Page 10 of Bonding the Band

Clover’s eyes widened as she looked between me crouching in front of the freezer and the test in her hand.

“Meadow, if you just peed on this—which, judging by the smell, you most certainly have—then you are, in fact, very much pregnant.”

Fuck.

Chapter 5

Beckett

May, Singapore

Something was wrong with Hendrix. The fucker hadn’t been right since Seattle, but he refused to admit it, even while he sat on the floor of the tour bus, his face tinged green as he tried to get himself up for band practice.

“Hen. Come on, man. You need to go see a doctor.” I reached out a hand to help him up.

“I’m fine!” he insisted, waving my hand away as he attempted—and failed—to get himself upright.

“Why are you so fucking stubborn?” I growled. “Did you catch something from one of the groupies?”

Hendrix gaped in horror. “My dick is perfect!”

I cocked my head. “It’s a little crooked. I’ve seen it far too many times. You need to get a sense of modesty, man.”

“You’re lying. You’re just pissed mine is nicer than yours.”

I sighed, rubbing my temples lightly. Why had the band sent me to deal with him? Just because I was the most pragmatic and sensible of us didn’t mean I was cut out for handling the giantman baby who was probably still high as a kite off last night’s drugs.

Why he loved that shit was beyond me. Occasionally, I would smoke one of Phin’s copious joints, but other than that, I didn’t feel the need to chase that high.

The only thing stopping me from driving Hendrix’s ass to the nearest rehab was our manager. Gary would have a fucking meltdown over any of us missing band activities.

Money before mental health—that was our Gary.

I held no loyalty to the fucker. Sure, he had been with us from the start, since we were a shitty high school band playing out of Hendrix’s garage, but over the years, he had started caring less aboutusand more about the money we could make him.

Hendrix still listened to every word the idiot said, sadly.

I looked up at the ceiling, pleading to an invisible deity to make this move faster. Hendrix could easily drag this out for hours, and we needed to be at practice. We were preparing a new set list for the next leg, and we couldn’t exactly do that without our lead singer.

Hendrix flopped back onto the floor, starfished out and staring bleakly at the sunroof.

“My chest hurts,” he whined.

Shit. Was he developing cardiac issues? It was only a matter of time until it happened, given he was practically snorting an entire pharmacy every other night.

The Asia leg of our tour had been a huge success publicly, but behind the scenes, Hendrix had been a mess. The adoring fans hadn’t noticed the nausea, the constant dizziness, or the general cantankerous attitude of our lead singer.

“Give it a few weeks and we get a vacation.” Sadly, a week wasn’t long enough to send Hendrix to rehab, but that was a distinct possibility after the tour was over.

His eyes brightened. “We can throw a party at the house!”

I sighed.

There was no changing him.

We only practiced in short bursts because we had the combined attention span of a fruit fly.

“Can we get coffee?” Hendrix asked as he moved the mic stand from hand to hand in a bored motion.

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