Summer (Four Seasons #2) (6 page)

As a cop, I saw plenty of abuse in New York. The fathers of those children always had the same violent, angry streak in them that mine did. But still…a kid of eight years old? Five?
Even younger?
How does a grown man end up doing things like that? It twists my stomach just thinking about it. Fuck. I should be back on the east coast doing my job, doing something to stop the monsters and the demons from destroying their own children.
 

The amount of times I’ve come close to taking matters into my own hands, though…

How easy would it be to slip back to an apartment after night falls to put a bullet in the back of someone’s head? How easy would it be to dump their bodies in the Hudson and never think about them again?

The answer to those questions is scary, because it is this: all too easy.
 

And Max did it. Max did it for me. When Avery’s dad discovered what my father was doing to me, he flipped. He told me he would fix things—that he would make sure I never had to deal with my dad’s unwanted attentions again.
 

The next day, my father was dead, and I was free. I cried for days, the relief too much to bear. No one ever knew. No one ever suspected a thing. Misfiring rifles are a common occurrence at the best of times, and during hunting season in Wyoming, there are always one or two accidents. Max shot him with his own rifle in the face, and then left him there in the woods to rot. When his body was discovered the next day, whispers traveled quickly across Breakwater. They weren’t whispers of murder, though. They were whispers of suicide. My father was not a well-liked man; no one cared enough to dig too deeply into what took place out there.
 

After I told Avery what Max did for me back in the hospital all those weeks ago, we didn’t discuss it again. She was still too traumatized by what had happened with Chloe. It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t
need
to talk with her about it. I was scared to.

Now, I’d give anything to say more than two words to Avery. It’s been a month since I’ve heard her voice, and I swear I’m fucking rotting from the inside out. All those years wanting to be near her, needing to make her mine, were torture. They were
torture
and yet I managed to survive them. I could handle seeing her and letting her go because I hadn’t overstepped the line. I hadn’t reached out and pulled her close, breathed her in, tasted her lips, sunk deep into her body.
 

I hadn’t known true happiness back then. Now that I have, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to experience it again.

******

I arrive at Cole’s place around ten, which happens to be an hour late. The guys are in a crappy mood. While I’m usually okay with putting up with everyone’s shit, today isn’t one of those days. I pour myself a cup of coffee and run my fingers through my wet hair, trying like hell to shake off the remnants of that dream. It’s only one of many that I have, but that particular incident haunts me the most. I’m just lucky it stopped where it did. If it had played out in full…

A hand slaps down on my shoulder. I jump so hard my coffee spills over onto a pile of papers on the table in front of me. Cole, owner of the hand, growls.
 

“Fuck, dude. Those are the notes we’ve been putting together while your ass was sleeping in.”

I set my drink down, snatching up one of his discarded t-shirts to try and sop up as much of the spilled liquid as I can. “Sorry, dude. Don’t sneak up on me. You know I hate that shit.”

“Jesus, Luke, anyone would think you didn’t want to—”

“Just back off, Cole. I’m not in the mood.”

“Fuck, man, don’t shoot. Paul’s not exactly doing anything. He can just write the sheets up again. No big deal.”
 

I feel like smashing something. Cole can give me shit for being late, for over-sleeping, but the truth of the matter is that I barely slept at all. After I woke from my nightmare, I stared at my phone for three hours, contemplating giving in and calling Avery. I miss her so goddamn much. She was the only thing I could think of that might have dispelled the ominous cloud hanging over my head. I was late because I had to battle with myself to even show up.
 

The door opens behind me and Cole disappears. Gratitude swamps me. I love the guy to death but right now I’m not in the best of moods and I’m liable to come to blows with the first person who pisses me off. My gratitude quickly evaporates, however, when I realize that Cole hasn’t left. Butler, our new band manager, has shown up and he looks like he’s on his way to a black tie event.

“Butler. Hey, man,” Cole says. “Glad you’re here. We’ve been working on a few songs this morning. Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee and we’ll all sit down and talk things through?”

“Sounds great.” Butler’s voice is high-pitched—not exactly the calming tone I could use right now. I shake hands with the guy, plastering on a smile so disingenuous that I feel like my face is going to crack, but Butler doesn’t comment.
 

“Morning, Butler,” I tell him.
 

“You look like shit, Reid. All night fuck-fest?”

I try not to flinch. “Something like that.”
 

Walking toward the living room, I catch Cole’s gaze, and once again he does not look happy. He’s turning red as he leans in and whispers to me. “Is this about Avery, man? ‘Cause if it is, I have zero sympathy for you. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m aware of your entire lack of sympathy.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Love is a cruel fucking joke. You get that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“It’s gonna be fine, man. I promise you.” He slaps my shoulder again, giving me a tight-lipped smile. He may be mad at me for not throwing myself into this one hundred percent like he and the other guys are, but he gets it. He
does
feel bad for me, even though he’s right and I
have
done this to myself.
 

I take a seat next to Paul and kick my feet up on the coffee table. Cole drops a large pad of paper in my lap and throws a pen at my chest as he passes. I grunt at the weight of the pad landing heavily onto my balls.
 

“Good job you’re not using those these days, right?” Paul laughs.
 

Cole thumps him on his arm. “He will soon enough. A lead singer can’t be fucking celibate. It clogs their chi. You hear that?” he hisses, pointing a finger at me. “You need to get laid. Pronto. Now, start working on something new. MVP wants to see where we’re going, not where we’ve been.” He stalks off back toward the kitchen, where Butler is hovering by the coffee pot. I never thought I’d see Cole kiss anyone’s ass, but I witness it with my own two eyes as he pours Butler a mug of coffee and hands it to him. He doesn’t even treat the women he fucks with the same consideration.
 

Beside me Paul rolls his eyes. Seems he’s thinking the same thing. “I swear the guy pouring that coffee looks like Cole and curses like him, but there’s no way he can be the same guy.”

“Right?”

“Should we kick his ass?”

“
Definitely
.”

Paul holds out his knuckles for me to bump.
 

I drink what remains of my coffee and place the cup at my feet. Paul sighs, and then heads off to do his duty in the kitchen, leaving me to get on with the business at hand. No one writes for the band except from me. It’s an unspoken rule. I haven’t written anything new for months, though. It’s logical that I need put something fucking amazing together in the next few weeks, or MVP are going to try and bring in their own writers. None of us want that—it’s not what we’re about. I scribble a few things down, but it’s all warm-up bullshit. It helps get my creativity flowing.
 

I write about two brothers who fight over a girl. One of them kills the other accidentally and heads out on the road in an attempt to avoid the cops. By the end of the third verse, the guy’s getting the shit kicked out of him in jail. I call the song, ‘
Worth It
.’

Cole won’t dig my jacked up humor, but I’ve stretched my muscles at least. I tear the sheet of paper out of the notebook and toss it, aiming for the overflowing trashcan. It never makes it there, though. Paul intercepts it, quickly flattening out the paper, his eyes scanning my illegible text. The problem is, my handwriting isn’t illegible to any of my band mates. They’ve had plenty of practice at deciphering my scrawl. Paul arches an eyebrow at me, shaking his head. “This is good, Luke. Maybe a little obvious, but still.”

“Hey, dude. When
was
the last time you wrote something new? Butler wants to know.” Cole walks into the living room with Butler quick on his heels; he has a half eaten donut in his right hand and powdered sugar on his nose. I didn’t even see the food when I walked in.
 

“Before we left New York, I guess. Some of the stuff we’ve been working on is new to the public, but it was all written over the last few years.”

Butler clears his throat. “Why nothing in the last four months?”

And so it begins. I shift to the edge of my seat, tilting my head to one side. “Sorry. I assumed MVP knew that both myself and my girlfriend were recently both shot and almost killed. I’ve been a little…
distracted
.”

Butler looks at Cole, like he’s waiting for the other guy to laugh. Like he’s waiting for confirmation that I’m fucking with him. Cole looks awkwardly at his feet. “Luke’s also going through a tough break-up,” he mumbles.
 

I could fucking kill him.
 

Butler puts down his half-eaten donut, dusting off his hands. “Ah. No, no one mentioned that you were shot. I’m sorry about your current situation, too. It all sounds very intense, and I can understand why the last little while has been a wash for you considering those circumstances. However…” He looks troubled. “The truth is the contract you guys signed with the label gives you until September first to lay down twelve tracks for an album. If you don’t give us twelve entirely new songs and have them recorded in time, the contract is nullified. A record label is a money-making machine. You guys weren’t brought out here on vacation. You were brought here to make music. There are plenty of women in the world, Luke. No pussy, no matter how sweet it might be, is worth fucking up this opportunity.”

He did
not
just refer to Avery as pussy.
 

I’m up and moving before Butler can register that he’s pissed me off. My first swing catches him in the jaw and the bastard goes down. I’m about to jump on the guy and lay into him, but hands are all over me, pulling me away.
 

“LUKE!
What the fuck
?” Cole shoves me back, his mouth hanging open. “What the
actual
fuck do you think you’re doing right now?”

My chest is heaving. I pace back and forth, holding my hand over my mouth. “What the fuck do we need a new manager for, anyway?” I pant. “We’ve never had one before.”

“Sure we did.
You
were the manager. And when you weren’t,
I
was. Right now, I need to be a guitarist and the glue that holds this fucking shit show together.
You
need to be the lead singer and the motherfucking songwriter, Luke. Start doing either one of those jobs and I’ll be happy.” Cole storms out of the front door, slamming it loudly behind him. Butler stares up at me from the floor like I’m out of my tiny mind. Pete helps him to his feet.

“Are you going to apologize?” Butler asks, rubbing his jaw.
 

“Nope. I’m gonna go write fucking songs apparently.” I snatch up the notepad that ended up on the floor in the scuffle. I head for the balcony, grinding my teeth together. “And when I’ve done that, I’ll jump up on stage and grab my dick a few times. Send the crowd wild. You can have that instead of your apology.”

“Good. That’s worth more to me, Luke,” Butler calls after me.
 

I flip him the bird.

On the balcony, my temperature cools a little, but not enough for me to relax. I slump down in a lounge chair and drop the pad of paper on the concrete at my feet, my blood charging through my veins.
This is not who I am. This is not who I am. This is not who I am.
The door opens behind me, and Butler steps out into the sunlight. Jesus, the guy just won’t fucking quit. “For pity’s sake, man, can you not just leave me be?” I sound like a pigheaded fourteen-year-old, but I don’t care. He shouldn’t talk shit about things that don’t concern him.
 

Butler looks away, surveying the view of the city. A muscle jumps in his jaw, which is already turning a fantastic shade of purple. “I’m a dick, Reid. In my line of work, from the ground up, we’re all dicks. It’s how we get to be good at our jobs. And I
am
good at my job. I make sure artists succeed. I don’t represent bands or musicians whom I suspect might not be capable of greatness. D.M.F.
is
capable of greatness. Problem is, Los Angeles is full of guys just like you and just like Cole, too. Guys who are amazing at what they do. I could walk out onto the fucking street right now, toss a rock and hit five guitarists in one throw, Luke. The thing that separates them from you is the fact that
you
have
me
on your side. I’m here to help you. I’m here to make sure you win at this, okay? I was insensitive just now, I know, but there are going to be times when I push your buttons and poke at you in order to get shit done.

“I won’t stop pushing you. I won’t ever stop. Because I’ve heard your music, and I’ve watched you guys play, and I believe it’s important for the world to get to experience that, too. And also, when you succeed, I succeed. So I’m going to ride you hard between now and the end of the year, okay? And you can give me as many black eyes as you like, so long as I have two brand new songs by the end of this week. Is that cool with you?”

I just glare at him. It’s hard to despise him when he’s being so reasonable. Especially after I just nailed him one to the face. Eventually, I say, “Fine.”
 

He holds out his hand and I shake it. “Good man. Good luck.” He leaves, and I feel like I can breathe properly again.