Sippin’ on a Prayer (Wine & Rock -n- Roll)

CHAPTER 1

LANGSTON

The shot of…whatever the fuck I’m drinking burns as it slides down my throat. My body should be numb by now which tells me that I’m either drinking some bottom of the barrel shit or it’s taking more for me to get to where I need to be. That’s not good.

Fuck, it hasn’t been good for a long fucking time now. I know it. My brain knows it, but every other part of me is screaming to take the pain away and to help me forget where the scars on my soul come from.

But can I ever really forget?

I look up at the gorgeous as fuck bartender on the other side of the bar in the seedy dive I’ve found myself in and lift my lips in a smirk. It’s always gotten me anything I want from a woman. She arches an eyebrow in question, but her eyes don’t light up with the way I’m looking at her. Odd. My eyes travel over her body and my dick definitely takes notice for a second.

I should give into the feeling. Drinking and fucking is about all I’m good for now. I used to be able to add music to the list, but that’s not true anymore. Fucking hell, I can’t imagine music ever being part of my life again.

Not now.

“I can’t serve you another shot,” the bartender pulls me from the spiraling memories of the lost music, the lost life, which cut like razor blades.

“Come on, sugar,” I drawl; or maybe slur slightly. The way she squares her shoulders tells me I’m not going to get another drink out of her. Not anytime soon.

This is why I’ve been hording bottles of liquor in whatever hotel room I’m living out of, in whatever city I’m in, on any given night.

Ever since everything fell apart, I’ve been traveling—drifting more like it—in search of something. I told everyone in my life, especially my old label, that I was looking for another guitarist. I knew it was a lie the moment it left my lips and I’m pretty sure everyone else knew as well.

How could I replace my best friend? How could I even think about it? Not when the wounds left behind are still so fresh. Hell, maybe not ever.

“Gotta cut you off,” there’s not even a hint of remorse in the woman’s voice.

I make a humming sound in the back of my throat and rake my eyes over her body again. “Maybe you can help me out in another way,” I suggest, my voice smooth and filled with charm. At least, I think it is.

Fuck, my dick isn’t even all the way into it, but I’ll do anything to forget. Aren’t you supposed to make bad decisions when you’re at the bottom? Honestly, I never had to be at the bottom to make some bad decisions.

It used to be so fucking easy. Women threw themselves at me. They wanted to be able to brag to their friends that they fucked a rock star. Who was I to deny them what they wanted? It was all part of the life, right?

The life we worked so hard for. The life supported by our music which had us seeing the world, partying all night, and living.

Living.

Fuck.

I’m not even sure that’s what we were doing. Was it fun? Fuck yes, it was fun. I had my best friend at my side, and we were living the dream we had worked so hard for. It was everything we wanted.

Maybe I should have wanted something different. Something deeper. Conley might be alive now if I did.

But he’s not.

“Sorry, rock star,” there’s amusement in the bartender’s voice, “can’t help you there.”

“Gotta tell you, darlin’, I love a challenge.”

She throws her head back and laughs, but it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at me, not entirely at least. The sigh she lets out should probably be a warning, but it barely registers as my vision goes a little hazy. The only reason I don’t acknowledge the second bartender in front of me is because I know there is only one of her.

“If only you were my type,” she tries to soften the blow of her rejection. I think. Maybe.

I snort out a laugh that is not at all attractive, but I’ll do just about anything to stave off the sadness. “What,” my voice is filled with self-deprecation, “a washed-up rock star with no future and no friends isn’t your type?”

Her eyes go soft, and I look away, wishing I could look down into a drink. But I don’t have one. Fucking hell. Trying to shake off the sadness and the memories creeping along the edges of my consciousness is almost impossible.

“I meant a man,” she deadpans, and my head snaps up. With a small smirk, she confirms, “That’s right, honey, I’m not into dicks. Sorry,” she shrugs one shoulder, but I don’t think she’s sorry at all.

Not like she should be.

“Well, good for you,” I stumble over my words a little bit and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. I wave my hands in front of my body in a super awkward way and shake my head. “No, really,” I insist, “whatever makes you happy. Love is love and all that shit.”

She barks out a laugh and shakes her head, but the small little smile on her lips tells me I’ve offended her. I’m not even sure why that bothers me or matters. It shouldn’t.

I won’t ever see this woman again. Fuck, I’m not entirely sure where I am.

Before I can try and sweet talk her into another drink, she slides a soda across the bar to me. “I’ll be back to check on you,” there’s a promise in her voice along with some concern and compassion.

Why the fuck does that make my throat tighten? When was the last time anyone showed genuine care for me? Clearly, it’s been far too long.

I run my hand over my face and then push my fingers back through my hair before deflating, my shoulders slumping over the bar as my eyes land on the soda in front of me. I should stand up and head back to my hotel room. At least there I have a bottle to entertain me.

I won’t get another drink out of the bartender here, I know it. So why am I still here?

The thought of being alone in my hotel room has my gut tightening. When I’m alone, the memories surface. They invade every thought, every fucking breath, I take.

Lately, I’ve been haunted by the first time I stepped onto a big stage, as headliners, with Conley. There was a glint in his eyes when our gazes locked as fans cheered for us. For us. It blew our fucking minds.

All those people, just beyond the lights, were there for us. They were screaming for our band. As we played, they were singing along to our songs.

That night changed something in me, in us. We might have been able to appreciate what we had in that moment, but we also wanted more.

More fame.

More people screaming for us.

More fun.

More money.

We wanted it all.

It got more difficult to appreciate what we had as we wanted more and got it. Because the meaning behind what we gained was all surface level. It became all glitz, glam, and over the top moments while the music got lost along the way.

“Fuck,” I grumble under my breath, “I need a damn drink.”

“Do you?”

The voice coming from next to me surprises me and I startle, almost falling off the stool in the process. “Woah,” comes from the other side of me and I whip my head back and forth between the men who have taken up space on either side of me.

As I blink a few times, it’s difficult to focus on either man. Or maybe it’s because of the liquor sloshing around in my stomach and the ringing in my ears as I turn my head left and right.

“What the fuck? Shit,” I groan, “maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I swear you’re Cole Howard,” I point toward the first guy who spoke before pointing toward the second guy, “and you’re Booker Holland.”

“They are,” a woman’s voice says from behind me, and I spin around so fast Booker—apparently—grabs me to keep me on the stool.

I’ve spent plenty of time around other famous rock stars, it’s kind of a hazard of the job and all that shit, but I’ve never spent much time with the guys of Suburban Outcasts. I think we’ve been at the same awards shows or something, but that’s about it.

“Well shit,” I drawl, getting my shit together as the room stops spinning slightly as I look at the woman in front of me, “and who are you?”

I look over the tall, blonde woman standing in front of me. She’s gorgeous, but there’s something serious and severe about her. Like she’ll take no fucking prisoners.

She arches an eyebrow, a challenge flashing in her eyes. “I’m married,” there’s no nonsense in her tone as she holds up her hand and flashes the ring on her finger, “and very happy with my former military husband who could kill you without even breaking a sweat.”

My eyes snap up to hers and find ice in her gaze. I hold my hands up in front of me in surrender as the guys on either side of me chuckle under their breath. “Sorry, ma’am. I meant no harm,” I try and soothe her.

She makes a humming sound before nodding toward an empty booth in the corner of the dive bar. It’s been the perfect place for me tonight because if anyone recognized me, they didn’t make a big deal out of it. I’ve been able to try to find numbness, even if I couldn’t, in relative peace.

I learned a long time ago, as I’ve been trying to find some solace, not to go to big clubs. The only exception I’ve made is Club Sin since it’s high end enough to buy discretion. I’ve been to a few Club Sins around the country.

Booker’s hand is heavy on my shoulder before he gives it a squeeze. “Come on, man, lets go have a chat.”

I’m not completely steady on my feet as we head over to the booth, but I do alright. Once we’re settled, I look between Booker and Cole before I blurt, “How the fuck did you even find me?”

Booker flashes me a sly grin. “We know people who can track down just about anyone.”

I narrow my eyes, unsure if there’s some sort of threat in his words or not. Maybe it could just be paranoia on my part. From the way he cuts his eyes toward Kat, maybe not.

“Okay,” I hold the word out comically before leaning back in the booth and closing my eyes for a moment.

“Maybe he’s too drunk for this conversation,” Kat suggests.

I open my eyes slowly and look between everyone around the table. “What conversation?”

Booker and Cole share a look before turning toward me. Cole places his forearms on the table and leans forward. “You good?” I nod even though I’m not sure if I really am. I mean, how deep does his question go? “No, Langston,” there’s an edge of steel in his voice, “really, are you good?”

Pain slices through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol in my gut and everything to do with the constant loss which has bored a hole right through me. Instead of answering, I deflect slightly. “I want to know why you’re here.”

“Look,” Booker begins, “you’re fucking washed up.” When I look at him, there’s no judgement on his face, no disgust, or even pity. “You got handed a shit hand,” his voice goes soft, and I try to ignore the reality of him bringing up Conley. “Have you hit rock bottom?”

I shrug one shoulder, unsure what that really means. It’s not like I’m on the edge of death here and I haven’t woken up covered in vomit. At least, not for a few weeks.

“Do you know what city you’re in?”

I eye Kat skeptically. “Seattle?” Fuck, even I can hear the question in my voice.

“Just because you got it right doesn’t mean you’re doing well,” Cole points out. He’s not fucking wrong. “You could still have the music,” he tells me.

“Naw,” my voice is casual like what I’m about to say is no big deal, “I got dropped from the label.”

My gut twists because being dropped from the label fucking hurt. As if I hadn’t already lost enough.

But at the same time, I can understand it from a business perspective because I wasn’t holding up my end of the contract. How could I with Conley gone?

“That’s part of why we’re here,” Cole informs me and I still.

I know all about the record label these guys have built. They’ve made more than one unknown musician and band a household name in the last few years. White Picket Fences Records is all about the music which doesn’t surprise me considering who started the label.

“What does that mean?”

“We want to give you a chance to make music again,” Cole tells me. “But you’ll have to dry out first.”

“Fuck,” I breathe out, sobering rather quickly with the thought of having another chance.

What I can’t tell is if it’s excitement or fear rushing through me.

I do owe it to myself, and Conley, to listen to what they have to say. And to try. Maybe.