Page 17 of Fractured Rhythm

“Yeah. I meant to call…” I trailed off.

Tristan bit out a laugh. “Yeah, sure you did. I get it. It’s been rough for all of us.”

Of all the band members, Tristan was the quietest. The most pensive. There was a lot going on behind those green eyes, had been for as long as I’d known him. He was a calming influence when Jax and Jamie—and myself, if I was being honest—had been loud and crazy. He was a hell of a bass player, and his sound meshed perfectly with the rest of the band. We’d all fit, and now we were one man down, scattered and not sure what to do with ourselves—with the band.

So many bands failed to find the perfect combination of members. Especially groups that started out so young, before they’d figured their shit out. Hell, I was still figuring my shit out, and I wasn’t sure I ever would at this point.

“But I still should’ve called,” I said, looping my arm over Tristan’s shoulder.

“Oh, look how touching. We doing a group hug?” Jax called out.

“Fuck you, ass. I’m having a moment with Tris,” I shot back, unable to hold back my grin.

I’d missed the guys more than I could say and more than I’d ever confess to them.

“I mean, we are supposed to be making music. I can step outside if you two need to make a different kind of music,” Jax continued, wiggling his brows.

“You wish you could join us,” I said, and Tristan laughed.

“Nice to see you’re both still ridiculous,” Tristan said, shrugging out of my hold and heading to the kitchen. “Jesus, Bash. You drinking all of these by yourself?”

He gestured to the line of whiskey bottles near the sink. I’d apparently polished off bottle number eight last night, and I’d only been in town for two weeks.

“It’s fine,” I said, grabbing three beers from the fridge and popping the tops. “Helps me unwind. Helps me write.”

Tristan quirked a brow, and I wished I’d tossed the bottles yesterday.

“Fuck yeah, you’re writing? Man, we need it. Josh…” Jax trailed off, shaking his head.

I latched on to Jax’s subject change. I didn’t want to talk about the whiskey. I’d had problems with booze before, but I was managing. It wasn’t like I had a hangover every morning. Maybe just a few. Like this morning. But I no longer needed it like I did before.

“Oh, I know. That pain in the ass is calling me daily about our contract and getting back into the studio,” I said, taking a pull from my beer. Hair of the dog and all.

“So we’re going to ignore the whiskey?” Tristan asked.

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind some if there’s any left,” Jax said, opening my liquor cabinet. “Yeah. Tris, you want some? I’m sure Wolfie does.”

“I’m good with beer,” I said, not missing Tristan’s narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll stick with beer,” Tristan said, walking over to the couch and sitting down. He set his bass guitar next to my guitar.

I guessed we were playing today.

“How many new songs do you have?” Jax asked after he collapsed in the chair next to the couch, whiskey dribbling down the side of his over-filled glass. The guy was like a walking tornado.

“One and a half, maybe. I think one is decent, and I’ve been fiddling around with a second. Did Josh give you the same deadline?”

“A month,” Tristan said.

“A goddamn month.” Jax shook his head. “Does he expect fucking miracles? We haven’t played together in almost two years, and what’s it been, almost three years, since we had a new song?”

“I know, but we signed contracts. I’m sorry for this damn block.”

“He was your best friend since, like, birth, and we’ve all been friends for over a decade. Grief doesn’t have an expiration date,” Tristan said.

“That’s really fucking deep, man,” Jax said, taking another sip of his whiskey—it was more like a gulp.

Jax had always been a heavy drinker. He wasn’t as bad as I was, but he could go shot-for-shot with me and last almost until the end. Booze had always been our drug of choice. Except Jamie. My best friend had started with the small stuff, but then heroin had sunk her claws into him and there was no getting him free.

---