Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Licking my lips, I run my gaze up his body. He squirms. “Is that why you keep getting into trouble? In hopes I’ll come discipline you?” I mutter in a deep growl.
His jaw tenses and his arms drop, hands curling into fists. “What? No,” he huffs out in a defensive tone. “Why the fuck would I want that?”
Because it’s written all over your damn face.
“Calm down, boy. I’m just fucking with you.” I smirk. “Are you going to behave if I leave? I don’t want to be called back out here for this juvenile shit. When I make early hour house calls, I expect to be inflicting the carnage, not cleaning it up.” I raise a brow in challenge.
His features furrow, trying to figure out what I mean. He’ll find out one day—when he’s ready to admit to himself why he’s lashing out all the damn time.
He concedes with a nod, but doesn’t meet my penetrating stare anymore. “I’m going to sleep it off. I’ll talk to everyone in the morning.”
“Good plan. Sweet dreams.” With that, I leave him. I slipped my number in his phone when Pink Tights gave it to me. Next time he’s feeling weird and wants to act out, hopefully he’ll think twice and call me.
I climb into my truck and call Ronan. He picks up on the second ring. That poor bastard didn’t get to go back to sleep.
“Hey, what’s happening?” He exhales heavily.
“I’ve cleared the house out. They’re going to sleep it off. You’ll need to do some press control and get them out in the public eye together—a united front—as soon as possible.”
“Already on it. That fucker makes me lose too much sleep. He’s out of control,” he grinds out.
“He’s hurting, Ronan. He needs therapy.”
“He needs a firm hand.” Ronan snorts.
“Well, that too.” I grin, despite him not being able to see me.
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ll do what I can,” I assure him. “Just leave it with me.”
I end the call and wait for the lights inside to shut off before I drive my tired ass home.
“Ruined!” the stylist complains the moment all four of us heathens walk into the GQ studio. “Where’s Marcus? Someone get me Marcus!”
Seth smirks. “This is your fault, Zavee.”
We’re battered and bruised and hungover as fuck. Definitely my fault. At least my bandmates are used to my shit. Seth was quickest to forgive, followed by Riley. Owen is speaking to me, but he’s still pissed.
“We look edgy,” I argue, shrugging.
“Edgy, young, and dumb,” a deep voice rumbles from behind us. “Still sellable, thank fuck.”
Ren Hayes strides over to us, clasping me on the shoulder. “You assholes are all over social media. I’ve been on a Twitter frenzy saving your asses.” He’s smiling—which is good. Smiling is definitely good.
“We’re brothers. We fight,” I state like it’s nothing. Brothers don’t get turned on by each other then get pissed over it. They may be brothers to me, but last night, fueled by alcohol, my stupid body reacted to Owen’s half naked state. He looks so damn much like his brother, it’s painful at times. I wasn’t thinking clearly because of the toxic shit running through my veins—nothing more.
I’m not gay.
So why the hell am I acting like it?
While Ren discusses his strategy to spin our fight into something he can use, I break off from the group and plop down in a chair. I check social media and inwardly cringe. It fucking sucks we’re always on display. There’s always some “groupie” waiting to capture all the moments. Good and bad. Mostly bad. I miss the days when we’d rock out in Lex and Owen’s garage. Riley would beat on the drums, annoying the shit out of every adult in a one-mile radius. Lex didn’t have a musical bone in his body, but he was our official mascot.
And official drug dealer.
Fuck, we spun out of control so fast. Especially him. Where we focused on the music and making demos to send to labels. He focused on getting high. My best friend went down while we went up. And then he stayed down. Six-feet under.
Pain numbs me. The urge to hunt down a bar is strong. Instead, I pull out my Zippo.
Flick.
Burn.
The orange flame dances under the vent of the air conditioner above me, threatening to blow out. Kind of like me. Just barely hanging on while everything works against me. I snap the lighter shut and rub the sticker down again.
God, I miss him.
Someone laughs from nearby, stealing me from my melancholy. Owen—as unofficial leader of our band—waves his hands in the air as he explains his newest idea to Ren. I stare at him for a long time, just taking a moment to drink how much he looks like Lex. Riley shoots me a sympathetic smile. Seth playfully flips me off.