Page 50 of Tight End

A blacked-out Ford Expedition is parked out front. Brixton’s security guys stand in front of it with menacing looks on their faces, I guess to ward off any nosy ass people who are aching for a look at the broken Sin City front man.

He destroyed everything and just walked away without a second thought.

Blood rushes between my ears, rage and frustration blasting through me like an inferno.

He can’t be more than ten minutes ahead of me…wherever the hell he’s going.

“Take me to him.” I step toward them, my voice tight. “Now.”

Chapter 20

Brixton

The driver pulls around the back of the hotel where I was booked to stay after the show last night. It’s a little bit outside of Oakland and sits on the San Francisco Bay, away from all the shit hanging over me.

Of course, I’m the one who hung the shit there in the first place so I really can’t complain about it.

The whole ride here, I’ve been ignoring calls. Ben, Tyler, Dak, Aiden, and of course, the record execs. Our bread and butter. The money hungry assholes who made me play last night in the same place my life started to crumble and hasn’t stopped since, no matter how many hits or gold records we collect.

Fuck all of them.

Hotel security meets me at the back entrance and hustles me into a private elevator to my penthouse suite. Neither one of my escorts says a damn word, which is great because the last thing I want to do is make small talk. I step off the elevator behind them when the doors open on my floor. They stand in the hallway, waiting for my lock to click and thedoor to open.

Then they’re gone, as quietly as they came.

Fuck, this silence is killing my ears.

I pull open the door to my balcony and breathe in the air. Being close to the water is usually the only thing that brings me peace anymore.

I strip out of the suit Ben brought me, grab a beer from the minibar, and collapse on one of the sofas overlooking the soft waves of the Bay. Reclining, I put my feet up on the coffee table and let out a deep sigh.

Whenever my father would be his typical dickhead self while we were growing up, Davis would always hustle me off to the nearest beach to surf. We’d ride the swirling curls for hours until our skin was pruney and our throats hurt from laughing and yelling.

It was one good thing about living in LA. We were a stone’s throw away from any beach in the area. We didn’t surf for the love of the sport, either. It was just a way for us to unwind and reset. Well, for me to unwind and reset.

Davis was the golden boy. He didn’t kill my mom, so he had that going for him.

And I think he took me surfing because he felt guilty about me being the family scapegoat and he knew it was the only way to distract me, other than music.

My phone rings again, jolting me. I grit my teeth and grab it off the coffee table where I’d tossed it a few minutes ago, ready to decline whoever the fuck’s call.

Except this time, I can’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second before hitting the Accept button on the video call.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Brix, what the heck is going on with you? How could you have done so much damage to your freaking life in less thantwenty-four hours?” The alarm in Allie’s voice makes my chest tight.

She’s one of two people I don’t ever want to disappoint.

And right now, the expression on her face tells me I’m toeing that very fine line.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face. “Al, I know the social media crap looks bad but?—”

“But what?” she says in an exasperated voice. “Look, I get that what happened here yesterday wasn’t the ideal way for you to start your last show. I know it was a lot, between your dad and the letter, and I feel horrible that I couldn’t stop any of it.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “Jesus, dude. You went completely off the rails. Beating some guy beyond belief, that shit show of a press conference, you practically biting off a piece of Sam Hartley’s face on camera after you basically outed yourself…”

A chill snakes down my back.

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