Songbird

1. Hawk

“Hawk!”

Someone barked my name, the angry syllable snapping me out of the dream I was having.

It was the same dream I always had. Golden hair, big brown eyes, and a song that never left my head.

Bird.

The girl I couldn’t remember, but somehow, could also never forget.

Aggressive footsteps chased away the last of the melody, the notes vanishing into the lost corners of my mind as I dragged myself awake.

Rubbing my eyes, I groaned and rolled over, wondering why the hell I was so fuckin’ hot.

“Don’t ignore me, you prick.”

“Fuck off.”

“Goddamn it, Hawk. Get the fuck up, man.”

I groaned, flopping onto my back and forcing my eyes to open.

I regretted that immediately.

“It’s too fuckin’ early, Mick,” I insisted, draping one arm over my eyes to block out the offensive light that made it feel like someone was taking an ice pick to the inside of my brain.

How fuckin’ much did I have to drink last night, anyway? It hadn’t been that big of a party, only about a hundred or so folks—most of them, I even recognized.

I think.

But sometime between the second bottle of whiskey and watching some young douchebag snort a line off a model’s ass in my media room, things got a little fuzzy.

Goddamn, my head hurt. It didn’t use to be this difficult. Back in the day, I could have partied twice as hard and still played a sold-out arena flawlessly. I could drink nothing but booze and smoke enough reefer to make Cheech and Chong proud, then put on a show that would have people talking for years to come without even breaking a sweat.

Now, I was afraid if I stood up too fast, I might piss my pants.

What the fuck happened?

“It’s not early, Hawk. It’s nearly two in the afternoon,” Mick said, his manager voice firmly in place. “I’ve been calling you for over four hours. I finally had to come over myself and make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I muttered.

“Oh, shut the fuck up. I have no time for your bullshit right now. My wife’s on a fucking tear because I’m here on a Sunday—again—when I should be on my way to my daughter’s piano recital.”

I grimaced, knowing just how awful his wife could get when she was pissed. Mostly because she was always pissed at me. Jennifer Murphy and I were not exactly besties. No, that bitch hated me. I didn’t really blame her, seeing as how I was responsible for keeping her husband away from home with my bullshit.

I was also responsible for lining his pockets and her house in Redondo Beach, but she seemed to conveniently forget that shit when she was sneering at me every time we crossed paths.

“Well...” I said, swallowing down the uncomfortable guilt that crept up my throat at the thought of what a fuckup I was lately.

Still.

“You’ve seen me. I’m alive. Or what passes for alive, anyway.” Exhaling a breath that tasted as sour as my personality these days, I heaved myself up to sitting, finally looking around and seeing that I’d passed out on one of my poolside cabana beds, the thin mattress not doing anything to help my aching shoulder. I guessed that explained the heat; there was no shade on this side of the yard, and the California sun beat down on me relentlessly. “You can go back to playing super dad. I’ll be fine.” Looking down at the corded leather bracelet I wore on my wrist, I grit my teeth. “I’m always fine.”

“Hawk,” Mick said, softer this time, his manager hat now firmly set aside and his concerned friend hat in place. Lifting my gaze, I looked at him for the first time, realizing he was dressed to impress, with his suit impeccably pressed and his matching tie and pocket square both perfectly positioned. Hell, the tie was probably an exact match to whatever dress his wife would be wearing, too.

Looking down at my wrinkled white t-shirt and dirty jeans, I felt another lick of shame creep across my face. Mick had always been the best one of us, and he was proving that again now, staring down at me like a disappointed father. “You’re not fine, man. Look at you.”

“What?” I laughed, defensive, as I finally stood. The fact that I hardly wobbled was a win I was prepared to take. “What do you mean? This?” I gestured around my backyard, the tables covered in old food and half empty drinks, all left for the flies. There were several items of clothing lying scattered about, including one very tiny neon green bikini top dangling off the side of the mattress I had just vacated. “I’m a fuckin’ rock star, Micky. This is what I do.”

“You’re a former, rock star, Hawk. This is what you used to do.”

“Hey,” I started, frowning, but Mick cut me off.

“It’s time to face facts, Hawk. It’s over. Black Kite doesn’t exist anymore. All you’re doing is blowing money you can’t afford to be blowing on people who don’t give a shit about you.”

“Those people love me, Mick,” I insisted, an uncomfortable feeling starting to squirm through my chest.

“Yeah?” he asked, his tone ugly. “Then where the fuck are they now, Hawk? Huh? They were all here last night, more than happy to leach off you for booze and blow and a dip in the pool. But where the fuck are all your so-called friends when the sun rises and there’s cleanup to be done?”

Holding his arms out in a pose that looked ridiculous in his fancy suit coat, Mick spun in a circle, indicating the vast yard and pool area of my Beverly Hills home.

There was not a soul in sight besides the two of us. Not one passed-out groupie or overly zealous super fan, waiting for the right time to drop a demo in my hands while he gushed on and on about how much he loved my music.

Fuck, even my house manager, Harriette, was nowhere in sight, likely hidden away in her wing of the house, already arranging a cleaning service, because she knew there was no way either of us was gonna do it.

Despite my gorgeous view of the canyon and North Beverly Park, the place looked as desolate as a ghost town, and that uncomfortable feeling in my chest expanded, choking me just a little more with each passing second.

I was surrounded by opulence and beauty, and I was completely and utterly alone.

Unconsciously, I reached again for the bracelet on my wrist, my fingers dancing over the familiar pewter beads threaded on to the braided leather. In the last fifteen years or so, it had become a habit for me to touch those beads when I was feeling anxious, spinning the warm metal around and taking a deep breath to remind myself that I was alive. That no matter what, I was breathing, and that was enough for the moment.

As my silence stretched on, Mick dropped his arms with a sigh, removing his sunglasses and tucking them in to the inner pocket of his jacket.

“I know this isn’t how we saw things going, Hawk. But it’s what happened, and there’s nothing left to do but move on, alright? Stop living your life like you’re already dead. When was the last time you went out for anything other than to get drunk? You haunt this place like a ghost, man, and it isn’t healthy. You need to find something new to live for, Hawk. I can’t do it for you.”

Casting my eyes over the canyon again, I clenched my jaw, not wanting to think about it at all. No, at this point, I was much happier living day to day, pretending like my whole world hadn’t fallen apart. Like everything I’d ever worked for, ever cared about, hadn’t imploded in one giant clusterfuck five years ago, leaving me with a wound that refused to heal, festering and rotting and gasping for breath.

So, yeah. If I liked to drink and smoke like it was the good old days, then that was what I was gonna do.

Because that was all I fucking had left.

“Tell Brooke I’m sorry you missed her piano thing,” I said, changing the subject effectively. “Jennifer, too, if you think it’ll help any.”

“It won’t.”

“No,” I sighed in agreement. “It won’t.”

We stood in silence for a moment longer before Mick headed for the house, slapping me on the shoulder as he passed.

“It’s gonna be alright, Hawk. You’ll see.”

I nodded, but I didn’t mean it.

How could anything ever be alright again?

Casting one last look around at my desolate yard, I turned and strode into the house, snagging a fresh bottle of Maker’s Mark on my way past the bar.

This ridiculous mansion had nearly ten thousand square feet, and if I was a ghost, I was gonna fuckin’ haunt every last one of ’em.