7. Hendrix
Chapter 7
Hendrix
June, Los Angeles
“ Y ou guys,” I pleaded, “I don’t have stashes on the bus. I swear.”
“Uh-huh.” Phin raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, you’ve been getting shit from somewhere. You’ve been a mess for weeks and we can’t do it anymore. If we can’t send you to rehab right now, then getting you off whatever you’re on is the next best thing.”
None of them believed me. I had hardly touched anything since I’d started waking every day feeling like I was going to hurl. Gary was eyeballing me, almost daring me to rat him out. I pressed my lips together while my bandmates searched every nook and cranny of the tour bus.
They’d find nothing.
I didn’t keep anything here, because everything I took came straight from Gary. At first, it had been products to calm me down when I got too anxious, but then it had transitioned to things to boost me up so I could perform at the level Gary expected. I wasn’t even sure what all I’d consumed over the years, trusting him to know what I needed to get through the day. He was usually right.
Or…at least he had been.
Maybe the quality had slipped in the last batch, or it had been laced with something else. Who the hell knew? He had to source things all over the world, and it was bound to get sketchy once in a while.
I had barely been functional the last few weeks, no matter what he gave me.
I didn’t blame the others for being worried about me. Hell, I was worried about me. Honestly, the symptoms were starting to freak me the fuck out way more than I was willing to admit out loud. Gary didn’t want me to take time off for a doctor’s appointment when I’d already wasted so much time being too ill to function.
They could all see me struggling. I knew they thought I was high as a kite on god knew what, and sure, sometimes…a lot of the time, I had been, but not this time.
My stomach turned as they lifted every cushion, tucked their fingers into every little gap, and moved everything not nailed down. Witnessing my bandmates’ distrust firsthand was humbling as shit.
Arlo rocket-launched himself onto the couch next to me, his fist connecting with my chest, sending pain shooting through my tender pec and making black spots dance in my vision. “Motherfucker!”
“Where are they?” Arlo demanded.
“I told you, I don’t have anything in here.” I whined, crossing my arms over my chest in case he decided to punch me again. “I’m sick, not high.”
Arlo chewed his lip, turning to the others for guidance.
“Come on, kid,” said Gary. “Let’s get you outside for some fresh air while the others finish their search.”
I snorted. I knew what fresh air meant.
I followed Gary out of the tour bus on unsteady legs and leaned against the side of it once we were out, watching as Gary closed the door so we wouldn’t be overheard.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? We have a show in four hours.”
“I told you. I’m sick.”
“We don’t have time for this bullshit. Come on.”
He was on his phone with one of the tour techs who had a steady hand with a needle, and I was herded into Gary’s car, where the tech was already hanging up a banana IV bag. I kicked the seat back and closed my eyes while my arm was sanitized and the IV needle was inserted. The tech was gentle, and I knew the fluids would help—they always did—but it was what happened when he’d leave me and Gary alone that I worried about.
The tech wandered off to finish setup, and Gary took out his own little stash of what the fuck ever he gave me and plunged a syringe of it into the fluids.
“There we go.” Gary grinned down at me. “You’ll be right as rain in time for the show.”
I never knew what it was, but I knew what it did. Whatever concoction he poured into me erased any exhaustion, and the fluids nuked any nausea. Between the two, they always got me in a state where I could go perform.
The problem this time was that it didn’t seem to matter how much of either was pumped into my body; the symptoms never went away entirely.
I stared at the steady drip. It was the only way I could avoid disappointing my fans, even though I really wanted to crawl under a rock and hibernate for a year. There was too much money floating around for me to do that. A canceled show would cost millions in the short term, and probably cost us fans. If I skipped shows as often as I wanted to, we’d have no fan base left, and I couldn’t do that to the guys. As much as I felt disgusting about it, I would let Gary give me whatever it took to keep our careers going.
“Don’t mope,” Gary ordered. “You’re a rock star. St?—”
“Start acting like it, I know. It’s just getting harder.”
“Maybe it’s time to up your dose. You’ve probably habituated to what I give you.”
My heart was already racing as the first dose dripped into my bloodstream. I wasn’t sure what more would do, but Gary was already prepping another syringe.
“Please don’t. I’m fine.”
“Except you’re not. Don’t be a baby.”
I groaned at a wave of nausea, and while I was distracted by that, Gary launched a little more of whatever the drug was into the fluids bag.
“Deep breaths, kid. You signed up for this life, remember? It’s not your fault the others are so much stronger than you. If you weren’t such a little bitch, you wouldn’t need any of this to get by.” Gary sighed. “I know it’s not your fault. You’ve always been like this. You don’t have to worry, because I’m always going to be here to take care of you.”
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing rather than responding. My head was swimming, but it would settle by the time the show started.
A knock on the windows scared the shit out of me, my eyes flying open to see the others standing there, looking sheepish. I held down the button to open the window.
“We didn’t find anything,” said Beckett.
“You’re either the hide-and-seek champion of drugs, or you’re telling the truth,” commented Phin.
“Are the fluids helping?” Arlo asked.
“Not yet,” I croaked out.
“Are you sure we can’t get him some medical attention before the show?” Beckett asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Gary insisted. “The fluids aren’t magic. At least let him get through the bag before you start panicking.”
The others frowned.
Phin leaned on the door. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
“Of course,” Gary said softly. “Someone has to.”
I almost burst out laughing. If any of them knew how Gary was taking care of me, they’d probably push him in front of a bus, but they would realize really fucking fast why he was doing what he was doing. Without Gary keeping me in line, I would fall apart in no time at all.
They had all worked so hard. Their careers didn’t deserve to suffer because I was a hot fucking mess. I just wished Gary had different answers sometimes. Too exhausted to perform? Drugs. Too overwhelmed and anxious for VIP visits? Drugs. Can’t sleep? Drugs.
It was fucking endless.
Sometimes I wanted to get off that goddamn hamster wheel. I couldn’t stop. If I did, I’d get flung off straight into the future I was already terrified of.
The 27 Club had an opening with my name on it. I didn’t want it.
I focused on breathing, even as my body started to react to whatever Gary had given me.
I had to stay.
I wanted to stay.
Didn’t I?