Chapter 21
twenty-one
“Can someone get me another one of these?” Ben says into the mic before he finishes off the pint in his hand.
He’s so drunk, I’m not sure how he’s still standing.
I haven’t taken any photos during his set, which he’s only halfway into, because it’s been a shit show.
Hannah hasn’t filmed at all. Her equipment is stowed in the van, and she’s been focusing all her attention on Jose Cuervo.
The crowd thinned out after Thicker Than Water played an hour ago, and those who remain have been drinking all afternoon.
I’m not a vibe girly, but even I can feel it’s off. This can’t end well.
Ben sways in place, holding on to the mic stand to keep himself upright. His guitar, hanging by its strap against his torso, is nothing but a prop. “What do you say we sing this next one together?” he asks the crowd.
It’s the first good idea he’s had all night.
They cheer, and Ben launches into an a cappella version of “She’s Gone.” It’s his most popular song, and, as asked, the crowd sings along.
I approach Hannah first. She’s ordering another shot at the bar.
Catching the bartender’s eye, I look pointedly at Hannah and slice the air at my neck to indicate he needs to cut her off.
He nods once, fills a plastic cup with tonic water, drops a lime in it, and slides it to her.
“This one’s on me,” he says, and she accepts it without question.
I mouth, “Thank you,” before turning to Hannah. “We need to do something. Ben’s in no condition to perform, and this will find its way online. He doesn’t need that. He’s only going to embarrass himself.”
She sloppily takes a sip of the drink, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, shrugs, and says, “Let him. And fuck him.” Her red-rimmed eyes are slits. She’s drunker than I thought, and she’s been crying.
Shit.
Just then I feel a body press in behind me, a hand resting on my hip. I’m about to turn around and tell whoever it is to get their goddamn hands off me, when he leans down, lips to the shell of my ear, and says, “This can’t go on. Ben’s wasted.” It’s Ever.
I don’t know if touching has become second nature because we’re comfortable or we just can’t keep our hands off each other. Either way, I’m here for it.
There’s no room to turn around and face him, so I cup my hand over my mouth to project my voice and shield it from Hannah. “Hannah’s done too. She needs to lie down in your van. Where’s Jesse?”
He rests his chin on my shoulder. “He’s holding court out in the beer garden, and he’s as fucked up as these two.”
“I’ll get Hannah in the van, you get Jesse in the van, and then we’ll deal with Ben together?”
I feel his chin nod on my shoulder. “Sounds like a plan. If you get to the van before we do, it’s unlocked.
” He squeezes my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles in the tight muscles, “Good luck herding your cat,” drops a quick kiss on top of my head, like he does it all the time, and turns to leave.
The warmth that spreads through me is instantaneous. I’d love to analyze it, but we have drunk adults to babysit—and they outnumber us.
“Come on, Hannah. It’s time to—” My words cut off when I realize she’s no longer standing next to me. I scan the immediate area, and she’s gone.
The women’s restroom is close, so I check there first. It’s full, and after checking every stall, I don’t see her. I’m a worrier, but it’s not often I feel full-on dread. The kind that makes your stomach turn. It’s mounting.
Pushing through the crowd, I repeat, “Sorry, excuse me,” over and over.
There’s no sign of her. She’s a drunk woman in a building full of men, and that terrifies me.
The crowd quiets when Ben does. The song must be over. Or they’ve all forgotten the words—it’s hard to tell.
Ben takes the mic from the stand and starts pacing back and forth across the stage. He’s a clumsy, caged animal, increasingly agitated. The laidback guy I’ve been traveling with is gone.
“What did you guys think of Thicker Than Water?” he asks.
The crowd cheers.
“Yeah? You like ‘em?”
The crowd cheers again.
“You know, Jesse and I go way back?” He doesn’t wait for a response, but nods and reaffirms, “Way back. And I tried to be a good friend and invite him and his brother to come out on the road with me, you know, do ‘em a favor cuz he’s goin’ through some shit.
” He’s still pacing, but his voice is getting louder, angrier.
It’s then that I spot Hannah. We’re both on the floor in front of the stage, but on opposite sides.
She’s pointing at Ben. Her lips are moving, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.
Ben can.
“You have somethin’ to say? Why don’t you come up here, babe,” he says into the mic.
I’m trying to push through the front row to get to her, yelling, “Hannah!” to get her attention. Everyone around me is standing their ground, and most of them are bigger than I am.
I still can’t hear her, but Ben turns his back on her and resumes his pacing. “This is my girlfriend. She’s Australian, but she’s here makin’ a ‘film.’” He wraps the word in air quotes. “Fancy, huh?” Every word and gesture are meant to belittle her.
Fuck this guy.
“She’s also a fuckin’ whore!” The words are acid.
He shakes his head, his face beet red, and the rage morphs into a menacing smile.
“She thinks I don’t know,” turning to face her, disgust takes over, “but I do. I guess Jesse’s gonna try to take everything from me.
This tour. My girlfriend.” He spits on the stage.
“Fuck him!” he yells. “And fuck you!” He’s a powder keg ready to blow.
A guy I recognize as one of the bartenders has appeared from the curtain backstage. He steps up, hands nonthreatening on Ben’s chest, trying to calm him.
When I see Hannah climbing on stage, I don’t hesitate and scramble up to intercept her.
The rest happens in slow motion.
Hannah screams through tears, “That’s a lie! You’re the one who’s cheating, you jealous little fucker!”
I scream, “Stop!” as I stand to my full height between them.
Ben throws a punch.
The bartender ducks.
And mayhem ensues.
I’m momentarily disoriented, and it takes me a few seconds to register what happened. Hannah’s crouched over me, eyes wide and unblinking. “Sophie, oh my God!”
His punch was clumsy and didn’t have much behind it when it connected with my jaw, but it was enough to catch me off guard and send me tumbling into a speaker. Sitting up, I blink a few times, but everything is blurry.
“You’re bleeding.” Hannah’s voice is shrill and watery. She must be crying.
I swipe at my face, and my hand comes away red. Luckily, I’ve never been squeamish at the sight of blood, but the thing that’s concerning is there’s a lot of it. I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
I hear Ever’s voice over everything, summoning the wrath of gods when he roars, “I will fucking destroy you, Ben! You’re dead, motherfucker!”
“Where’s Ever?” I ask because that wasn’t an empty threat. If he gets his hands on Ben, he’ll beat the shit out of him.
Even drunk, she’s surprisingly quick to get on her feet and help me to mine.
I always thought bar brawls in movies were exaggerated for dramatic effect.
They’re not. The chaos is all around us.
Pulling the collar of my T-shirt up over my face, I press it to my eyes to clear my vision. Ben is the first person I see. A second guy has joined the bartender, and they’re standing in front of him. I can’t tell which one of us they’re protecting.
When I meet his eyes, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I didn’t mean it.” Belligerence is gone and color drained.
The blood is flowing again. The cut must be above my right eye. “You need to go sober up and chill the fuck out, Ben.” I know it was an accident, but I can’t hide the irritation in my voice. He was being an asshole.
“Soph!” Ever yells. The fury is edged with panic now. I must look like a horror movie.
Instinctively, I turn toward his voice in the middle of the crowd. Wiping again with my T-shirt, I see his head above the rest, and our eyes lock. Several men are restraining him, and he’s fighting to pull away.
“Let me fucking go!” The growl in his voice is feral.
“Come on,” Hannah says, as she takes my hand. She’s shaking like a leaf, but she pushes her way through the crowd while I trail behind, T-shirt pressed to my face with my free hand to stem the flow.
“Let him go,” I demand as we approach.
When the men look at me, they relax. Ever, with thrashing limbs, breaks free and strips the T-shirt he’s wearing over his head in one fluid motion.
He’s a live wire, but his hands are gentle when he tips my chin up and begins dabbing away the blood with his shirt.
His gaze frantically scanning my face for the gash. “Soph.” My name is anguish.
“The cut’s above my right eye. Is it bad?” I ask. There’s a slight tremble in my voice that I hope he can’t hear. I think it’s a reaction to the fear on his face, because the pain hasn’t set in yet.
He presses the cotton to my wound and holds it firmly in place. “I can’t tell. There’s too much blood. We need to get you to a restroom.” He gathers me into him protectively with his free arm, and we start moving.
“Get out of the fucking way, she’s bleeding!” he yells, and the crowd parts around us. I don’t blame them; he sounds murderous.
He kicks the restroom door open, unwilling to take his hands off me.
When we step inside, it’s empty. He guides my hand up to my face.
When I take over, his hands find my waist, and he lifts me onto the counter.
After wetting a stack of paper towels, he steps between my legs, and I gingerly remove the compress.
“It looks like it’s slowing down.” I watch his chest expand, and when it decompresses, I hear the relief. “Thank fuck,” he whispers. Taking his T-shirt from me, he applies pressure again. “Does it hurt?” he asks, and his voice is so unbelievably gentle.