“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. I didn’t see this coming.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ve been there. Biggest thing is that you guys get yourselves ready for the tour. I need you rock solid. Our fan bases overlap. It won’t be like opening up for Bloody Revolver or Shooting Fences where half the audience is old enough to be your parents.”
“Uh—”
“I’m being real with you. In two or three years, I want to see you where we are right now. Headlining your own tour and taking out some other young, hungry band on the road.”
My paranoid danger barometer’s pinging like crazy at Andrew’s calm, rational demeanor. “Thanks.”
“Now,” he flicks his cigarette away and shoves his hands in his pockets, “the real reason I’m here.”
“Oh, it wasn’t to give me the dad speech?”
“No, fuckhead.” He hands me a baggie of coke, as if we’re not standing outside in the fading evening sun.
“Uh, what am I supposed to do with this?”
“One last party?” He stabs his fingers through his hair. “I’m taking off for Hawaii to get cleaned up before the tour.”
I blink at him.
“Don’t act so shocked. I can’t play night after night if I’m fucked out of my mind. I’ll exile myself to my little beach villa for a few weeks. A personal trainer comes in every day to whoop my ass. Pammy’s joining me to tend to my other needs. By the time we’re ready to get out on the road, I’ll be in fighting form.”
Well, shit. Guess that explains the mystery of how they’ve managed so many successful tours and albums.
He holds his fist in front of my face. “Trust and believe. There are two things you don’t fuck with, Chaser. Recording time and tour time.” He lifts one finger and then the other. “The rest of your life is yours to fuck up as you see fit.”
“Mind. Blown.” I touch my forehead and make an explosion noise that cracks him up.
“Touring is the best natural high. You won’t miss being fucked up when you’re playing stadiums.”
Since I’ve never been into coke this much before in my life, it’s hard to form an opinion on the matter.
He pulls me in for a quick hug and slaps my back. “Make me proud, Chaser.”
I watch him fold his large and lanky frame into his black Ferrari before staring at the present he left.
How many times over the last month have I told myself I’d snorted my last line?
Disgusted with myself, I shove the baggie of coke in my pocket, already picturing taking it into the bathroom and cutting a few pristine lines.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chaser
I can’t afford to take off to Hawaii like Andrew, but I promise myself that as soon as the band makes it through this rough spot, I’ll stop the coke. I have to before I go on tour.
I’ll make up all the late nights and shitty moods to Mallory by taking her someplace nice for a few days.
At least that’s the mantra I keep repeating.
For some reason, I’m confident that I’m different than every other drug addict I’ve ever known.
What I conveniently forgot was, if coke doesn’t eventually make you crazy, it has plenty of other nasty side effects.
No matter how many lies I tell myself: I’m only using a little. I’ll only use it for just a little longer. I’ll be done with it for good once we finish the demos, I keep craving more and more. Lucky for me, the music business makes it easy to score whenever I want.
Hell, most of the time I don’t even have to pay for it. Someone shoves a baggie, vial, or eight ball in my hands just because I’m Chaser Adams—up and coming rock god.
When I’m not high out of my mind, my craving for coke pisses me the fuck off, since I’ve always considered myself rather disciplined.
“Chaser, what’s wrong? You seem really distant lately,” Mallory says.
I’m supposed to be catching up on sleep. Except, I can’t sleep because I’m fucking high. Feeling no pain.
Feeling nothing actually.
“Everything’s fine. Or it will be once Jacob stops fucking around so we can finish and get ready for the tour.”
As fucked up as I am, I’ve contributed all my parts. I’m even writing crazy amounts of new stuff. Whether it’s any good or not, really isn’t the point. Alvin and I have plenty of time to jam at the studio while we wait for Jacob to get his shit together. Some days Garrett joins us.
She hesitates. “Are you sure that’s all that’s bothering you?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Stop badgering me.”
“Badgering you?” She frowns and takes a step back. “I’m worried about you.”
Fuck, I hate myself right now.
“You’re doing too much,” she continues. “Do you want me to stop auditioning until you’re done?”
No fucking way do I want to be the reason she puts her career on hold. That damn coffee commercial where she looked like the hottest Suzie-homemaker ever ended up airing nationally. She’s somewhat in demand right now. And I’m going to slow her down just because I need her to babysit me? Fuck no.
“No, babe. We’re almost done.” Thank fuck that’s the truth.
We need to get down one more track. We finished number three last night. Or was it this morning? Doesn’t matter.
“Chaser,” she says in a soft lets-be-reasonable voice, “You can’t keep this up forever. I can go to auditions by myself. I promise not to go to any hotels or anything sketchy.”
“No.”
“This is ridiculous!” she explodes. Mallory doesn’t have much of a temper, so it’s a sign of just how frayed her nerves are thanks to my bullshit. “You’re leaving to go on tour for three months. What am I supposed to do then? Sit home and stare at the wall?”
I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Most of my thoughts revolve around music, Mallory, or scoring more coke. Beyond that, I can’t spare the extra brain power.
“You’ll come with me.”
She raises her hands to the sky, completely exasperated. “Chaser, we both know that’s not going to work.”
All my drug-addled brain hears is, we aren’t going to work out.
“Why? You planning to see someone else while I’m away?”
“Oh my God. Are you serious right now? After everything, how can you even ask me that?”
“You’re hot.” My shoulders jerk up, like her dating another man is no big deal, instead of my worst fucking nightmare. “Every guy who meets you wants to fuck you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Andrew wants to fuck you. Jesus Christ, he never stops asking about you.”
She pauses. “Really? Why?”
Something about her question only agitates me more. “Why? What do you mean, why? You want to fuck him, too?”
Tears of what I think are frustration, fill her eyes. But my girl is tough, she lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. You’re acting paranoid. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
But I can’t be honest.