Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (20 page)

This seesaw from one emotional extreme to the other had plagued him all day. And what was beginning to bother him even more was the thought of the other Clear Morning packet. The one he’d been so sure he wouldn’t use—but not sure enough to dump it into the toilet this morning with the shredded paper of the empty one.

He fisted his hair, trying to remember how far back he’d graduated from user to addict. He never deluded himself. But he had never cared either. Until lately. Colt had told him he couldn’t write a hit song when he was fucked up and it was true. But he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared he’d wasted the detox stage of rehab and that there was only one cure for his crawling skin, until Scar had made him feel like a loser junkie.

The trash bag outside was calling his name.

He ventured out to the containers and stood a moment. Rascal searched the tiny side yard, looking for a stick and finally broke off a twig from a hedge. Still eyeing the trashcan, he absentmindedly threw the ‘stick’ and wiped dog slobber from his fingers to his pants.

Finally, he scrolled through his phone looking for the brunette from a couple of months ago who had refused all party favors except beer. It took several minutes to skim through the notes by the contact names until he found the one he wanted.

Her face filled his phone screen on the second ring and she smiled a happy grin. “Hey.”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi!”

“Want to hook up?”

And what happened next was not surprising considering his day. From beyond her side of the phone, a male voice demanded to know who she was talking to. The screen went black, and he heard her call back to this unseen man, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

And then in a normal tone she spoke back into the phone with a giggle. “I’ll be
there
in a sec.”

“What? No. No you won’t.”

“Huh?”

“Who’s that? With you?”

“My boyfriend. But we have an open relationship.” She practically whispered.

“No you don’t. Go fuck your boyfriend.”

His thumb ended the call.

What the hell had just happened? For sure, he never knowingly messed with married women. But boyfriends; game on. What was going on inside his fucked up head? The trash bin tempted him again. It was easy to imagine his black goodie bag inside the knotted plastic bag.

Unlocking his screen, he dialed desperately again.
Please. Please. Please
. He put distance between him and the trash and threw a fresh ‘stick’ for Rascal. The rings went to voicemail.

“Hey. Scar? I wish you were here. But I understand why you’re not. I do. Yeah, I do. I’m not happy about it, but… Anyway, I was just hoping to hear your voice. To talk…”

He ended the call.

Wandering to the trash can, he opened the lid. Flipping open the blade of his pocketknife, he slashed a hole in the bag and retrieved his kit. It was early, but he made sure the house was locked and turned out the downstairs lights before going up to his room. Dropping the kit to the vanity, he pulled the zipper and delved his fingers inside for the folded paper.

For several seconds, he lost himself, eyeing the stamp. A half sun and half cloud. He unfolded it, dumped it into the toilet. As he’d done this morning, he ripped the paper into tiny bits. But this morning, the paper had been empty. Now, when he flushed, both paper and powder swirled in the whirlpool of the bowl before disappearing.

That was that. Temptation removed.

W
e went to the sushi restaurant Colt had suggested when asking me out the day I’d met him.

I drank too much wine and knew this to be the case when I found myself wanting to slide into his lap. He’d pinched a rainbow roll between his chopsticks and held it out to me to try. That’s all. No holding my hand or sneaking a touch here and there. No brush of his long legs against mine at the bar. A freaking taste when I’d shaken my head that I’d never eaten that flavor, and he could have pulled me into his lap and had his way with me.

Excusing myself, I escaped to the bathroom and wiped at my neck with a cool hand towel. Giving myself an extra couple of minutes to sober up, I pulled my phone from my purse and saw the missed call. Putting it to my ear, I listened to Gage’s voicemail. If I hadn’t known him so well, hadn’t grown up with him, I might have missed the forlorn pitch of his voice.

Quickly, I dialed and breathed in relief when he answered, but then I found myself tongue tied after the initial greetings.

“I miss you.” He repeated that part of his voicemail. “You still at Colt’s?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’re eating now at that place he’s so crazy about. But yeah.”

“You’re breaking up. Sorry I didn’t get that.”

“I said yes. But we’re not there right now. At his house.”

“Dammit, I can’t… You’re breaking up.”

“I’ll call you in a little bit.”

“Yeah. Dammit.”

When the call ended, I texted him for good measure and hoped it went through.

Feeling surer of my ability to resist the rock star charm, I rejoined Colt, and we left the restaurant. While we were waiting for his car to be brought around, he asked with amazing ESP, “Heard from Gage yet?”

“I missed a few calls from him. Tried to call him in the ladies room just then, but there was no signal.” As I slid into the passenger seat and watched him tip the valet, an idea struck me. When he folded into the car, I asked, “You hear from him?”

“Sort of. This morning. He wasn’t in a talking mood.”

“How often does he… How often does…” I couldn’t say it.

“Get strung out?”

I nodded.

“A lot now. It was a ‘once every few weeks’ thing until this last year. Then the second we were off tour, he’d be fucked up all the time. He cleaned up enough to make another album, go on tour again. But halfway through the tour he was using so much he was fucking up the shows. And getting us sued.” Here he downshifted and threw me a meaningful look. “I know you think the rest of us have no pity at the possibility of him doing time. But that may be the only way to clean him up—the only place he can’t walk out of.”

A tremor ran through my limbs at the idea of Gage behind bars.

Colt only scanned music stations, and a few miles, exits, and turns later stopped in a parking lot. “Want to see something cool?”

I was already beholding the ocean at sunset, and the sight rendered me incapable of much more than an agreeable nod. Golden hues shimmered on cresting waves, and an ethereal glow bathed pedestrians on and near the beach as the sun melted into the horizon.

The car locked as we left it. Colt was carrying a hoodie and a cap. He slipped his signature-tattooed arms through the jacket and jammed the cap onto his skull, pulling the bill low over his forehead. A pair of shades completed the transformation of rock star to average Joe.

Yeah right. Only if the average Joe wore over
a grand of clothing and accessories!

Rubbing my bare arms against the chilling gusts rolling in from the sea to our left, I enjoyed the beauty around me as we traversed a concrete path in the sand, which ran parallel to the beach. When the sight of the surf disappeared behind walls of graffiti art, my eyes rounded. Colt and I roamed the exhibition, and although I knew he’d seen it hundreds of times, he was patient while I took it all in. Even the trunks of the palm trees were beautifully painted.

We resumed following the path, and the beach-at-sunset view on our left was again unhindered. His destination was just ahead. As we drew closer, I saw bodies in various gliding stages. Scattered spectators watched skateboarders leap from ramps, glide around concrete bowls, and what I later learned were ollie stairs. Colt chose a vantage point near a large curved ramp, and I propped on the guardrail beside him.

It was amazing to watch the skaters, who ranged from nine or ten through to adult, navigate the course. When one particularly skilled teen glided by, his long hair cascading from beneath his helmet and flying behind him, Colt elbowed me. As the skater circled again, I recognized Seth. The board gathered speed, ramped up the wall, caught air, twisted, and came down again.

This impressive display incited shouts and calls from specific bystanders, including Colt and me. A particularly vocal group of teen girls shouted his name along with hoots of encouragement… “Helluva handplant, Seth! Yes!”

Colt flicked his eyes their way, and thinking he’d be proud his son was apparently the babe magnet he himself was, I teased, “Hot fan club.” But the curve of Colt’s lips was more automatic than amused, and he didn’t reply.

After a few more minutes of filming with his phone, Colt sent a text—apparently to his son. Because almost immediately, Seth waved at the girls as he glided beside them and then stopped in front of us. As dusk encroached, the bystanders had thinned, and an exodus had begun from the skate park.

Colt and Seth high-fived, and Seth skated alongside of us as we began to walk back the way we’d come. A few boys rolled over and some goodbyes were said. One of the teens joined us in our migration to where we’d parked. Now it made sense why Colt had opted for the Jeep and not one of his sports cars.

“Jeter’s getting picked up at our house.” Seth spoke of his friend.

“Okay,” Colt agreed, and then teased Jeter. “We’ll see you when we get there then, buddy.”

The boy expelled an embarrassed laugh, and Seth rolled his blue eyes. “My dad thinks he’s
sooo
funny.”

At that point, Colt grinned and sent an identical smoky-blue eye roll to me. “I
am sooo
funny. Scarla thinks I’m funny. Right?”

I responded with a smile and he reached for my hand.

At the boys’ request, Colt swung through a Taco Bell drive-through. While waiting for their food—which included at least half the menu—Seth asked to borrow his dad’s phone. Colt passed it back without question, but Seth alluded to his intent reprovingly. “You haven’t tweeted in days.”

“Don’t get too crazy,” Colt warned.

“I’m just adding one of the videos you took tonight.” Seth read aloud as he typed. “Tricks @Venice Skatepark. Hashtag myson. Hashtag nograsshopper.”

Bags of food passed through the window, and the subject dropped. A fast food aroma filled the car, but I was still too stuffed with sushi to be affected even by the smell of soft tacos—my weakness. The talk in the back didn’t slow much while the boys ate. Music thumped through the speakers, and Colt seemed wrapped up in the current song as he navigated the snail’s pace of the freeway. His lips moved, silently syncing the words in the lyrics. From the back seat, cackles grew more frequent and gradually increased in volume.

“All right. Too much fun. Can’t be good. Give me that!”

I couldn’t hide my amusement when Seth evaded his father’s blind backseat grab for the phone. I turned in time to see the teen type something, and both he and Jeter whooped loudly as they watched the screen.

“I mean it!” Colt warned as the car rolled to a stop behind the red taillights ahead. “You’re having way too much fun. What’re you doing?”

“Told you. Just playing on Twitter.” And Seth laughed again. “Shit, Dad. You gotta see this!”

“I’ve been trying to…”

Seth shook again with laughter and surrendered the phone.

The traffic inched forward and stopped again. The glow of the phone screen and the dash lit Colt’s features. His scowl soon lifted and he too, chuckled.

Curiosity got the best of me. “What? What’s going on?”

Seth leaned forward, resting an elbow on each of the two front seats as he told his story. “Some girl tweeted Dad.” His voice elevated several pitches as he mimicked a female voice. “’If ‘at Colt Powers’ tweeted me, I’d cry.’”

When Seth dissolved into a laughing fit again, Colt finished. “And apparently…” Here, via the rearview mirror, he narrowed his gaze on the actual culprit. “’
I
’ tweeted back―”

“Get ready to cry!” Seth unanimously finished the sentence along with his father and fell back into the shadows with another fit of laughter.

“What happened then?” I had seen the guys interacting on Instagram and Twitter with their fans a couple of times, and it had always been entertaining.

“She selfied herself screaming.” Colt grinned and twisted the phone screen to me, but the line of traffic through the windshield again claimed his attention.

I giggled at the seven-second image and then sobered slightly, realizing I had never been a young teen who’d mancrushed over teen and twentyish celebrities. That was Ivy. Ivy had Pinterest boards of superstar hunks and hundreds of Tumblr reposts of her favorites. Was she now living her dream? Had one of her men jumped off of social media and into her arms?

“She did? I wanna see.” A hand appeared between the seats, interrupting my thoughts, and Colt dropped the phone into Jeter’s palm.

When we were parked in the drive in front of the Powers’ house, the boys immediately exited the back. Intending to pause Colt long enough to thank him for the evening out, I reached, and my hand landed on his arm.

Misunderstanding my chaste intentions, he leaned toward me, and my eyes fluttered closed when his lips settled on mine. The kiss wasn’t hot and hungry, but it wasn’t tender and sweet either. It was easily the best I’d ever had, excluding one. Yet, the passion was practiced—not a spontaneous combustion like when I’d kissed Gage. His tongue stroked mine one last time, and I thought he was easing out of the kiss. Instead of retreating, his tongue curled enough to caress the backside of my lips hitting a sweet spot that had me groaning and digging my fingers into his arm.