Chapter 22 #2
Before I could even react, Zack turned again, punching the mirror on the wall above the counter. Not once, not twice, but three times until it shattered underneath his fist. “Zack? What the fuck?”
If I’d thought I was scared before, it wasn’t until he grabbed my wrist that I felt fear down to my bones. “Do you really think I’m an asshole, Dani?”
I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest, but I drew in a sharp breath through my nostrils, trying to keep my voice steady and calm.
Regardless of the panic I was feeling, I didn’t want to lie to Zack, not now when he needed the truth more than ever.
“Not usually—but when you’re drinking, you have a tendency to be selfish, cruel, and unthinking… so, yeah, kind of an asshole.”
He started laughing, but there was no mirth in the tone—and his grip on my wrist tightened.
“Zack, that hurts. Please let me go.”
For a brief moment, I saw recognition in his green eyes…and then he released his grip. But instead of asking him to leave my room again, I did, even though I didn’t know where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. After our conversation, I didn’t feel right running to Braden.
Instead, this was something I needed to take to Mick, the man who became more like our father every day.
I found him near the back door, chatting with the road crew.
It appeared that all of our equipment and instruments had been loaded up and they were getting ready to leave, heading toward Cleveland where our next show would be.
When I paused in the doorway, I wondered if maybe I was overreacting and considered going back to my room.
Mick said, “What’s up, kid?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” he said, putting a hand on my back and guiding me inside the venue. “What’s going on?”
I dropped my shoulders and gave him an abridged version of what had just transpired between me and Zack.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” But was I? What had been the whole point of that encounter?
“I’ll talk to him,” Mick said, heading toward the dressing rooms before I could say another word.
But, after spending a few more minutes processing it, I decided maybe I should talk to Braden…because I was afraid we were losing our best friend for good. Would we be able to prevent it?
It wasn’t until the next evening in a hotel as we lay in bed ready to sleep that I told Braden about Zack coming to my dressing room the night before.
But I felt bad almost immediately because he wanted to confront Zack—and, even though Braden was a peace-loving guy, he was giving off the vibes of wanting to throw a few punches.
I didn’t want that.
Well, what had I wanted? I began to question myself. Had I wanted Braden to be aware of Zack’s state of mind or had I instead desired an emotional reaction?
Finally, he said, “We’re gonna have to make him go to rehab again.”
“Yeah,” I agreed—but Zack had already said he wasn’t going to do it. Delusional, he felt like he was better under the influence. I was certain that was just the addiction talking—but maybe he really believed it.
Would he have to nearly die again?
Over the next few days, I believed that was what it would take—but I couldn’t let Zack do that again. My heart couldn’t take it…and I didn’t want him to almost die to experience another wake-up call.
In Washington, DC, we had just a few days left to the first leg of our tour.
We were already scheduled to play at a festival followed by a second leg.
In a way, we’d all become pros on the road—but Zack wasn’t sober enough to enjoy our success.
A shame, because the label told us we’d be co-headliners on our second leg.
But we knew we couldn’t really call ourselves headliners until we were the last band of the evening to play. Still, in our new ranking, we’d be making more money than ever before—and Zack was blowing his share on alcohol.
I hoped that was all he was spending his money on.
While Braden and Cy practiced in secret for what we figured would be the inevitable, I decided to confront Zack once and for all on a rare day off.
It was a testament to just how jaded and worn out we’d become: in a city full of history and amazing sights to see, two bandmates were working their asses off to save the band while I was trying to do the same thing from a different angle.
And the person who seemed the most hellbent on fucking it all up probably was working on doing just that—but I wouldn’t know until I asked. It was after lunch, probably the best time for something like this—and I knocked on his hotel room door.
When he answered the door, his shirt was off—nothing unusual, because he’d been taking it off every night for our shows—and I could see up close that he was starting to lose weight again. It wasn’t anything the audience would be able to see, but it was obvious to me.
“What’s up?” he asked. Searching his eyes, I tried to assess his level of sobriety and figured he was probably at his peak. As the day went on, the more he’d drink.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
Even numb, he caught the concern in my voice, and I could see it in his eyes.
“Yeah, sure.” Opening the door wide, he stepped back so I could enter.
When I walked in, though, he seemed to hesitate: should he shut the door?
But it wasn’t like he had a choice. Finally, he allowed the door to close and then turned to face me. “What’s up?”
“I just…wanted to check in with you. I—we—are all worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“We can’t just turn off our feelings, Zack. And you might not be able to see it, but you’re doing what you did on our last tour: drinking yourself into oblivion, cutting—”
“That’s not true. On our last tour, I was out of control. I’m not this time.”
Jesus, he was frustrating. I had to fight to keep my voice steady. “You might believe that, but you are not in control. If you were, you’d stop drinking.”
“Again, not true. I’m choosing to drink because it makes me feel better. And if I feel better, I perform better. I don’t see why that’s such a problem.”
Already I could see that this was going nowhere—but I still felt compelled to try.
I knew deep down in my heart that if he didn’t quit, he would absolutely kill himself.
Maybe not tomorrow or this year or the next, but it would happen…
and if I didn’t try my hardest to get him to see that, I would always blame myself.
“You don’t perform better. You just think you do. ”
“Then why the hell does the crowd yell so loudly? Why do they act like they’re having a good time? Is all that in my imagination, Dani?”
“Are you kidding? The band isn’t just you. Did you ever stop to realize that some of those cheers might be for Cy? Or maybe all of us together?” Remembering his nasty comment about training a monkey to take my place just days ago, I couldn’t help the anger as it simmered in my belly.
“Yeah, I’m not stupid. I know you guys exist—but, at its heart, it’s my band and the audience knows that.”
Christ. How had I forgotten that Drunk Rock Star Zack had an ego the size of Texas? And, again, this line of reasoning wasn’t going anywhere. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Why do you care? We don’t have a show tonight.”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“I’ve had a few drinks—but I’m still in complete control: lucid, fast reflexes, my brain’s sharp. I could play an entire show right now—or I could drive the bus home.”
That thought sent a shiver up my spine. “I’m not going to argue about your abilities—but here’s a challenge: can you go a day without drinking?”
“You’re missing the goddamned point, Dani. I don’t want to. I don’t have to.”
I let out a long breath. This argument was futile and I wondered why I’d even bothered.
But then I realized…I had a proverbial ace up my sleeve. I didn’t have to watch Zack do this to himself. I did not have to stand around feeling helpless while I watched my friend drown himself in drink. “I’m done arguing, Zack. You need to go back to rehab.”
“Jesus Christ. I haven’t OD’d like last time. I’ve got it under control.”
“Bullshit. Either you agree to go back to rehab…or Braden and I will leave the band.”
Zack’s eyes narrowed and, for a quick second, I imagined I saw some sort of negative emotion there—but he managed to mask it before I could figure out what it was.
I had to admit to myself that he did manage to function well despite having had enough alcohol to make me drunk.
“You know what? Do what you have to do. I’m not gonna stop you. ”
Fuck. I hadn’t expected him to dismiss my suggestion that quickly—or easily.
It was yet another reminder that I didn’t matter to him.
Not at all. Between his comments about my drumming not contributing anything to the band to letting me go as if it were as simple as letting go of a string in his hand, I had my final answer.
Although I’d known that for a while…that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
“Oh, and good luck getting Braden to go with you. He might be pussy-whipped, but I don’t think he’s that far under your influence.”
Like I was a drug?
But was he right or was he just playing his own cards?
Zack and Braden’s history went back farther than mine…
but I also knew Braden pretty well by this point.
He usually agreed with me and we tended to want the same outcomes.
But I also knew how much Braden loved playing bass in the band—and how much he loved Zack.
Braden might decide to stay even if I left.
In fact, Braden might question my entire strategy here…
but I wasn’t about to admit defeat. Not yet.
“I don’t think you realize how much Braden and I agree on things.”
Zack smirked, and I wanted to slap it off his face. “Okay.” And then he shrugged. “Do what you gotta do. I’m not gonna stop you.”
Again, the breath rushed out of my lungs—but I couldn’t cower now.
If I changed my mind at this point, Zack would never take me seriously again.
What would I do when I left the band? I had no fucking idea—but I had to follow through.
And if it ultimately saved Zack, it would be worth it.
“Fine. This leg has a few days left—and then I’m gone.
You’ve made your bed and now you get to lie in it. ”
“Oh, hell no!” Zack shouted, reminding me of when he’d lost his shit with me the week before, punching the mirror in my dressing room.
“You can’t do that. I’m pretty sure that’s a breach of contract.
” I knew he was probably right, but I jutted out my chin, refusing to back down.
“If you leave before we replace you, you’ll be fucking over not just the entire band, but the label, our fans. ”
Oh, God…yes, there were the fans. I didn’t want to disappoint them, not ever. They were the only reason why we were experiencing success. Still, I simply glared at him, defiant and angry.
“You need to stick out this tour—at least through the second leg. We’ll let the label know to hold off on scheduling anything else until we can get someone on board.”
Unable to help myself, I spat, “How much time will it take you to train that monkey?”
He didn’t respond to that, but he was shaking his head, maybe wishing I’d forgotten that shitty conversation. Finally, he said, “I’ll figure it out. The band will survive.”
I just shook my head and walked toward the door. My hand on the doorknob, I paused and turned around. “Yeah, maybe. But will you?”
It wasn’t until I got to the empty hotel room that Braden and I shared that I let what felt like the first of a thousand tears begin to flow.