Impulsive (26 page)

“Jesus, Eli. You look like shit.” The only thing more disturbing than Elijah’s hangover was the thundercloud darkening Gabriel’s brow. They’d been together long enough for him to recognize an impending ass chewing when he saw one. “Do you even know where you are? What day it is? And for God’s sake, zip up your pants, man.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a gander at the building in front of him. One stadium pretty much looked like another. Tall buildings cast long shadows over the parking lot. Heat shimmered in waves above the pavement. Not a familiar landmark in sight. He had no freaking clue where he was. The days and cities blended together in a mishmash of liquor, disillusionment, and babes.

“It’s Tuesday? In Des Moines?” He raised a hopeful eyebrow and grimaced as pain slashed across his frontal lobe.

“Try Thursday in St. Louis,” Gabriel growled and grabbed him by the elbow, steering him toward the back door of the arena.
 

“Thursday?” Something important nagged his subconscious. What the hell was it? Before he could decide, a string of profanity erupted from Gabriel’s lips. He turned, following Gabriel’s gaze. Two girls dressed in booty shorts spilled down the tour bus steps behind him. Overinflated breasts burst from their halter-tops. He grinned. “Welcome to Missouri, ladies.”

Elijah tried to spread his arms in greeting, but Gabriel held him by the elbow. He lurched backward and landed with a thud against the side of Gabriel’s car. The metal studs on his jeans pocket scraped over the blue metallic paint. Gabriel winced.

“Sorry, man,” he breathed.

“Shit, Elijah. Where did these girls come from?” Gabriel glared at him like he should know. Elijah shook his head. The movement caused his stomach to churn. Gabriel rolled his eyes and sighed before snapping into action. “Never mind.”

Gabriel assumed the worst, but Elijah had grown tired of the girls ten minutes into the bus ride. Their hands had tried to give him pleasure, but all he’d felt was panic at their unfamiliar touch. They wanted his fame and his name, but they didn’t want him. Hell, they didn’t know who he truly was. All they saw was the machine built by the publicity.

“Ladies, I guess this is where we say goodbye.” He tried to bow, but the contents of his stomach rocked. A sheepish grin had to suffice. “My good buddy, Gabe, will get you back home or wherever it is you need to go. Won’t you, Gabe?”

“Yes, Elijah, I will clean up your mess. Again.” The censorious tone of Gabe’s voice suggested he wasn’t too thrilled with the idea, but Elijah paid him well. Well enough to buy a dozen Jaguars. Well enough to shut him up. “Before you go, ladies, we need to take care of a little paperwork.”

Good old backstabbing Gabe. He’d been managing Seven Drift since the days of dive bars and high school dances. They used to be friends, but lately Elijah had begun to question where Gabe’s loyalty rested. Thanks to Gabe, he was locked into another two years of this hell by an ironclad contract. He couldn’t trust anyone in this fucked-up charade of a life. Emotion constricted the walls of his throat.
 

Gabe had his uses. He made sure the girls never talked about the drunken debauchery of the tour bus with his non-disclosure agreements. Gabe kept the paparazzi away—or not—depending upon the needs of the situation. Gabe fielded the offers that kept pouring in, making Seven Drift one of the hottest band in the world right now. Gabe kept Elijah’s world spinning, and when the spinning grew too fast, Gabe gave him a pill, a bottle of whiskey, and told him to suck it up.
 

“What happened to us, man?” Elijah asked. He wrapped an arm around Gabe’s neck and pulled him in for a man-hug, desperate to recreate the good old days.
 

Gabe made a choking noise and pushed away, a scowl of annoyance on his face. “Jesus. You smell like a distillery.” Gabe straightened his shirt and wrinkled his nose. He turned to the wall of muscle standing outside the backstage entrance, Elijah’s personal bodyguard.
 
“Moose, take Elijah inside and get him into the shower—a cold shower—while I take care of these ladies. He’s got less than an hour before he goes onstage.”

Cold water sluiced over his head, running in rivulets down the back of his neck, over his clothes, and into his boots. Custom-made, hand-tooled, snakeskin boots. His favorite boots. Damn. Water ran into his nostrils. He sputtered and coughed. A firm hand on the back of his head held him in place.
 

“Enough.” The single word rasped from his throat. Moose released his head and left him to collect the shreds of his dignity in privacy. He removed his clothes, turned on the hot water, and stepped beneath the spray once more to wash away the humiliation.
 

Soap and water removed the scents of cigarettes, sweat, and sex, but nothing could take away the emptiness inside him. No matter how hot the water, it wasn’t enough to warm the icy void inside his chest. He felt like the Scarecrow or the Tin Man or whoever the fuck that guy was without a heart, stuck in his own personal Oz, looking for a way back home.

“You’re one sorry motherfucker,” he told his reflection in the mirror after the shower. The bloodshot eyes staring back at him belonged to a disillusioned stranger. Sobriety brought back the self-loathing and frustration numbed by the liquor.
 

He barely had time to dress again before a team of security, managers, assistants, and crew swept him and his band mates down the hall toward the stage. The assistant on his right shoved aspirin and a glass of water into his hands, while another waited on his left to claim the glass when he finished. Hands tugged and pulled on him from all directions. Someone tried to straighten his T-shirt. Another person smoothed his hair. Hands everywhere.
 

Three hours later, he stood onstage, drunk with adrenalin, and took a final bow after another kick-ass performance. Pyrotechnics exploded. Fire shot thirty feet in the air on either side of his drum kit. Thirty thousand fans screamed his name. Women threw their panties at his feet. They fucking loved him. Loved him. He raised his arms into the air, feeling like a god, and absorbed the adoration.

All too soon, it was over. Less than five paces from the stage, the gnawing, cold emptiness filled him again. He tried to remember why he was there. It sure as hell wasn’t for the music. Not anymore. The label had pretty much stripped the band of every creative molecule in their beings. They controlled where the band went, whom they were seen with, and the songs they produced. Sure, he made an embarrassing amount of money, but it wasn’t about that. He needed more…craved more…something to fill the emptiness, and he had no idea what it was.

Two girls near the stage flashed their breasts. Seth, manwhore that he was, handed his guitar to a roadie and pointed to the bare-chested girls. They screamed in delight, titties bouncing up and down, when an assistant gave them backstage passes. Security herded him offstage and into the hallway, where a throng of groupies and reporters waited to claim a piece of him.
 

“Out the door,” Gabe said, unruffled and in control. He pointed toward the back door then spread his arms wide to hold back the throng of onlookers while Elijah passed.
 

More clutching hands. A frantic teenager latched on to his T-shirt. The fabric ripped as his bodyguards tore the girl away and thrust her aside. He shrugged out of the remnants of the shirt and let it fall to the floor near his feet, leaving him bare-chested. Someone snatched it up. It would probably show up for sale online before the end of the day. He paused near the entrance to his dressing room. Tristan, the lead singer, nodded to Moose then at the twin blonds standing near the exit.
 

“You and you and you,” Moose said, pointing to the twins and their brunette friend. The girls squealed, delighted to be singled out. Moose dropped lanyards over their heads bearing backstage passes then repeated the process for two of Elijah’s single band mates. The girls swarmed Elijah, their hands sweeping over him, clutching and claiming him, stealing his soul. He pushed them away and made his way to the dressing room, slamming and locking the door behind him.

With his head in his hands, he sat on the couch. Someone knocked on the door. When he didn’t answer, they knocked again, harder, with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall. He groaned and thrust trembling hands through his hair. Five minutes alone. Was that too much to ask?

“Dude, are you coming out? The photographers are here for a few pictures, and you promised a quick interview for the newspaper.” Gabe’s voice loomed on the opposite side of the door.

The pressure in Elijah’s chest built. He placed a hand over the spot where his heart should be but felt nothing. Panic and anxiety filled the empty space. Each and every breath felt like a struggle. When had it become so difficult to exist?

“Eli? Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Elijah said. “Give me a minute.” He opened the fifth of whiskey on the dresser and took a swig. The pain in his chest subsided, and he blew out a breath of relief.
 

“Now, Elijah,” Gabe said.

“I’ll meet you there.”
 

The ache between his temples grew. Pressure swelled inside him until his ribs creaked. He rubbed the length of his sternum and grimaced. Two years of non-stop performances, publicity junkets, and recording sessions left him exhausted and burned out. He had to get off this relentless merry-go-round before it killed him. And it would kill him. Sooner or later, too many pills, too much alcohol, or a combination of both would end his life. Already, he felt their siren call. It would be so easy to take a handful of something, chase it down with Jack, go to sleep, and never wake up.

After two long, deep breaths, the buzzing in his ears quieted. A quick inventory of the room revealed a trunk with his clothing. He rummaged through it for a shirt and pulled it over his head. A thorough search of the contents revealed his wallet. He opened it. Empty except for a few credit cards. Frustration, disillusionment, and desperation fueled his movements. He grabbed his guitar, slung it over his back, and made the decision he should’ve made two years ago.
 

Moose greeted him on the other side of the door. Most people thought Moose was his bodyguard, but he was more of a glorified babysitter hired by the label to keep him in line. Moose’s main job was to protect him from himself, make sure he showed up when and where he was supposed to, keep him numbed and too busy to recognize the sham of his existence. More than once, Elijah had awoken from a bender to find himself handcuffed to the headboard of his hotel room bed. It had morphed into a game of wits, only he wasn’t playing this time.

“You got any cash, man?” Elijah asked. His palms began to sweat. “You know I’m good for it.”

“Sure.” A man of few words, Moose removed his wallet and took out a wad of cash. He handed him the money. “You okay?”

“Not for a long time,” Elijah said. But he would be in about ten minutes. He shoved the bills into his front pocket. “Which way to the exit?”

Moose gave him a long, shrewd look. He might be big, but he wasn’t stupid. Deafening silence roared through Elijah’s ears while Moose studied him. Understanding flashed through the big guy’s eyes. After a beat, he raised an eyebrow and nodded to his right.
 

“You’ve got about ten minutes before they start looking,” Moose said.
 

“Thanks, man.” Elijah paused long enough to shake Moose’s hand then made a beeline for the exit. One push on the door, and he was outside. The cool night air feathered over his heated cheeks. He drew in a deep, calming breath, giddy from the rush of freedom. He hopped over the barricade between the arena and the VIP parking area, weaved through the cars, and came out on the street. The first cab rushed by him, but the second one stopped.

“Where you going?” the driver asked.

“I have no idea,” Elijah answered.

This is the end of the chapter, but it’s only the beginning of Elijah’s story.
 

Read more about Elijah in
DRIFT.

Available July, 2015.