RIVERS: TATTOOS AND HEARTBREAK
Rock & Roll Nights
Book 1
PROLOGUE
RIVERS
Iwoke up knowing exactly how much fucking trouble I was in.
The memory of why I was in trouble, on the other hand... That took a little bit longer.
But once it started coming in, the images were like a freight train thundering through my brain. And boy did they hurt.
Flashing lights. A club late last night. Dancing. Girls. Lots and lots of alcohol. Telling someone–I couldn't remember who–that I was going to move the party to my room, and towing at least ten girls along with me. I didn't know if any of my band mates had been with me, but if they were, I couldn't place them. I just remembered the girls. The bottles of Jack I'd ordered from room service. The music blasting from the stereo, and when that didn't seem loud enough, me hooking one of my guitars to the amp I kept here and...
The memories stopped as quickly as they'd started and I sat up abruptly, the thought of my guitar bringing me sharply to attention. Because if I was remembering correctly, that guitar hadn't survived the night.
Unfortunately, sitting up so quickly slammed my body right back into reality, starting with my head, which felt as thoughI'd just rammed it into a brick wall. I slapped my palms to my temples, trying to keep my head from rolling off my shoulders, and shut my eyes as quickly as I'd opened them.
It didn't help. My heart beat pounded through my skull, reminding me with each thud of how much I must have had to drink last night, and my stomach started rolling a moment later. My skin was so sensitive I could feel every breath of air against me, and though my eyes were closed, light was piercing them like a hundred tiny knives.
God, I was going to be sick. Or maybe I was going to die.
No, that couldn't be right. I'd been drinking for most of my life, and it had never killed me before. I just had to ride this wave out. Wait for it to subside, and then get on with getting my body out of bed and into the shower.
When I was able to open my eyes again, though, I rethought the idea of getting up.
I was in more trouble than I'd realized.
The room was trashed. The couch was on its side and ripped open, I counted at least three broken lamps, and the window shades were laying on the floor. The clothes that should be in my suitcase were spread across the floor and the bathroom... I glanced toward it and saw bottles littering the floor, which didn't give me much hope for that situation. Five whiskey bottles lay scattered across the floor, another one tipped on its side on the coffee table.
That one had been half full when it tipped over, which accounted, I supposed, for the room smelling like a bar.
I glanced from one disaster to the next, and finally came to a stop at the worst of it. My favorite guitar–the one I'd decided to play at some point last night–was on the floor as well. Only it wasn't whole. The strings were still connected, from what I could see, but the neck had snapped clean off the body and now lay across the larger piece like some sort of bizarre art piece. Rays ofsun sliced through the window and highlighted the beautiful ash and mahogany of the thing, making it gleam like it was actually glowing, but the rest...
I'd destroyed it. I didn't remember how it had happened, but I had a vague memory of looking at it after I'd done it, confused at how things had gotten so out of control, and then abruptly sending everyone else from the room.
I stood from the bed and moved toward the instrument, my heart breaking anew. It wasn't an old guitar, but it had been one of my first purchases when my band signed our first record deal. I'd thought that deal was a sign that we were on our way up and that things would get better, and I'd made a deal with myself that the guitar would travel with me whenever we went anywhere. Now here we were on yet another tour, with an even bigger band this time and a chance to reach new fans, and I'd...
I'd destroyed the guitar I'd promised to take to fame with me.
Kneeling, I touched the guitar gently and bowed my head. I didn't know why I was surprised. My band and I had been on tour for years now and it had been a whirlwind of girls, drugs, and booze. And I'd been at the head of it. The designated bad boy of the Global Authors, I was all tattoos and attitude. Trouble on two feet. The guy no mother wanted her daughter to meet.
I also destroyed everything I touched. And I was self-aware enough to know it.
"What the fuck happened in here?" a voice suddenly said from behind me.
I jumped to my feet and whirled, furious that someone had snuck up on me and discovered me crying over a broken guitar. Who the fuck was in my room and how did they get in here without me knowing it?
My fucking drummer, that was who.
Noah Michael stood in the doorway wearing his typical smirk, cigarette smoke swirling around him like he was somesort of fucking superhero emerging from the fog. And if I hadn't known any better, maybe I would have believed that. He was a golden boy gone bad, his blond hair falling across one eye and his blue eyes twinkling. Fair to my dark, with just as many tattoos and a filthy smoking habit, Noah had always looked like the good guy.
He wasn't.
He was just as much trouble as me.
