Page 33 of Tortured Tones

“You’re welcome. See? I can be nice.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

For my sanity, it’d be easier if he wasn’t.

Chapter 8

COLE

Inside our secure rehearsal facility in Burbank, I hammered out a raw rhythm on my bass drum and hi-hats. Sweat dripped from my short hair, ran down my skin and soaked my T-shirt. My hands were a blur as I struck the snares, tom-toms, and cymbals with the drumsticks. The reverberations from each strike coursed up my arms and legs and settled in the center of my chest. Fuck yeah. Drumming was what I lived for.

At this end of the huge, brand-new 30,000 square-foot studio, our full stage had been constructed with hundreds of lights flashing overhead. Massive LED screens projected graphics and videos behind me. Booming amps and speakers lined the front of the riser or hung from towering metal frames. Stretched out across the floor in front of the stage lay a mass of equipment trunks, cables, and our control panel where Tia, Kieran, and Tristan oversaw our show.

Every time I walked through the doors to rehearse, butterflies took flight in my belly. This would be our biggest tour to date. I couldn’t wait to hit the road next month. To take this show around the world and play in front of thousands of fans.

We were halfway through practicing our set list. Flint was flawless, singing and playing at his mic a few yards in front of my drum kit. Lewis added perfect rhythm with his bass to my left. Slip was on point with his electric to my right. Our management team and crew watched us from the floor, tweaking and refining each element of our show. But every time the stage lights flashed, I could just see our security guards, sitting on a row of chairs in front of the stage. They were chatting and sipping coffee, but Ava’s eyes were on me.

Something in her gaze intrigued me. When we talked, she kept details light and barely said anything. She taunted me, stirring something deep inside me that I didn’t want to awaken. But I couldn’t stop myself from going back for more.

I’d never been a show-off. I didn’t think I was better than anyone else. But this morning, it had been fun to test her fitness. She’d kept up with my pace, put me in my place, and drilled me into the ground. Not a lot impressed me, but she did. Now I was paying the price. With the thrum of the music filling my in-ear monitors, my thighs burned, protesting each pound of the drum pedals. The fire blazing in my muscles was self-inflicted stupidity from overexerting myself up the hills. Dick.

But pushing Ava wasn’t just about seeing if she was fit. I’d wanted to break her tough exterior and get her to crack a smile. After tragically losing friends, having my heart annihilated, and my band coming too close to collapsing too many times, I’d become hell-bent on ensuring the people in my life had fun and were happy. Life was too short to be serious all the time.

But fuck . . . now, I had to be.

Somehow I had to be responsible for a child.

How was I going to take care of Charlotte when this—playing music—was my life?

I had to find a nanny. Have the band over to meet Charlotte. FaceTime my parents to introduce them to my kid. The call with them last week hadn’t gone well. They’d been less than thrilled, but that was nothing new. Still, it was better they found out via me rather than the press. Having a child just added another thick layer of disappointment to the endless discontent that Tia and I seemed to inflict on their lives. I wasn’t surprised when they’d said they weren’t rushing home from Paris to meet her. They’d wait until we were in Europe for the tour.

If I still had custody of her then.

Fuck.

I hated uncertainty. I hated the stress. I hated that my life had been turned upside...again.

I was about to stop at the end of a song where we normally paused rehearsal, but Jackson, our production manager, stepped onto the stage, circling his finger through the air. I tugged out one of my ear monitors to hear him.

He hollered and clapped. “Keep it going. Push through. Cole, don’t stop. Roll out that new transition. Come on guys. Next song. Go. Go. Go.”

Flint gave the thumbs up. Lewis and Slip nodded, not missing a note on their guitars.

I bobbed my head and stuffed my ear monitor into place. Taking a deep breath to refocus, I wound down the pace with long, drawn-out beats on my drums.

The stage lights dimmed, and a lone spotlight hit Flint.

We’d hit the slow section of our set.

Fuck. Why had I agreed to include this single on the tour? So what if it was one of our biggest hits?

Flint sauntered up to his mic, strumming his strings. His haunting, anguish-filled voice filled my ears as he sang:

Sometimes I feel like my world is spinning around,

Somebody please help me off this merry-go-round.

I can’t see how I’m supposed to come back down,

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