All Shook Up (6 page)

"Any health problems? Diabetes? Epilepsy?"

I shrug and shake my head. I know almost nothing about Sophie Winter.

In the back of the ambulance, I watch her face. She looks comfortable now, more comfortable than I've seen her since moving in. Is my deal that stressful for her? I thought buying the house would be an enormous relief to her, but what if I was wrong?

I don't like the fact that she isn't awake right now, but I can't bring myself to ask the paramedic any questions. If it's bad, at least I have a few more minutes to pretend everything is just fine.

Scene 15 ~ Sophie

Before I open my eyes, I hear the sounds, the shrill beeps of different machines, the clanging of metal against metal, people's voices echoing. I can't make sense of the noise, but it somehow reminds me of the day Lang died. I try to raise my hand to my face, but the back of it feels stiff and irritated. Finally, I can move my eyelids enough to see that a clear, thin tubing is taped to my hand and threaded into a machine. I must be in a hospital room.

"Sophie?"

I recognize the voice, but I don't understand what Mark is doing here. Hell, I can't understand what I'm doing here. I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are opened too wide, his mouth set in a grim line. Lovely. I'm probably dying.

I try to sit up, but Mark puts his hand against my shoulder. "You need to stay there."

A frustrated sound escapes my throat. "Why?"

"You had a seizure," he says. "Probably from going off the alcohol too fast. Same thing happened to a guy at rehab."

"Where's Hondo?" I say.

Mark frowns. "I don't know. I don't have his number."

"Phone," I say, holding out my left hand. "Please."

Mark puts his phone in my hand and leaves the room. I dial Hondo's number and wait through four rings for him to answer, "Hondo here," which is his standard greeting when he doesn't recognize the number.

"Hi," I say, annoyed that I sound so weak.

"Sophie, where the hell are you? I've been calling everyone on the planet, looking for you."

"Well, you missed a number," I say. "I'm at the hospital."

"Why? What happened?" His voice is escalating.

"It's all right, I'm fine," I say. "Just a seizure." I decide not to tell him I feel like death's slightly more attractive cousin.

"Room number?" he says.

"How should I know?"

"Never mind," he says. "I'll be there in fifteen."

I can't seem to hold on to time. When Mark finally comes back into the room, it seems like hours have passed. But that doesn't make sense because Hondo still isn't here. Or maybe he came and went already. I try to read the clock, but I can't decipher the numbers and hands.

"What time is it?" I ask Mark.

"Six," he says. "We've been here for a while."

"Hondo?"

"He'll be here soon. You already called him."

In an instant, my eyes fill with tears. I sob loudly without the slightest idea why. I try to cover my face with my hands, but the IV tubing is caught on something. Only my left hand makes it up to my face.

"Hey," Mark says, looking uncomfortable. "Hey, don't cry."

Hondo bursts into the room at that moment. He comes straight to the bed and leans over, gathering me up in his long, safe arms.

"It's OK, sweetness," he says. "I'm here."

I cry harder, my tears and snot soaking into Hondo's shirt. He carefully untangles the blankets and wires and tubing before picking me up like I'm a child. He sits down on a chair next to the bed, holding me tight on his lap, rocking me back and forth gently. I let go, relying on him to support my body. I feel protected from everything out there, even though the real danger is here inside me, where it has always been.

When I finally stop crying and come up for air, I look around for Mark. Once again, he's gone.

Scene 16 ~ Mark

I wish I still smoked. Tonight, I would burn through a pack and chase it with a few tequila shots. Being numb sounds perfect. Being numb would mean I won't have to deal with what happened to Sophie—and how it makes me feel.

I walk outside through the main entrance of the hospital and sniff the air. Smokers are gathered around an overflowing can of cigarette butts fifty feet away from the hospital doors. Maybe someone will sell me a smoke. I reach for my wallet, but I don't have it with me. We left so quickly, I didn't think to grab it. As I walk toward the small group, I try to figure out who would be most likely to let me bum. I decide on the two skaters who don't look old enough to buy cigarettes in the first place.

"Holy shit, that's Mark Dillon." The tattooed kid nearly knocks his friend off his skateboard to point me out.

Well, I have my cigarette. I also have fifteen minutes of bullshit ahead of me. With an iron grip on my temper, I ask for a light. The smoke hits my lungs like hot, wet wool. I cough like I've never had a cigarette before.

"Dude, what're you doing in Dallas?" Tattoo Kid asks. "Aren't you in rehab or something?"

"Something," I say. "I'm seeing a friend."

This appeases him for a few minutes. Then, he and his friend start whispering and shoving each other around again. I realize they're saying, "You ask him," and "No, you ask him, asshat."

I sigh as I flick ash on the sidewalk. "What do you want, guys?"

Tattoo Kid's face reddens. His friend punches him in the shoulder, sneering at him.

"Is Never More Alone breaking up?" the kid says. "It's all over Twitter that there's a new G-man."

I take a few more draws on the cigarette before stomping it out on the sidewalk. I casually pick it up and toss it on top of the mountain of butts. The guys watch me, waiting for an answer. I know that anything I say will show up instantly on Twitter.

"There's no fucking break-up and no new fucking guitarist," I say. "Thanks for the smoke."

As I walk back into the hospital, I wonder how long I can continue lying to myself—and believing it.

Before I can step into the elevator, Hondo grabs me out of nowhere. I glare at his hand until he lets go of my arm. The bastard must be feeling cocky to touch me like that.

"We gotta talk," he says.

I reluctantly follow him to an empty corner of the lobby. Damn, I thought I was tall. Hondo looks down on me like I'm his kid brother.

"What the hell happened to her?" he says. "What did you do?"

Oh, man, this day is just getting better and better. "She had a seizure. I had nothing to do with it."

Hondo narrows his eyes at me. "You told her to stop drinking cold turkey, didn't you?"

"Where the fuck did you get that?"

"You have no idea how stressed out she's been since Lang died," he says.

"No, that's pretty obvious from the condition of the property."

I let my arms hang loose and lean back slightly, not willing to be taken by surprise if Hondo decides to put some manual emphasis on his words.

"Yeah, you're the big hero, saving the house from foreclosure," Hondo says, with not a shred of appreciation in his voice. "Just stay out of Sophie's life."

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to tamp down my temper enough to speak. I can't believe the gall of this guy challenging me like this when he's living in my goddamned house rent-free.

When I open my eyes, I hold Hondo's gaze in laser focus.

"Let's be excruciatingly clear," I say. "I had nothing to do with Sophie trying to self-detox. She can drink herself into a fucking nursing home for all I care. And before you start throwing your weight around, you might want to ask yourself who's the bad influence here."

I steel myself for a punch in the face, but Hondo only glares at me for a few seconds, and then walks away.

Cursing under my breath, I pull my phone out of my pocket and map my new address. It's seven-point-four miles from the hospital to the Winter mansion. I take off in that direction, hoping my sudden craving for coke will weaken before I make it home.
 

Scene 17 ~ Sophie

I spend the next week in the hospital, going through a "medical" detox that I can't afford. It's boring, lying in the bed, being infused with saline and electrolytes and benzos. I've never quite understood how you can detox someone from one substance using another addictive substance.

Hondo comes to see me each day at lunch and after work. Mark doesn't call or come by at all. I try to ignore the tiny bud of disappointment that blooms in my chest when I think about him. I'm not family or even a friend. He already saved my life. He doesn't owe me anything.

Hondo takes his role as caretaker seriously, staying until late in the night, when I know he has to be at work by seven the next morning. Each day, the circles under his eyes grow a little bigger. I beg him to get sleep, but he refuses, even after he nods off in the chair next to my bed one night.

"You're wearing yourself down," I say. "If you don't keep up your energy, who's going to spoil me when I get home?"

"I could be in a coma and still have more energy than you, sweetness," he says.

"Yeah, that's nice, insult the sick girl."

"You're not sick, you're convalescing."

"Whatever," I say. "I'm going to sit here and pout for a while."

"Then, maybe I will catch a nap," Hondo says. He props his feet up on the bed and sits back in the chair. In two minutes, he's snoring.

"That's what I thought, big guy," I say quietly.

The doctor said I will be out tomorrow. They've had me walk the halls every day to prepare for discharge. Walking and pooping. Those are the signs of health they look for in the hospital. That's my ticket out of this place.

The social worker visits every day, too. Her demands are a little harder to deal with. She wants me in rehab for three months. I explain to her in every way I can that I do not have the money to pay for rehab. Yes, I just sold a mansion. But I'm in the red, and I have no cash flow. It's so hard for people to understand that being famous doesn't automatically make you a good steward of your money. The money comes in, and usually, more money goes out. It's expensive to be rich. My dad was the poster child for this particular problem.

The question now is, how am I going to generate cash flow? I look over at Hondo, who is still asleep. I can't mooch off him for the rest of my life. Somehow, I have to finish my degree. Maybe I can even teach music—as long as it's not the guitar.

I daydream about a small, private life, where I'd live in a regular-size house. My ordinary but extremely hot husband and I could go to dinner without a stranger stopping at the table "just to say hi" for thirty minutes. We could take our kids to the mall to shop for clothes without having people follow us from store to store. And at night, we could open our second-story windows to let in the fresh air without wondering if someone with binoculars and a telephoto lens is watching.

I look over at Hondo, and think we could be the couple in that house. If only Hondo wasn't, well, Hondo.
 

Scene 18 ~ Mark

The day before Sophie is scheduled to be released from the hospital, I score some coke. It's a tiny amount, barely a bump. But the second it hits my system, I remember why I was addicted. All of my anger at the band and all of my concern over Sophie's recovery melts away. Damn, it feels good to have my brain buzz with creative energy again.

Suddenly, I want to write music. Idea after idea streaks through my head, bits and pieces of songs. I keep reaching for my phone to call Braun or Erik, and then I remember we're barely on speaking terms. I walk around the house with my guitar unplugged, plucking different melodies. If Sophie was here, it would be the perfect time to work together.

If Sophie was here. What the hell is going to happen when she comes home? The pleasure of thinking about her on this cloud of cocaine nearly splits me apart. Every cell in my body is amped, desperate for the fingers to touch the strings. I end up in the middle of my new bed, humming and jerking off, trying to decide which need to satisfy first. I feel like a teenager again, so full of energy and desire for everything, now, now, now.

The next morning is as grey as last night was vivid. I open my eyes to find that I never took my jeans all the way off. I'm wearing them like shackles around my ankles. I kick them off and turned over. The glow of the cocaine is dry ash now. My brain feels empty, useless. My muscles ache.

My phone rings on the nightstand. It's Sophie. I let it ring two more times before I answer.

"They're letting me out today," she says.

"You told me that yesterday."

"Oh."

For the next thirty seconds, I hear only her breathing.

"Did I wake you up?" she says.

"No, you're fine. Late night."

"OK. I guess I'll see you later, then." She doesn't wait for my response, and this irritates me. She's the one who called me. She could at least give me the last word. I don't know if she expects a big homecoming, but I'm leaving that chore to Hondo. He can baby her all he wants.

I have things to do.

Scene 19 ~ Sophie

Hondo took the day off work to get me home. The hospital rules say I have to leave in a wheelchair, and he takes it to a ridiculous extreme. I keep my head down all the way to Hondo's car. I can't remember the last time I was so embarrassed. Oh, wait, I do remember. It was when Mark showed up on my doorstep unannounced and saw me half-dressed.

I don't know what's wrong, but Mark sounded like stale shit on the phone. It was obvious he didn't want to talk to me, which is probably for the best, anyway, because I don't know what to say. We've been housemates for less than two weeks, and already I'm bringing home the drama.

Hondo insists on holding my arm as we go into the house.

"You know, walking by myself was a term of my release," I say.

"Yes, sweetness," he says, and keeps right on guiding me in like I'm a blind, old woman.

Mark doesn't come out to greet us. I assume he's still asleep. Nicole is at the kitchen counter, as usual, still sorting through the world's largest pile of mail. She gives me a hug and asks me how I feel.

Lying on my bed feels crazy good after trying to sleep in that hospital bed, with the sheets slipping off all the time and my IV tubing getting tangled in the handrails. My mattress doesn't sound like a thick plastic bag when I turned over.