Page 35 of Tortured Tones

“You need to do that every show.” Lewis retied his sweaty hair into a small man-bun. “It was fucking wicked.”

“Thanks.” Not sure I could pull that off again. Not sure my heart and head could take it, but I’d do my best.

After we ran through the encore, Blake, Falcon—our tour manager—and our crew cheered and applauded. Drained of energy, I joined the guys at the front of the stage. We grabbed bottles of water and sat or lay on the edge of the riser with Jackson, our stage and lighting crew, and our entourage discussing what went well, what needed working on, and what needed changing. As I stretched out my sore legs and winced, Ava cracked a grin full of twisted pleasure. Oh yeah. She liked seeing me in pain. I needed a good deep-tissue massage. Lesson learned. No more antics when running.

But I’d made her smile. I’d take that as a win. Mission complete.

Now I could concentrate. On music. Nothing else.

Across the weekend, we had grueling back-to-back rehearsals. We worked on refining our choreography, and our mash-up, but mastered the transition between each song. We were on a roll.

But thanks to the long days, I didn’t get home until ten or later each evening. Charlotte was already tucked in her bed, asleep. Hannah was always sitting on the sofa reading a book and having a cup of tea. On Monday evening, I walked through the door and dumped my bag at the bottom of the stairs.

“How was your day?” Hannah placed a bookmark in her book and closed it.

“Awesome.” I headed over and sank onto the ottoman, keeping a courteous distance. I stank of sweat and needed a shower. “We’ve been working on lighting for each song, slowly bringing everything together. We’re about to push full run-throughs.” We had to. The tour was only a month away, and we had a lot of publicity and events on beforehand.

She looked at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “When are you going to spend time with Charlotte?”

Was it wrong I wanted to avoid my new reality? Yep. But I couldn’t. Grimacing, I rubbed the side of my face. “Maybe Wednesday? We have rehearsal in the afternoon. I’ll have everyone over for lunch beforehand so they can meet her too.”

“Good.” She took a sip of her tea. “We’re not here on a vacation, Cole.”

“I know. Just timing is hard.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I can’t thank you enough for helping out.” I eased to my feet. “But I have another long day tomorrow, so I’m gonna hit bed.”

“Sure. Me too. Have a good night.”

Sleep was not my forte, but I gave Hannah a warm smile. “You too. See you in the morning.”

I headed upstairs and peered through Charlotte’s bedroom door to check on her. She lay curled up asleep with Barney tucked beneath her arm. Closing my eyes, I thudded my head against the doorjamb. How the fuck could I make this work? Find balance? I had no fucking idea.

I staggered into my room, showered, and fell into bed. But like most nights...after a couple hours sleep...I jolted awake. Sweat covered my body. I panted like I’d run ten miles at a sprint. My mind raced at a thousand beats per second.

Flashes of being with Shelby burned my brain. Her heartbroken tears over Flint stabbed my chest. Aidan’s anguished pleas to stay with him rang in my ears. Phil’s begging for drugs drummed in my head.

Fuck!

Shaking all over, I clutched my chest. The pressure in my skull throbbed.

When my nightmares hit, I’d usually get up, wash my face, go downstairs, and drum for hours, but with the tour coming up I needed to rest. So I collapsed against the mattress and stared at the ceiling. I begged the sun to rise so I could go running, rehearse, or keep busy to distract myself from the guilt that consumed me over fucking up people’s lives or playing my part in their deaths. What if I hurt Charlotte too?

I sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly. Closing my eyes, I repeated the process. In. Out. In. Out.

There...I was fine. This would pass. Everything would be okay. I fell asleep sometime around four, then woke at seven and was out the door by nine.

At rehearsal, we nailed our first full run-through. Every song in our set list had come together. Our transitions were getting smoother and smoother.

“Fuck yeah.” I pumped my fist as Flint struck the last chord on his guitar.

“Woohoo!” he hollered into the mic, then turned to us. “That was fucking awesome, guys. Well done.”

“Brilliant.” Jackson clapped and whistled.

I joined the guys at the front of the stage for our post-run-through meeting. But just when Jackson began to speak, April’s cell phone rang. As she spoke quietly, her worried eyes settled on me.

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