3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
“ P lease tell me you’re dressed and… What the actual fuck, North! Reese is gonna be here any minute!”
Pulling a pillow over his head, North Beauregard groaned and did his best to ignore Annette’s shouting while his brain did its best impression of a demolition crew smashing through a wall. The wall being the inside of his skull. His stomach turned as the stench from the furnace at his side reached his nose and he tried to push away from it.
Only to have his hand slide against a sweaty chest right before he tumbled out of his bunk.
Who the fuck is that? North stayed on the floor of the XVI Hours’ new tour bus, blinking up at Annette who was staring at him, her lips twisted with disgust. Gorgeous, with wavy auburn hair, big green eyes, and a hardcore attitude, the backup singer for XVI Hours had looked at him with longing for the longest time. They’d had fun together. Stood by one another when life threw fucking shitstorms their way.
Now that Annette was married, that comfortable outlet he’d once had was gone. If he still had her, if he still had anyone , he wouldn’t be feeling like utter trash now. But because everyone abandoned him, he was left with randos he found at the closest bar, who may or may not kill him in his sleep.
Nice try, idiot. You did this to yourself. Now make sure you used a fucking condom.
His stomach lurched again as he tried to sit up. At least he was wearing boxers, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. He felt blindly around the mattress, a harsh white flash of pain blurring his vision.
“What the hell are you doing?” Annette put her hands on her hips. “North?”
“Looking for a used condom.”
“Lovely.” Annette sighed, grabbing his elbow and trying to pull him to his feet. “You need coffee and a shower. Damn it, North, you smell like you took a fucking bath in cheap whiskey.”
Shuffling from the other side of the bunk stilled her. She tightened her grip on North’s arm as the man in the bed threw his legs over the side and stood.
“There’s no condom.” The man glanced down at North as his blood ran cold. Then let out a bitter laugh. “You passed out. I fell asleep waiting to see if you’d wake up. Waste of my fucking time.”
“Waste of your… Dude , I don’t even remember talking to you, never mind…” North rubbed a hand over his face. “How did we get here?”
Doing up his jeans, the big blurry stranger snorted. “You told me to bring you here. You were pretty wasted at the bar, but desperate to be fucked. I would have given you exactly what you wanted if you hadn’t been laying there like a goddamn corpse.”
Annette’s eyes narrowed. “Get. Out.”
“I’m going, don’t be a fucking bitch about it.” The man sneered. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep your man happy.”
“No, it’s your fault you tried to take advantage of someone too drunk to give consent.”
“Get the fuck out of here. ‘Consent’?” The man stepped up to Annette, baring his teeth. “Offering to suck my dick sounds like consent to me.”
“Leave. Now .” Annette didn’t back down, but North could feel her trembling from the hand still latched on to his arm.
She was scared and it was his fault. He’d brought this man here and he had to get rid of him. He tried to stand, catching Annette just as the man shoved her out of the way.
An angry shout tore through his skull as Connor Phelan, Annette’s husband, grabbed the man by the throat and muscled him to the front of the bus. The sound of a fist slamming into flesh quickly followed.
“North, we have to stop him!” Annette didn’t wait for North’s response. She rushed into the front room. “Connor, don’t!”
The rush of adrenaline was just enough to get North moving, but he swayed as he pushed past the curtains, pulling Annette away from Connor and grabbing the big guitarist’s arm himself. Which was stupid, Connor was too far gone in his rage to control himself, but at least the elbow he jabbed back didn’t hit his wife.
North lay on the ground again. Stunned. Warmth spilling over his bottom lip as he tried to get his brain to function.
Why the hell did I drink so much?
He decided moving wasn’t necessary as a familiar voice stopped the punching noise and got Connor to release the man he’d been beating on.
“Connor, look at me. I need you to stay here with Annette.” The soothing voice of ‘Ballz’—Winter’s Wrath’s head of security and the third in Connor and Annette’s relationship—brought the world back into focus. A real grownup was here to save the day. “And you , whoever you are, I suggest you come with me. Not. Another. Word. You’re trespassing.”
While Ballz dragged the man off the bus, ignoring his protests, North did his best to focus on Connor and Annette. Figure out how much trouble he was in.
Connor let out a tight laugh and held out his hand, helping North off the floor and onto the couch beside him. Holding Annette close against his other side, Connor studied North for a moment, then shook his head.
“I was gonna ask how you’ve been doing, but it’s pretty obvious.” Connor sighed and raked his fingers through his sweaty brown hair. Wincing, he brought his hand down to examine his busted knuckles. “Brave’s gonna be fucking pissed I’m starting the tour with a messed up hand. Again .”
North’s brow furrowed as he eyed the bloody mess. Not bad enough he’d put Annette in danger, he might have just ruined the tour for the headliner, Winter’s Wrath.
Why isn’t Connor punching me ? I fucking deserve it.
“Tell him it’s my fault. Or better yet, I’ll tell him.” North jaw hardened. “No way in hell am I letting you take shit for the mess I made.”
He pushed to his feet.
The guitarist jerked him back down. “Brave’s got no right to judge you, he’s done worse. Besides, I owe you for not letting that guy bust my head open in the cafeteria.”
Pressing his eyes shut, North dropped back against the sofa, recalling the one time he’d actually felt fucking useful. He and Connor had spent almost a month in an Italian prison for attempted murder, set up by a crazy stalker who’d been after Winter’s Wrath’s drummer…Tate.
He ground his teeth, refusing to let himself think of the man who’d torn out his heart, crushed it under his boot, then spat on the pathetic lump of flesh.
Connor was the one who’d been there with him behind those cold cement walls, surrounded by guards and criminals, just as uncertain as North about what the future held. Sure, North had grabbed some big skinhead who’d been about to hit Connor in the head with a tray, giving Connor a chance to defend himself. Was nothing compared to all the times Connor had his back.
“I didn’t do mu—”
“Don’t argue, North. We both know Brave has it in for you. If Connor can get the man to be cool about this, let him.” Annette stood, crossing the small sitting area and stepping behind the counter in the kitchenette. She pulled something out of the freezer and tossed it to North. “Pass that to him so he can get the swelling on his knuckles down, the go put some pants on. I’m making you some coffee.”
North’s stomach didn’t much like the idea of coffee, but he knew better than to argue with Annette when he was this fucked up. The fact that she hadn’t hit him yet was nothing short of a miracle.
You really want someone to hit you again, just wait. It’s still early.
The rich aroma of coffee brewing filled the bus, the scent alone steadying him a bit as he managed to pull on a pair of jeans and get his sorry ass back to the sofa. He whispered thanks to Annette when she brought him a mug, turning all his attention to taking slow sips as she fussed over Connor. He’d be jealous if he didn’t like the man so much, but Connor deserved all the love and attention he could get.
Love and attention Annette had tried to give North once, when she’d been crushing on him hard. He’d kept things casual when they’d started XVI Hours, indulging in his lust for her while trying to keep her from getting attached. Hadn’t worked out that great at first, but she was a tough chick. Figured out she wanted more than he’d ever offer.
Annette might be the ‘official’ backup singer for the band, but in truth, she was just as important—if not more —than he was. And damn it, he loved seeing her so happy.
He just had to make sure he didn’t ruin things for her by pulling stupid shit like he had last night.
“Annette, I’m sorry about…” He gestured vaguely toward the bunks. “All that. I shouldn’t have brought anyone back here.”
“Without security to keep an eye on you? No, you shouldn’t have.” Ballz climbed up the steps at the front of the bus, fixing North with a stern look. “With the threats Annette’s been getting, taking that kind of risk is unacceptable. If you won’t consider your own safety, consider hers. And your other bandmates’.”
North stared at his bare feet, the nauseous twist in his stomach from guilt overpowering what remained from the whiskey he’d tried to drown in. He’d forgotten about the threats. Hell, he’d drunk enough to forget his own name.
“I’m sorry.” He sounded like a fucking loser, repeating those words again. He didn’t know what else to say.
Reaching over Connor, Annette patted North’s arm. “Hey, we’re getting a new tour manager and security. There won’t be so much pressure. We’ll all be safe. And you’ll be good once we’re back on the road.”
Will I? North nodded, forcing a smile so Annette wouldn’t worry, but no way could he be all optimistic like her. Ever since XVI Hours finished writing and recording all their songs for the new album two months ago, he’d been…lost. Wandering aimlessly through every goddamn day, hating the quiet, hating the ‘break’ the band had taken so Annette could move to Detroit with her men and put in her application for dual citizenship.
Back in Canada, where he and the rest of the band shared an apartment in Hamilton, he’d tried to keep himself busy. Spent days writing down songs no one would ever hear because the lyrics were filled with depressing, sappy shit. Spent nights trying to erase the pain behind the words he’d jotted down.
Found guys and girls to take home, then changed his mind. Every. Single. Time.
From literal whore to fucking celibate.
His whole existence had become a joke.
“I’m gonna finish getting dressed and take a walk.” North polished off his coffee—Annette would worry if he didn’t—and managed to stand, solidly this time. He motioned for Ballz to take his place when the big security guard’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not getting paid to babysit me. Stick close to your man so Brave doesn’t tear into him.” He turned to Connor. “And I mean it. Let me take the heat.”
“Not happening.” Connor took the ice pack off his knuckles. Opened and closed his hand before tossing the blue gel pack aside. “All good. Brave doesn’t even need to know.”
“Uh huh.” North shook his head, ducking into the bunk area to tug on a clean, dark gray T-shirt from the suitcase he’d dumped on one of the empty bunks before he’d taken off last night. The whole band had been scheduled to meet here this morning, but since he’d been the one who’d gone and picked up their new bus, he’d figured he’d crash in it. Break it in a little.
No one knew where he was, but Ballz was right, that didn’t eliminate the risk. Letters had been left for Annette at the recording studio. At Connor’s apartment. Places she should have been perfectly safe.
A bus with their band logo on the side wasn’t exactly hard to find.
Heading out with a distracted nod to the trio, ignoring their concerned looks, North hit the parking lot. He stumbled when he spotted Winter’s Wrath’s tour bus, parked a few yards away. He’d figured the band must have arrived. Why else would Connor and Ballz be here? They’d probably brought Annette.
But North wasn’t ready to see the band XVI Hours would spend the next eight weeks with.
Wasn’t ready to see him .
“Not my arm! Not my fucking arm! I’m useless now!”
The broken cry jerked North from sleep. He blinked in the darkness, managing to catch himself just before he fell off the hospital bed. He turned quickly, carefully putting his arm around Tate and pulling him close. “Tate, wake up.”
Curled up against North, Tate shuddered, then tipped his head back to meet North’s eyes. His one uncovered eye glistened with tears, but he scoffed and rubbed them away.
“Shit… I had a nightmare.” Tate sniffed, fighting to look all tough. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s all good.” North brushed back the golden-brown hair that spilled over the top of the bandage that covered Tate’s eye, then continued to stroke the semi-mohawk that gave the younger man’s Legolas-look a punkish edge. He could see the youthfulness that made everyone so protective of Tate. But it wasn’t a boy looking back at him with eyes like a storm suddenly spilling over the brightest sky, grays of the clouds mixing with the blue beyond in a way that was fucking mesmerizing.
Well, only one eye was looking back at him now, but he remembered both from when they’d danced together. Full of mischief and longing before they became guarded. Tate was a man who thought he knew what he wanted. Then hadn’t known what to do once he had it. He was fighting for his independence, but he was still vulnerable.
Not in a way that needed shielding from the world.
In a way that shouldn’t be shared with anyone who didn’t see what he was worth.
North saw. For the first fucking time, he saw someone who tempted him to give more of himself than he ever had before. Which terrified him.
His fear meant shit when he’d seen Tate hurt. When Tate had asked him to stay in his hospital room after taking pleasure from an act that should’ve meant nothing. A blowjob—hell, North had sucked so much dick in his life, he’d lost count, why would giving Tate one be any different?
Who knew. All North was sure of was he liked holding Tate. Liked being the one right here when the spunky young drummer needed someone. North wanted to deserve the trust Tate was too wounded to hold back.
“I keep expecting you to take off.” Tate’s lips curved slightly. “When did you become one of the good guys?”
North chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to Tate’s brow. “Staying make me one?”
Tate’s eye drifted shut. “Hell if I know. But it’s a good start.”
Quickening his pace, North headed in the opposite direction of Winter’s Wrath’s bus. He couldn’t face Tate now. Couldn’t deal with the cold dismissal, like the drummer had given him the last time they’d seen one another at Annette’s wedding. North should have taken the hint when Tate had avoided him for so long. When North had been released from prison and Tate hadn’t been excited to see him…
The man had been clear, without being cruel right then, but North needed the picture drawn out for him in harsh crayon strokes. He’d acted like one of those groupies who had to be dragged off the bus by security. Only thing missing had been him screaming ‘I love you!’ before he was dumped on the curb.
Sure, those star-struck groupies pulled it after a quickie they’d insist was all they wanted, but that didn’t make him any less pathetic.
“Hey, don’t tell the guys…” Tate caught North’s wrist as he climbed out of the hospital bed, just before dawn. “What I said during the nightmare? I don’t want them to worry.”
North had to get out of Tate’s room before the drummer’s bandmates showed up—the last thing the man needed was his overprotective, self-appointed big brother losing his shit in here—but first, North had to know Tate was okay. Tate hadn’t wanted to talk about his arm last night.
Escaping a near kidnapping by jumping out of a moving vehicle had shattered the drummer’s arm, but the doctor seemed optimistic about the surgery. Tate didn’t expect the band to wait for him to heal. And while North didn’t know Winter’s Wrath well enough to promise anything, he was sure of one thing.
“I won’t tell them, but… Tate, you’re one of the best drummers I’ve ever heard. They’d be stupid to let you go.”
“Yeah?” Tate’s lips curved slightly. “So I’m worth keeping around?”
“Fuck yeah.” North leaned over the bed, curving his hand around the back of Tate’s neck, kissing him long and slow. He whispered against Tate’s lips. “Want me to stay and make sure they don’t forget it?”
“They’d kill you.”
“They might try.” North flicked his tongue over Tate’s bottom lip. “But I fight hard when I believe in something. And I believe in you.”
Excited shouts tore North back into the present and he stopped and stared at the crowd that had gathered beyond the barrier Winter’s Wrath’s security had set up at the end of the lot. The area they’d chosen to meet was behind a warehouse converted into several recording studios. Musicians from all over Michigan vied for time here simply because Winter’s Wrath used it. The owner was Brave Trousseau’s old singing coach— North hadn’t met the dude yet, but he must be a fucking saint to have put up with the heavy metal diva-of-the-century for so long.
Staring up at the huge, brick and cement building, the windows on the top three floors blacked out, North considered heading in and checking the place out. The bands were meeting here to discuss the tour and record their first two songs together. One a cover of Billy Joel’s You May Be Right , and the other a new song Annette had written with Brave’s brother, Alder, before returning to Hamilton so XVI Hours could practice.
They had access to a pretty sweet studio back home, but nothing like this. North eyed the crowd, forcing a smile and waving distractedly before cutting straight for the back door of the warehouse. After a few tugs he gave up. The door was locked. And now he was stuck out here, looking like an idiot as those at the front of the crowd leaned over the barrier, getting even louder when he glanced their way again.
Might as well go sign some tits and hear how awesome he was. The thought left a bitter taste at the back of his throat as he slumped against the wall, as much out of sight as he could get. Praise from the fans used to make him feel like a demi-god. Like he was steps away from taking over some divine throne, feeding off the worship of thousands, then millions, until all anyone would remember of him was the power he wielded on that stage.
Now proclamations of love meant no more than that of a John who might leave a bit of extra cash on the nightstand because North made him come harder than his wife ever could. The fans didn’t want North. They only wanted him to perform. To play the part of a wicked rock star, give them the sin to lust after, the fantasy to crave…before returning to reality.
While his reality remained empty.
Lonely.
Like nothing they’d ever care to know.
But you have the music because of them. How about showing some fucking gratitude?
Fuck, when had Jiminy Cricket taken up residence in his damn head? And there had to be at least ten groupies of either gender he could pick out of the crowd to fuck after recording was done. Right here if the band didn’t leave the bus to go party.
Was about time he ended his goddamn dry spell.