5. Beckett
Chapter 5
Beckett
May, Singapore
S omething was wrong with Hendrix. The fucker hadn’t been right since Seattle, but he refused to admit it, even while he sat on the floor of the tour bus, his face tinged green as he tried to get himself up for band practice.
“Hen. Come on, man. You need to go see a doctor.” I reached out a hand to help him up.
“I’m fine!” he insisted, waving my hand away as he attempted—and failed—to get himself upright.
“Why are you so fucking stubborn?” I growled. “Did you catch something from one of the groupies?”
Hendrix gaped in horror. “My dick is perfect!”
I cocked my head. “It’s a little crooked. I’ve seen it far too many times. You need to get a sense of modesty, man.”
“You’re lying. You’re just pissed mine is nicer than yours.”
I sighed, rubbing my temples lightly. Why had the band sent me to deal with him? Just because I was the most pragmatic and sensible of us didn’t mean I was cut out for handling the giant man baby who was probably still high as a kite off last night’s drugs.
Why he loved that shit was beyond me. Occasionally, I would smoke one of Phin’s copious joints, but other than that, I didn’t feel the need to chase that high.
The only thing stopping me from driving Hendrix’s ass to the nearest rehab was our manager. Gary would have a fucking meltdown over any of us missing band activities.
Money before mental health—that was our Gary.
I held no loyalty to the fucker. Sure, he had been with us from the start, since we were a shitty high school band playing out of Hendrix’s garage, but over the years, he had started caring less about us and more about the money we could make him.
Hendrix still listened to every word the idiot said, sadly.
I looked up at the ceiling, pleading to an invisible deity to make this move faster. Hendrix could easily drag this out for hours, and we needed to be at practice. We were preparing a new set list for the next leg, and we couldn’t exactly do that without our lead singer.
Hendrix flopped back onto the floor, starfished out and staring bleakly at the sunroof.
“My chest hurts,” he whined.
Shit. Was he developing cardiac issues? It was only a matter of time until it happened, given he was practically snorting an entire pharmacy every other night.
The Asia leg of our tour had been a huge success publicly, but behind the scenes, Hendrix had been a mess. The adoring fans hadn’t noticed the nausea, the constant dizziness, or the general cantankerous attitude of our lead singer.
“Give it a few weeks and we get a vacation.” Sadly, a week wasn’t long enough to send Hendrix to rehab, but that was a distinct possibility after the tour was over.
His eyes brightened. “We can throw a party at the house!”
I sighed.
There was no changing him.
We only practiced in short bursts because we had the combined attention span of a fruit fly.
“Can we get coffee?” Hendrix asked as he moved the mic stand from hand to hand in a bored motion.
“You can have coffee once we get through the set list at least once,” Gary told him with a stern frown. “We can’t have you boys shitting the bed during your first show back home. You’ve got a considerable fan base in Salt Lake.”
“We’ve got a considerable fan base everywhere ,” Arlo pointed out.
“Well, yes,” Gary spluttered. “But Salt Lake sales are always more than the status quo—so you need to get this set list hammered out. Start from the top!”
We took our places, and I grabbed my bass guitar, strumming a few chords while Phin settled behind the drums.
Less than three lines into Knotty Girl, the opening song, Hendrix made a garbled sound; lurched forward, clutching the nearest trash can; and promptly emptied his stomach into it.
Phineas groaned. “Dude, that’s vile.”
“I think I’ve got food poisoning,” Hendrix mumbled, clutching the trash can for dear life.
Food poisoning. Sure. That was totally the most likely culprit.
Not the drugs.
“Everything hurts,” Hendrix complained, slowly straightening and making his way back over to us with a self-pitying look on his face. “Even my chest hurts. I didn’t know nipples could be so sore!”
“Your titties hurt, bro?” Arlo laughed, lunging forward and landing a quick, precise punch to his pec.
Hendrix yelped like a stepped-on pup. “You fucker!” he whined, clutching his chest, glaring at Arlo.
“Calm down, children.” I sighed, fiddling with my guitar for something to do, tuning it despite the fact it was already perfect.
“Hendrix, you need to go see a doc. We can’t have you tossing your cookies during a concert. That’s not exactly the look we’re going for.” Gary frowned, his forehead creased and sweaty in the stage lights.
“I’m fiiine.” Hendrix extended the last word with a whining tone. He shoved both hands into his hair, scratching his scalp like he was trying to self-soothe through the nausea. Poor asshole curled up, resting his head on his knees with a whimper.
“Is this because of the party favors?” Gary cocked an eyebrow. “I can get a local doc to prescribe something to help reduce the aftereffects.”
“No,” I said, my voice firm. “If he has less consequences, he’ll be needing Narcan and a morgue, not a good night’s sleep and some sobriety.”
“Then make sure he can perform.” Gary shrugged, turning to Hendrix. “I can help you get something to make you feel a little better on stage.”
Gary was a cunt.
He was supposed to be managing us, not providing our lead singer with more drugs.
Hendrix looked up at Gary like the sun shone out his ass. “I’ll take anything to make it stop.”
“I’ll get my assistant to bring you something…after you get through this set list.”
Hendrix nodded, standing up straight, focusing on the mic. “ Knotty Girl ?” he asked, looking to me for confirmation like he hadn’t just been singing the opening line moments ago.
We didn’t even make it halfway through the set list before Hendrix was done. He staggered out of practice and promptly collapsed on the bed in the tour bus.
“I’ve got half a mind to ask Gary for our own tour bus,” I grumbled.
Ever since we got our first bus, we had rotated who slept in the main bedroom so we’d get at least one good night’s sleep every four days. Whoever wasn’t sleeping in the bed would sleep in the bunks. Switching wasn’t terrible, but the bunks weren’t exactly the lap of luxury.
Considering how much money we made, we probably could’ve afforded better beds. It wasn’t like we were a no-name band slumming it across the country like we had been several years ago.
Unfortunately, in recent days, Hendrix had taken over the bed. Between his manwhore antics and constantly being high or on a major downer, the bunks were actually looking rather appealing in comparison.
There had been one time, several weeks prior, when the bedroom had smelled amazing, and I’d almost insisted on taking my turn. A sweet floral scent clung to the room, and Hendrix insisted he had no idea who was the cause of that.
“He needs some serious fucking help.” While Hendrix was passed out, I sank onto the couch for our pack meeting, running a hand through my hair.
“You know Daddy Gary won’t go for that.” Arlo grimaced. “That man would prefer we work ourselves into an early grave—at least that way he can sell our stuff posthumously.”
“What do you think?” I asked Phin, who had lowered himself into a beanbag chair, twirling a drumstick in his hand.
“I know we said we were going to wait until after the tour to get him help, but he’s going downhill fast.”
“Are we sure it’s even the drugs?” Arlo asked, crossing his arms.
“I mean, what else could it be? Surely if it was food poisoning, it wouldn’t have lasted this long. He hasn’t been right in weeks.”
Arlo chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Is it a super-strong STI? I know he claims to always wrap it up, but I don’t have the greatest faith in him. If I took as many drugs as he does, I wouldn’t be able to see straight, let alone put a condom on.”
“Can STIs do that?” I asked.
“Syphilis can infect the brain and make a person act all screwy,” Arlo declared.
“So how do we help him?” Phin asked quietly.
“I guess the first thing would be to start easing him off that crap, maybe cut that shit down a bit, so he’s not constantly high.”
Arlo let out a low whistle. “Are you going to be the one to tell him that? Because I love the guy, but he will punch me if I so much as suggest he slows down on having fun.”
“He wouldn’t have had access to the same stuff in Asia,” I reminded them. “Maybe the switch to whatever he was getting there fucked him up more than usual?”
“Definite possibility. I can probably goad him into going to the gym again,” Phin said. “I’ll tell him the fans have been comparing our bodies and decided that his was nowhere near as good as mine.”
I snorted. Vanity would get him running on the treadmill, and maybe then he could sweat some of the drugs out of his system.
“I can make sure the bus is stocked with fruit and green juice and shit.” Arlo beamed. “With how often we’re on the move, it’s hard to get takeout, so he’ll have to eat the healthy crap we give him.”
I nodded, a plan forming. As much as Hendrix’s behavior got on my nerves, he was still one of my best friends, and I owed it to him not to give up on him yet.
Operation Healthy Hendrix was a go.