Page 14 of The Bloodfeather Promise
That was before I got serious. A seven-month stint on an exclusive island resort in Bali, countless sweaty, sleepless nights, and I finally kicked my cocaine habit. Thank God I never graduated to heroin. Probably wouldn’t be standing here today if I had, because although I crave control when it comes to my music, I’ve always sinned to excess. Quitting the blow and pills was damned sure difficult enough.
I still like my weed. I still enjoy a good whiskey. Not to the point of addiction, but enough so my edges are dulled. Hell, it’s no secret I have plenty of edges that require dulling.
I still want my drugs. Every day I want them, so much that sometimes my hands tremble. It makes it hard to play my guitar. I’ve been told the cravings will ease after time. I hope so. When Holly does her thing in front me, it drives me fucking crazy. She hopes I’ll cave and join her. I won’t.
“Keep your nose clean,” Jack warned the last time we saw each other, “and Flyby can’t force you into rehab.”
That was two months ago, the day I moved into Lullaby Tides. I sure as shit don’t want to go kicking and screaming into some swanky, upscale hellhole the tabloids call a “spa”. So, Holly does the powder and screws my brains out while I smoke weed, concentrating on creating songs that aren’t crap. Concentrate on pulling my life back together in this little town our family visited on summer vacations when I was a kid.
I remember it being a magical place. Happy memories. Warm and fuzzy. When we were kids, I couldn’t wait to come here. A month in the sun, building sandcastles with my older brother. Learning to boogie board. Discovering girls weren’t gross, being pissed when those same girls gravitated to Alex. They ignored me and my awkward limbs and pimples and the unruly head of dark, wavy hair that did whatever the hell it wanted. I tagged after my brother, the guitar I got for my eleventh birthday slung across my back until Alex would punch my shoulder, telling me to get lost.
A few summers passed before I had my own little harem of summer girls. Alex was two years older than me and entering college. He pulled me aside one night during that vacation. Standing on the porch overlooking the darkened gulf, he shoved a handful of condoms at me.
“Always, always use one,” he said with a crooked grin. “No matter how horny, drunk, or high you are. Doesn’t matter how hot the chick is, don’teverscrew a girl without one.Ever.”
At the age of fifteen, I took his advice seriously. Figured my brother knew what he was talking about. Alex never hooked up with the same girl for longer than a month, but there was always a pack of girls desperately clinging to his arm, ravenous for any crumbs of affection he tossed their way. He plowed through them like an addict with a stash of favorite drugs.
Alex was wiser than me. Cooler than me. I idolized him. He was brilliant, with the hands of a surgeon, an expert at diffusing any situation with a wicked sense of humor. He convinced our parents, both doctors, that although my lack of interest in college was disappointing, they should never discourage my dreams of a career in music. Eventually, they agreed. As long as my grades were maintained, I could play to my heart’s content.
Dylan Harrison, my best buddy from the time we were in third grade, possessed a talent for singing. After discovering he was really good at arranging my lyrics and chords so a song just flowed, we knew we were onto something.
Alex sauntered into our garage where we had set up for practice one afternoon, punched me in the shoulder, and drawled, “Goddamn, Greyson. You guys might actually grow up to be famous. Try not to fuck it up, all right?”
I think I grinned for days after hearing that compliment.
Jett Cassidy and Brant Hunter joined us during my freshman year of high school. Jet plays drums like an absolute madman and mostly by ear. Even when he was fifteen years old, sticks were flying everywhere. I’d play the chords and sing backup while Dylan handled the verses. Within minutes, Jett picked up the beat and Brant, goddamn, Brant played bass so effortlessly it was hypnotic. The guy can fix himself a sandwich, eat it and wash the plate, all while playing the bass. That’s how easy it’s always been for him. I told him that once, and Jett, looking perplexed but always the jokester, said, “Make a sandwich? Shit, we’ll have groupies for that. And when they’re done feeding us, they’ll suck our dicks.” Our teenage, immature, chauvinistic selves all laughed in agreement, making plans for that magical day, far off in the future.
Our half-assed garage band began playing backyard parties, then our parents’ parties and restaurants. We racked up a few bar gigs, although we were too young to drink in the places we booked. I always looked at Alex for approval. Not my parents or my own friends. Just my brother.
The other guys worshipped him, too, especially Dylan. Hell, we even let Alex name the band. While four sixteen-year-olds bounced ridiculous names off each other, my brother suggested one with a mischievous wink, his green eyes sparkling.
“A guy’s orgasm lasts anywhere between five and twenty seconds when he comes. The average is seven, so Seven Seconds would be a cool name.”
No one believed him.
“Look it up.” He shrugged, exiting our garage with his latest, insanely hot girlfriend draped all over him. “Better yet, you pussies could find out for yourselves. Let me know if you need a girl for that. I’ll hook you up…”
Challenge accepted. And no shit. Alex told the truth. At least, the four of us agreed it was true. We timed ourselves, with girls we got on our own, of course. Brant boasted a fifteen-second orgasm, but you can’t take that dude seriously. He also claims Paul McCartney appeared to him in a dream when he was five. Told him he’d be the most badass bassist in bassist history.
Jack Roman saw us playing in a bar near Alex’s college in Georgia the year after we graduated high school. He’d heard some buzz about us, offered to manage us, and things really started happening after that. Jack is only ten years older than us, but he already had a track record for managing some incredible talent. His best decision was sending us to Hollywood. We spent a summer playing gigs wherever we could.
It was good advice. We caught some lucky breaks, played a few house parties up in the hills where the crowds grew so large the cops were often called. Our following got larger with every performance. When Jack booked our first show at the Whiskey, management barred the doors, blocking fans who didn’t have tickets. They were trying to break into the building just to see us on the renowned stage.
Flyby Records picked us up soon after that. Alex was so proud; you’d have thought he was the one signed by a major label. Someone remarked my brother got more ass after the signing than the band did. We all just laughed because it was true. Because it was Alex, it was expected.
Our family took our last vacation together at Sea Cove in celebration. Just like when we were kids, Mom and Dad danced barefoot on the terrace, drinking margaritas. Alex and I sat on the edge of the gulf, while salty water washed sand over our feet with one wave then erased it with the next. We shared a beer and talked about his starting medical grad school at Tulane.
I thought I could find happiness here again. Recapture those moments of gold. It’s been almost three years since Alex’s death, but now, this place, this beach, the sun and sand, the sunsets, it only pisses me off. I’m bored. Restless. Angry. Heartbroken. Confused.
My parents said I was crazy when I bought this house, the same one we rented that last summer. They are currently in the middle of a divorce. Both refuse to visit. I don’t know what I hoped when I told them it was now mine. Maybe that they would remember they loved each other. Or remember how much Alex and I loved coming here every summer. How happy we all were as a family. I don’t fucking know, but it all backfired. My mom cried and my dad swore at me. He said I was obviously high as a fucking kite when I signed the purchase agreement.
The sad thing is, he’s right. I was a fucking mess that day in the title office. I barely held it together when the keys were placed in my palm. Later, in the privacy of my car, I shed more than a few tears. Alex and I dreamed of buying the house with our own money when we became rich and famous. I had to do it all alone. It didn’t seem right. The guilt was paralyzing. Once Holly’s company was secured for the remodel of the house, I left for Bali two days later.
Since I haven’t answered Holly right away, she shouts the question again.Goddamn.They can probably hear her ass up in Atlanta. “Well? Do you want a line or not? Yes? No?”
I grit my teeth.She’s such a bitch. I push thoughts of Alex away. I have to. Otherwise, I’ll go insane. Besides, I’m saving that for a future moment. The anniversary is fast approaching. August fifth. The date is burned into my brain. I have a bad habit of doing stupid, stupid things on that day. The day Alex and Jessica died on a winding stretch of road outside of Atlanta, headed in the opposite direction of Jessica’s condo.
Headed toward Alex’s rental house up in Buckhead.
