Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SIXTY-SIX “Stinkfist”

SIXTY-SIX

“Stinkfist”

Tool

Easton

A mbling through the party buzzed, bottle in hand, throat sore despite the numbness taking over, I glance around to see several sets of feminine eyes homing in on me. Nowhere near interested in dipping my toe into that arena, I lower my head and make my way to my suite. On the way, I spot Tack and Syd standing together, surrounded by a group of admirers, and I salute them as I pass. It’s been a night to remember for all, and sadly, I’ve done my best to drink away every minute of it. After doling out strict instructions to security guarding the hallway that I want privacy, I slam myself inside my suite with an exhale.

Relieved I made it through enough of tonight’s celebration without overshadowing it with my personal shit, I head toward my balcony. Stepping out, I find LL leaning against the railing, sipping a Coke. His drink selection is laughable because I have no doubt his drug of choice is running through him. He turns to me, confirming it, in his normal state, shaking, skin clammy, and needing a shower.

“The fuck you doing in my suite?” I slur.

“Just admiring the view,” condescension ripe in his words, while rolling his eyes down my frame, “both of them.”

“Yeah, enjoying this?” I point to myself in my inebriated state. “Well, take a good look, asshole. I won’t be down much longer . . . and heads up, you’re the next catastrophic mistake I’m erasing from my future.”

“Now, now, don’t go getting your knickers in a twist, Easton. You really don’t know a good thing when you have it.”

“That so?” I say, stumbling slightly, my bottle clanking on a nearby table. “You’re such a prize?”

He shakes his head warily before he drains his Coke and wipes his mouth as though the act drained all of his strength. “No, mate, I’m the bad guy . But . . .” he smirks, “sometimes my misdeeds have a way of paying off. All along, I’m the man you should have been thanking .” He sighs. “Doubt you’ll see it that way now.”

I toss back more Jack. “This should be good. Thanking you for ?”

“For jumpstarting your career. For meeting your wife. I knew making that call was a risky move. But you can’t lose anything you don’t have, am I right?” He pins me briefly with his glacier stare. “Who knew it would actually work in getting you to pull your head out of your arse.”

“The fuck?” I drop my bottle, stalking toward him, and fist his shirt.

He laughs in my face before shaking his head. “Temper, temper, young King ,” he bites out. “You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?”

“Your opinion means nothing to me, or anyone else for that matter, but go ahead and enlighten me,” I grit out.

“Or what, Easton? You’ll beat me into submission? How has that been working out for you?”

Finding strength I never imagined I have, I release him.

Amused, he straightens his shirt. “As I was saying, I’m the one who tipped off Rosie. Rosie , not Natalie, because she was the one with the national gossip broadcast. I always wondered why that story never aired but ironically, a week later, your dad calls us in.”

I gape at him as he grips the railing behind him, his knuckles turning white.

“It took me a second to figure out why you suddenly pulled the trigger.” He smiles, his eyes glossing over, “and it was because a different journalist pursued my lead. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience as I glare at him, doing everything in my power to keep myself in check.

“Why else, man? To play. Always for the chance to play. You’ve been such a fumbling idiot with the gifts you’ve been given. Leaving us hanging for months without knowing our future. Every musician alive would kill for talent like yours, and you were wasting it. So, I did what I had to do to try and force your hand.” He sweeps me with a look of clear disdain. “Look at you now. A real rock star .”

“You’re fucking fired.”

“No surprise,” he snaps. “Nor thanks,” he sighs again as if bored, “not that I expected it.”

“Jesus Christ, I should end you,” I seethe. “Did you out our relationship?”

“No,” he slurs. “As much of a bastard as I am, I didn’t because I would kill to have a bird look at me the way she looked at you. But you fucked that up well, didn’t you?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re missing my point. Your life, right now, is made up of so many musician’s aspirations, and you’re squandering it on senseless emotions. Not the kind that matter. Anger is not fueled by the heart—bitterness isn’t either. Pride? Please, it’s annoying. You’re annoying, and you’ll lose it all by paying attention to the wrong things. The gigs, the women, you’re blowing all of it. You owe it to everyone dreaming on a rock star who wishes they had your advantages not to toss it for stupidity. You can start by going to get your bird back.”

“She’s just divorced me, you fucking imbecile.”

“And things aren’t going your way anymore because you’re all heart ,” he taunts as if my answers are obvious.

On the verge of snapping, I turn my back, heeding Dad’s warning. I’ve already cost myself with my rage, and if I assault LL a second time, he could rob me of some of my net worth, or worse, cost me my career. Maybe that’s his intention.

“So why tell me now?”

“Because my dream has played out, and I’ll be honest, I’m disappointed, probably because I don’t have the drive or energy I used to.”

“Just get out,” I whisper, the need to hurt him surging through my veins. “Please, man. Just get the fuck out.”

“I have just one ask before you decide whether or not to bloody me up, mate.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, my back to him as I text Joel to come for him before I black out on him in a rage.

“Call a medic.”

LL’s words register as I turn back just as his expression blanks, and he falls, face down, landing in a motionless heap at my feet.

“Somebody help!” I scream, the music drowns me out as I dial 911 and turn LL over to see blood pouring out of his nose and mouth. A few of his teeth are broken, probably due to the dead weight of his fall. I’m on the phone with the operator, hysterically relaying our location, when Joel and Dad fly onto the balcony. I put the phone on speaker as Joel checks LL’s breathing, and Dad curses, frantically trying to get him to respond. When the operator prompts us for a possible cause, I look over to Dad.

“Dad, I don’t know what happened. One minute, he was talking his usual shit, the next, he was face down at my feet. I didn’t touch him, I swear.”

“He’s not on anything,” Dad says with a grim shake of his head.

“Well, he’s not unconscious for no fucking reason!” I say in a panic.

“He’s a type 2 diabetic with severe insulin resistance,” Dad imparts to the operator. I gape at my father as he works with Joel to try and revive him. Unsure of how much time passes, I avert my attention to LL’s lifeless body until two paramedics burst onto the balcony.

Sitting at LL’s bedside at the hospital, I stare up at the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles, blindsided by the fact that LL’s selfish decision—a decision he disguised as faith in my talent, mixed with his jealousy—is part of the reason behind everything that’s happened this past year.

Unreal.

If he ever wakes up, I’m going to kill him. At the same time, should I thank him? The odds are unlikely that will happen since the crazy bastard went kamikaze with my life choices to fulfill dreams he couldn’t accomplish on his own.

But if LL hadn’t made that call, Natalie would still have found those emails. Rosie’s story was Natalie’s excuse to come to Seattle—to me. Knowing Natalie, she might have come anyway.

That tip-off was the only decision in LL’s hands. The result after, completely and utterly a result of my own decisions—of Natalie’s decisions.

Is fate real?

The universe starts to feel small as I sort through the domino effect. I wonder if LL even knew his call to the paper in Austin, Texas, held such a history for my mother or if it was a coincidence.

He’s an observant fuck, so chances are, maybe he did his research. Perhaps the reason he placed the call was that he was aware of my mother’s history at the paper. It’s a well-known fact she started her career there.

“What the fuck, man?” I watch LL from the plastic-covered chair at his bedside, the monitors steadily beeping.

Syd and Tack held out for as long as they could, regretting their overindulgence at the party before heading back to the hotel to sleep it off. For some reason when we arrived, I lied to the hospital staff and told them I was LL’s next of kin. Oddly enough, Dad was listed as his emergency contact, so my lie would have been believable enough, though it was clear they knew who we were. Dad and I haven’t had a chance to talk about his huge fucking omission regarding my lead guitarist yet due to his mission to cover us with PR and get the hotel situation under control while the doctors stabilized LL. I cradle my neck, both hangover and fatigue setting in as the question of how long Dad’s known about LL’s condition begins to grate on me. As if sensing my need for answers, Dad appears by my side. Eyes on LL, he breaks the silence first. “You should go back to the hotel. Shower, eat. Get some sleep.”

“Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighs. “You want to do this now, son?”

“Considering what this bastard confessed, yeah.”

“He didn’t want any special treatment, and he knew his time was limited. That his disease wouldn’t let him play permanently with the band, and I felt for him.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?”

“A kid who grew up dirt poor, neglected by shitty parents, and wandered around totally fucked up until he found a guitar. That’s his summary, and it’s not even the worst of it.”

“What is?”

“Ask him yourself when he wakes up.”

“Dad, we don’t lie to each other. Or at least, I thought we didn’t. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry, son, I am. This is the only thing I’ve been keeping from you, and it was for selfish reasons. I always knew I’d have to come clean, and this would probably be why. I was hoping you two would bond, so he would tell you himself.” He chuckles dryly. “That didn’t work out.”

“Selfish how?”

He looks down at me. “Try not to take offense, but you’re such a perfectionist, and I hate saying this, but I think his condition would have clouded your judgment and you would have missed touring with a great guitarist, and . . . in turn, LL would have missed fulfilling his dream. This was his last chance.” He exhales harshly. “I’ve been in his shoes, been as desperate as he was, and I noticed it right away.” Dad’s expression darkens, as it does when he talks about that time in his life, years before he and Mom got married. “He wanted it so badly, so much more than anyone else that auditioned, and he’s more talented than over half the guitar players I know. I’m sorry if that pisses you off, but I wanted him to have it.”

“You’re kind of making it hard to stay pissed off,” I say, glancing up at him.

Dad doesn’t answer, his eyes back on LL as I study him, nothing but empathy rolling off him as I spot my messenger bag dangling from his hand. Dad seems to realize he’s blanked out and lifts it within my reach.

“I brought this, just in case you decided to stay. There’s some grub in there too.”

I grab the offered bag. “Thanks. They’re bringing me a cot, though I’m completely clueless why I am staying. I damn near threw him off the balcony tonight.”

“Kindred spirits don’t always get along. In fact, they often butt heads. I’ve learned that over the years. Try to understand, son, the hand he was dealt was brutal. He may have proven to be a shifty asshole, but for some reason, he had a part to play in our lives.”

“You believe that 11:11 cosmic crap, Dad? Truly?”

“Fuck yeah, I do. There have been times that I tried to reason my way out of it, and even when I’m successful, there has to be a reason behind that reason . I gave up trying to figure it out years ago.”

“I get exactly what you’re saying. I wouldn’t have ten minutes ago, but trust me, I’m reeling.”

He shakes his head, eyes wary. “Facts are facts, and what’s happened over the years—especially in our family—most would consider a series of coincidences, but I deem small miracles.” He blows out a harsh breath. “I’m fucking beat. I’m going back to the hotel. Text me when he wakes up.”

“What if he doesn’t?” I ask, and we share a long, loaded silence.

“Then it will be a tragedy,” he replies, eyeing LL before pulling his gaze away.

“I don’t hate him, and I’m really not even that pissed anymore, but I can’t figure out why,” I confess.

“He looks pretty harmless on life support, and maybe because you finally recognize beneath his bullshit, he’s a human being that’s suffering, and I raised a good man.”

I swallow as I focus back on LL. “What the hell are we going to do about our tour? I don’t want to leave him in a hospital. I don’t think I could even get on stage if he’s . . . here like this.”

“One thing at a time,” he says, “and that’s a ways away. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Yeah?” I manage a grin. “You going to come out of retirement?”

“Fuck no,” he chuckles. “And I’m a drummer.”

“The best alive,” I add.

He cuffs my shoulder in goodbye. “Love you.”

“You, too,” I say as he leaves me in the room with LL, who’s only breathing right now, due to a machine.

Opening my messenger bag, I retrieve the toothpaste and brush, a clean T-shirt, and a travel-sized bar of Dad’s Irish Spring. I can’t help my grin at the sight of it and I head to LL’s pint-sized bathroom to shower. Tonight most definitely took a turn I wasn’t expecting. Distracted by the past four hours, it’s when I line my toothbrush that I realize I’ve propped my cell up against the sink out of old habit. Something I haven’t done in months. The difference is, on the other side, the screen remains dark. Gut-wrenching pain crashes into me as I replay every detail of the hours prior.

She signed .

Aching and raw, my thoughts stray back to where they have been the last year. I situate myself on the newly delivered bed that was set adjacent to LL’s, the quality far better than I had imagined it would be. Thankful for the comfort, I sit atop it and adjust the pillows before pulling my messenger bag into my lap.

Popping the Tylenol and downing the water Dad provided, I glance over to LL. According to the specialist, he’s nowhere close to out of the woods yet, his prognosis uncertain, but his comatose state says enough for now.

LL has been neglecting his disease in order to play rock star and keep up with the band and the lifestyle. He wants it so badly that he’s risked his life for it and holds a grudge against me for not stepping up. He’s been worn out the entire tour. Guilt sets in from the way I’ve categorized and dismissed him so easily. I’d pegged him as a functioning druggie of sorts. All the while, his body was betraying him. Even if his fucked-up behaviors warranted certain reactions from me, it was his envy to be in my shoes, with my opportunities and my advantages, that put us at odds. He wants what I have—my health, my career, my stage presence, and the love of a worthy woman.

Since my split with Natalie, I realize—to a degree, he’s right—I’ve been slowly imploding. As long as this goes on, the closer I get to becoming the musician I swore I wouldn’t be.

It ends now. Tonight.

I can’t let any more of my life slip through my fingers, no matter how bad my heart is aching. Broken I may be for the moment, I would do it all over again, just to feel what I did when I had that time to love her. As disastrously as it’s ending, I know without a doubt that I would do it all over again.

Running my hands through my hair, I dig for the bag of food Dad stashed, my hand hitting the edge of the manuscript that’s been sitting in it for months. Glancing back over at LL, I table the sub and flip to the plastic cover.

Drive

A memoir of a love story through music

by

Stella Emerson Crowne

As I flip through the first few preliminary pages, a small envelope addressed to my mother slides to the edge of the script and into my lap. Opening it, I immediately notice my dad’s handwriting.

Stella,

I’ve been sitting in this hotel for two days, waiting to marry you.

It’s irony at its finest. I’ve been waiting for you so long that sometimes my mind treks back to when we weren’t together. When I felt helpless, hopeless, and that life would never give me a chance, no matter how hard I fought back. You became that chance and losing you was agony.

The only thing that kept me going was the possibility that this day would come and the hope there would be no hesitation from either of us to claim what’s always been ours.

I missed you to the point my soul bled.

I missed you when I didn’t have to.

I miss you now.

I’m okay with how it fucking stings because it’s a reminder of how hard that part of my life was without you. The silver lining is that in a few hours, you’ll claim my name. Nothing has ever meant so much to me, and nothing will ever mean more.

This day is about us. But it’s still tainted with my regret.

I got us lost.

I should have fought harder for you. I thought being selfless and letting you go made me the bigger man. I should have been a little more selfish and heavy-handed. I wish I had done more to ensure you knew your place was with me. I would give anything to erase the years we missed, but I can’t help but to thank those years . . . and as much as I fucking hate it, thank him for being there when I couldn’t—encouraging you to become the woman you are now, the woman I was meant to be with, no matter how we grew.

Thank Christ we grew back together. And fuck me that I didn’t have more of a hand in it.

But if fate can bring us back full circle and gift us a new life where I don’t have to miss you, I can only try to forgive.

My expectation is this, us, nothing more. It’s so simple but a means to an end to the most complicated journey I’ve ever taken. Forgive me for being blind to the fact that your love was bottomless, and I’ll forgive fate and the hard road we had to travel.

You are my destination, my life. I don’t need anything else.

Take those steps toward me today and put your hand in mine, and with a stinging soul, I promise never to get us lost again.

I love you, and I’m waiting.

Reid

Chest burning, I turn the page.