfold until I’m practically quivering with need, ready to fling myself at him and rub my body all over his.

These sexual feelings are so new to me, and so much more intense than I ever imagined I could feel. I’m torn as to what to do. On one hand, I want him. Badly. I could probably convince Hawke to have sex with me, but that’s all it would be. Sex. Nothing more, nothing less. On the other hand, I want to find out more about the man. Find out what else is behind the confident, gorgeous facade.

Is it possible to have both? Or would I be destined to follow Hawke around like a beggar on my knees, grateful to accept whatever attention he deigns to throw my way? Would I be able to watch him be with countless other women while I linger in the background, praying he’ll notice me someday and we’ll live happily ever after?

I focus back in on the sexy drummer, hoping to find some sort of answer. The fact that Hawke isn’t hanging over the crowd of desperate groupies doesn’t hurt. Adam plays the women like they’re an extension of his guitar. He reaches out to give small touches here and there, throws a wink at someone in the crowd, makes everyone feel as though he’s singing for them and them alone. If Hawke did that, I couldn’t stand to watch it.

A sharp poke in my ribs tears me from my Hawke-induced trance. “Abby.” I turn to find Kate giving me a look, one blonde eyebrow raised in question.

Busted
.

“What?” I ask, bristling in defense.

“Hmmmm, nothing.” The expression on her face makes it clear she knows exactly what I was doing. “We have to meet up with the guys backstage. None of them wanted to drive, so we’re getting a couple of taxis to take us to the party.”

Ugh. Here we go. Time to either go for what I want, or miss out on what has the potential to be something incredible.

Question is, which would be worse? Having what I want and losing it, or never having it at all?

“Here.” Gavin tosses me a towel to wipe the sweat off my chest and neck.

“Thanks, man.” I catch it and duck into the tiny bath attached to our dressing room. Gavin knows why I always change in private, but Dax and Adam don’t. I’ve never seen the reason to discuss that shit with them or anyone else. It doesn’t change a damn thing and it’s none of their business.

I tug the sweaty shirt over my head and toss it onto the vanity. Quick and efficient, I splash water on my face and dry off before pulling a new T-shirt on without sparing a glance at my damaged torso. My hair is a disaster, so I rewet my hands, running them through the dark waves in a sad attempt to tame the mess.

Satisfied my hair is as good as it’ll get, I grip the edge of the sink and lean closer to the mirror. With the thin layer of near-black stubble I keep on my face, it’s nearly impossible to see the fine white scar that crosses one cheek from ear to mid-jaw. I glance down at my arms, turning them over to check for any visible marks. The really bad scars are hidden by strategically placed tattoos and most of the others are nearly invisible. Someone would have to get pretty damn close to spot the spiderweb pattern of scars up and down my arms.

I blow air out of my lungs in a long exhale. “Showtime.” You would think when I’m onstage is when I act for the audience, but it’s not. Every minute I spend drumming brings me as close to feeling normal as I ever get. It’s times like this, going to a party, mingling with LA hotshots, that has me faking my way through the motions, hiding the darkness that surrounds me, turning me hollow by eating at me from the inside. I left all this bullshit behind years ago. Returning to mingle with rich, entitled assholes is the last thing I want to do.

When I open the bathroom door, I pause. Is that Abby? I step out to see that yes, yes it is.

“Really? That’s unbelievable!” Abby throws her head back and laughs at whatever ridiculous tale Adam is spinning. It must be a good one because his arms are flailing all over the place to emphasize his story.

My eyes laser in on the smooth skin of Abby’s neck. With her long blonde hair pulled up on her head, the tan expanse is mouthwatering. The desire to walk over there, grab her in my arms, and suck on that spot until I leave a mark claiming her as mine, is nearly impossible to ignore. I clench my hands, my fingernails digging into my calloused palms, and slowly approach the group.

Abby’s back is to me, but I can tell she senses my approach. Her shoulders snap back and her spine becomes rigid. The others continue talking as Abby’s head turns toward me, bright blue eyes connecting with mine. I freeze in place, still a few feet away, pinned down by the intensity of her gaze.

One look at her and my heart kicks into overdrive. Just being
near
her affects me in a way I’ve never felt before.

Mine!

The thought surprises me as it roars through my mind yet again. I tear my eyes from hers, not wanting Abby to see how fucked up I am. Instead, I drop my gaze down her body and my head nearly explodes with lust.

Jesus. She’s trying to kill me.

The tight, navy minidress she’s wearing should be declared illegal. I have to fight back the urge to throw my jacket over her so no one else can see all of the beautiful tan skin exposed by the tiny scrap of fabric. Then her legs…
fuck
. Abby has long, toned legs I can easily imagine wrapped around my waist as I sink my cock into her. To top it off, she’s wearing silver stiletto sandals that show off her tight ass perfectly.

I can’t speak. Right now, all of my attention is focused on trying to redirect blood from the hard-on that’s currently pressing against the zipper of my jeans.
Note to self, wear looser jeans
. Because my mind is currently in the gutter, Abby is the one to break the silence.

“You guys were good.” She tucks an escaped strand of blonde hair behind one ear and gives me a timid smile.

“Thanks. You going with us? To the club, I mean. The party. It’s a party for another band but their record label invited us.”

Holy shit. Shut up, Hawke!

I’m rambling on and on like a total idiot to distract me from yanking Abby into the bathroom and fucking her into next week. Abby’s brows pull together for a brief moment before she answers.

“Yes. Kate asked me to go so she’d have someone non-industry with her.” Abby’s cheeks turn a beautiful pink and she ducks her head, avoiding eye contact. While I’m glad she’s not trying to suss out my secrets, I want to grab her chin and force her to look at me so I can see if she wants me as much as I want her.

“Cool.”

Well done, Hawke. Well done. Round of applause for worst conversation ever.

Dax claps his hands together loudly, saving me from making any more of an ass of myself than I already have.

“Let’s go! The taxis are here.”

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for a night of what’s sure to be pure torture.

“
T
ell
me how you met everyone,” Abby asks as she sips from her bizarre, hot pink beverage.

After downing a couple of drinks, I managed to gather enough courage to ask Abby if she wanted to find a quiet spot to sit and talk. We discovered a couple of patio chairs with a tiny table on the terrace of the club. Far enough away from the others to be semi-private and block out the sounds of the other partygoers.

I twitch at the thought of telling Abby how I met Gavin at a mental hospital. No way am I going anywhere near that story, so I give the watered-down version. “Gavin and I met in LA and became friends. After graduation, he was going to spend a year in the UK with his mom and her family and I went with them.”

“You just up and left LA for a year?” Abby asks, incredulous.

“Yep. Anyway,” I continue so she won’t ask any questions about my family letting me leave the country with no job and no plans. “Gavin’s uncle owns a popular pub in London. Well, one day he told us we just had to hear this acoustic duo he hired to play weekends. That’s how we met Adam and Dax and the rest… you already know.” I shrug and take a big sip of my drink.

“Wow. And Kate was able to come on a soccer scholarship so everyone was here in LA together?” Abby grins and puts her empty glass on the table. “That’s incredible.”

I don’t mention Adam’s ex, Ellie, who was supposed to come to UCLA with us, but broke up with him over the phone instead. The whole incident effectively turned him into a shell of the man he used to be. I know exactly how he feels.