Page 26 of Rock On

“It’ll be fine,” Kingston said as we sat around after dinner. The band and their significant others were all here to eat and hang out, and now we were having an impromptu meeting. “The album is done. We were going to redo a couple of songs because we had the studio time booked, but we all know they’re killer just the way they are.”

“I hate that we have to leave it as is because of me,” I admitted.

“The only reason we were going to do another take is because we had the time,” Kellan reiterated. “The stuff is good. And if they find anything they want to fix during production, we’ll figure it out.”

I looked down at my knee. “If I literally have to redo something, it could be problematic, but I’m on steroids so they’re thinking that’ll help with inflammation and get me on the mend sooner rather than later.”

“You just relax,” Z said. “You got lucky with the accident and?—”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that!” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “It’s like you’re wishing for something worse or expecting the worst. What the fuck?”

Everyone froze and turned to look at me.

Shit.

“Look.” I tried to back pedal a little. “I get that the video footage out there makes me look a little crazy, but I was totally in control. Car accidents happen every day. The knee will heal. You have to stop acting like this was some big thing.”

Z frowned. “Dude. It was a big thing. It was a huge thing. I know you’ve been in denial, but we just lost Carter sixteen months ago. Potentially losing someone else in the band is not a fucking option.”

“But you didn’t lose me! And he did what he did on purpose. It’s not the same fucking thing!” I got to my feet, grabbed my crutches, and tried to stalk out of the room. It was more of a pathetic hobble, but I just kept going until I was on the back patio, staring out at the pool and jacuzzi.

What the fuck had just happened and why had I lost my temper with my bandmates? They were like family to me and none of this was their fault. Technically, it wasn’t even my fault. Yet it felt like it. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the idea that now that Carter was gone, I was the band’s problem child. As if I was living for both of us now.

I hadn’t done anything overt, but on the European tour last spring, I’d been the one having threesomes on the bus. I’d been the one getting so shitfaced they had to carry me to bed. Basically, I’d been the one who’d inadvertently replaced Carter as the party animal.

I didn’t do drugs, that was a hard no for me these days, but I could drink like the proverbial fish and could go days without sleep if I was having a good time. It wasn’t healthy but it had become the norm after the divorce. Harley and I had partied hard too, probably too hard if I was honest, but we’d been on top of the world back then.

And maybe that was the problem.

Without her, I’d lost my drug of choice, which had been a combination of music and love. I still had the music, but without the love, it wasn’t the same. I’d compensated with a lot of bad habits. None as dangerous as Carter’s addiction, but not all that healthy either. Women and booze and motorcycles.

“You okay?” Kellan’s voice was quiet as he lounged against the wall, watching me intently.

“Yeah.” I stared off at nothing, trying to shake off the ever-present frustration that had become a part of me.

“What’s going on, man? You want to talk?”

“Not particularly.”

I was such a liar sometimes.

“You’re still pissed off at Carter.”

That was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.

“Well, aren’t you?” I demanded. “I mean, what the fuck was he thinking? He had a kid, a career, and people counting on him, and he just decided to end it all? What gave him the right to fuck up not just the band, but the lives of so many people? To leave his kid without a dad and the woman he loved without a partner. And don’t get me started on the rest of us. I’m not mad—I’m fucking furious.”

“I get it. You think I’m not mad? You think I don’t wake up sometimes wanting to punch him in the face? Or tell him exactly what I think? But what good does it do? You might have some answer to those questions if you’d bothered with the group therapy.”

“Jesus, not you too.” I shook my head at him.

“The one thing therapy helped us understand was that we couldn’t have saved him. Nothing we said or did would have made a difference. His demons, his mental health, his addiction—whatever it was—it was too much for him. He chose to check out. Like it or not, the rest of us are still here. And we have to be better. Both for him and because of him.”

“I don’t know what better means. Better what? Musicians? Humans? What?”

“Better friends. Better men. Just better.”

“For whom?”

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