Page 22 of Bonding the Band

Once or twice, we accepted it because we had contracts and fans we couldn’t disappoint, but it was starting to get ridiculous.

Beckett was calling a doctor. A real one.

“And if Hendrix doesn’t want to go?”

Beckett shrugged. “I’ll handcuff the fucker and make him go.” His eyes narrowed, shoulders squaring as he went to work getting Hen the help he obviously needed. Once Beckett lookedlike that, there was no dissuading him. Not that I would, since I agreed with him.

Beckett’s phone buzzed, and he huffed, reading the message. “Thank fuck. We’ve got someone for today.”

So many years in this industry, and I still wasn’t used to the fact that throwing money around would get us anything we wanted.

“How long until they get here?”

“Half an hour.”

“Do you remember when we used to have to wait, like, six weeks for a doctor’s appointment because they were always booked out?” I asked. The bigger we’d gotten, the easier it was for us to get what we needed. And a lot of things we definitely didn’t need, but wanted anyway.

“Back when we were no-names. You had that rash on your ass from poison ivy that just wouldn’t go away, and Gary had us grinding ourselves to the bone, so we couldn’t find time to get you an appointment.”

“At least I learned not to go streaking in the woods in Florida.” My ass still had a weird discolored patch from that. I laughed. It hurt like a bitch. Thankfully a few groupies had been more than willing to distract me and kiss it better.

Beckett sighed, rubbing his hand on his forehead. “It doesn’t make sense. The sickness is one thing, but have you noticed he hasn’t touched a single groupie in the last few weeks?”

I hummed. “Yeah, that is strange. Henny is the biggest manwhore out of all of us. Something’s gotta be seriously wrong for him to not be getting his dick wet.”

Beckett shoved his phone in his back pocket with a sigh. “I’ll go get Hen. He stayed late at sound check, sucking up to Gary.”

“Good luck!” I cried at his retreating form.

It didn’t take long for Beckett to grab him. By the time the doctor arrived, Hendrix was sitting on one of the tour bus couches, looking green around the gills.

“We have practice soon,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, but you haven’t been making it through a full practice lately,” Beckett said. “You look like death, and you’re not fooling anyone into thinking you’re actually the picture of health.”

“Gary won’t like it. He says I’m just run-down.”

I snorted. That was such bullshit. “Where’s your keeper?” I asked.

Beckett answered for him. “Gary is in a promotional meeting for the next hour, so he won’t be able to stop us.”

Hendrix was quiet, sullen. He probably didn’t even have the energy to fight the idea without Gary dosing him up.

There was a knock on the door of the tour bus, and before anyone could answer it, the door opened and Phin ambled in, followed closely by a middle-aged man in scrubs.

“Hello there, I’m Dr. Corbett. Who’s the patient?” he asked, looking between us.

“Mr. Nauseated over there,” I said, pointing at Hendrix.

The doctor turned and gave him a once-over, wincing. “You look like you’ve seen better days, young man.” He placed his medical bag on the counter and pulled out a blood-pressure cuff, attaching it to Hendrix’s arm. “Can you tell me a little more about how you’ve been feeling?”

“I always feel sick and dizzy, and my chest hurts.” Hendrix groaned, the sound transitioning to a whine as the cuff squeezed the shit out of his arm.

Dr. Corbett’s head whipped up from where he had been adjusting the heart monitor. “Chest pains? Those can be serious. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“They’re not like chest pain, chest pains. It’s more like…pectoral pain?” Hendrix frowned as he spoke, his fingers sliding over the muscles in question.

“His man boobs have been tender as fuck lately.” I laughed.

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