“Caleb . . . I can’t . . . I don’t.”
He heaves out a frustrated breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and gravely. “If I could deal with this shit on my own, do you think I would call you? Obviously, you’re needed. So wipe the drool off your lip, and get down here before this kid completely ruins his career.”
With that, he hangs up, not even giving me a chance to ask for directions, or even an address. Luckily, the cab driver knows the place, and once I throw on some clothes, I’m whisked away into the wee hours of the morning to play babysitter to a shit-faced Ransom Reed.
“There she is!” I hear as soon as I walk in. I look around the dark, dingy place and cringe. Thank God, I’m up to date on all my shots. The bar top looks like it’s been spit-shined in Hepatitis. There’s music playing—piano—but it’s not from a stereo system. And while the place looks relatively empty, there seems to be some commotion toward the stage.
Caleb approaches me first, and the alarmed look on his face tells me that he is in no mood for jokes. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Look, try not to stay here too long with him. The papzz are bound to show up any second.”
“Stay here with who? What the hell is going on, Caleb?”
“Ransom. He’s . . . having one of his moments. We’ve done everything we can to get him to come down, but nothing is working.”
Before I can inquire anymore, the ear-splitting racket of glass shattering sounds from the front of the room. There’re shouts, then laughter, just as Cash Colby comes stalking up to us.
“Is this her?” he barks, clearly pissed off. He runs an agitated hand through his sandy blond locks and sucks his teeth.
“Yeah,” Caleb answers. “Cash, this is Heidi DuCane. Heidi, Cash Colby.”
I extend a hand, but he completely ignores it, looking back to Caleb with eyes the color of polished steel. “I’m fucking sick of this, man. Every week, there’s something new with him. We can’t keep covering for his ass.”
“I know, I know,” Caleb assures, his expression anything but confident. “He just needs time. Maybe if he takes some time off—”
“Fuck that. We have an international tour in a matter of months. If he doesn’t get his shit together, I’m done.”
Cash stalks toward the entrance and disappears into the night without so much as a goodbye to the rest of his bandmates. Rude ass. Maybe he does have Bieber’s cuntiness, as well as his looks.
Soon after Cash leaves, Gunner Davies comes to stand beside Caleb, placing a hand on his shoulder. Caleb drops his head and nods. “I know, Gunner. I know. I’m just not sure what else we can do.”
With that, Gunner presses his hauntingly light blue eyes into me so intensely that I nearly gasp. They’re so pale that the stark contrast of his black hair and clothing make him seem almost otherworldly. He gives me a single, stiff nod and walks away without even uttering a word.
“What was that about?” I whisper to Caleb, unnerved by their one-sided conversation and the force of Gunner’s stare.
“He doesn’t want you to get involved in this. He doesn’t think it’s fair to make this someone else’s problem.”
“Not fair to who?”
Caleb shrugs. “To you. To the band. They’re a tightly knit group. Involving someone else is risking exposure.”
“Exposure? What would I possibly expose?”
Before Caleb can answer, Striker Voss approaches us, his silver adorned face looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen it. He always seems so playful in public, so energetic on stage. Now he looks exhausted, drained both mentally and physically. Kinda like a father who has just had to bail his teenage kid out of jail in the middle of the night.
“I got him to take a few swigs of water, but he still refuses to eat anything. Caleb, I hate to leave you with him, but I’ve gotta get home. The wife will already have my balls for this.”
“Yes, of course. Get home to your family, Striker. We can take it from here.” He extends a hand toward me and gives a weak smile. “This is Heidi. Hopefully she can talk him into getting into a cab and heading home.”
“Heidi,” Striker says, holding out a large hand for me to shake. He looks so different up close, even taller than I imagined. And although he’s inked and skewered to death, there’s a certain gentleness in his eyes. “Good to finally meet you. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“Likewise,” I reply, taking his hand for a short second. “What exactly are the circumstances?”
Striker looks toward the darkened stage and exhales heavily before looking back to me. “Ransom,” is all he says, as if that’s all the explanation I’ll need. And truth be told, it kinda is.
He bids us both good night, waves to the barkeep, and follows his brothers into the night.
“Well, Blondie. You’re up,” Caleb says once we’re alone.
“Up against what?”
“Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta fix this shit before it gets any worse.”
Right on cue, Caleb fishes out his cell and barks a greeting into the receiver, stepping away for privacy. I roll my eyes. I didn’t even hear it ring. He probably just wants to escape like the rest of them.
On tentative legs, I make my way to the front of the bar. It’s dark and smoky, yet there’s a single spotlight focused on the stage. The room is tiny, but I couldn’t get a clear view from the entrance since it was blocked by a partition meant to ward off prying outside eyes. As I round the corner, I’m grateful for the visual obstruction. And sad that I can never unsee what sits before me.
Ransom Reed is slouched over a piano, the top of it littered with beer bottles and empty glasses. There’s an overflowing ashtray that looks to be filled with at least a full pack of butts, some of them still emitting wisps of toxic vapors. And that’s not even counting the stuff he can legally smoke.
My heart lurches at the sight of his disheveled clothing and mussed hair, so far from his usual fresh-sexed look. Now, he just looks sloppy, and a bit dingy. Still, he’s beautiful. Inebriated or not, I can’t fathom a world where he isn’t the most alluring man alive.
I’m only a few feet away from him when he finally looks up from the piano keys he’s been staring at. At first, his glossy-eyed gaze doesn’t register, but after a few blinks, he focuses on me. Twin flashes of pain and anger contort his features, before he quickly smoothes them into a lazy smile.
“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t my hardworking publicist. Always there to answer my calls and show up to my appearances. Just like the good girl that she is.” His tone is casual, but I don’t miss the venom in his words.
I force myself to close the distance between us until I’m standing before him at the piano. The rest of the place appears to be empty now, but I don’t want to risk any eavesdroppers.
“I’m sorry, Ransom. Something came up, and—”
“Something came up? Something more important than me and what I need?” He barks out a harsh laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course, it did. Let me guess, your husband came up. Didn’t he, Heidi? Oh, he was up for you, all right.”
“Stop it, Ransom,” I grit out, looking around to see if anyone heard him. “That’s enough.”
“Is it enough, Heidi? Have you had enough of me? Because, baby, I assure you, I have so much more to give you. And that is what you want, right? For me to give you . . .” He reaches down between his jean-clad thighs and grips himself, gently squeezing more than a handful. “. . . this. All this. Every last long, thick inch fucking you crazy until your eyes roll to the back of your head. That is what you want, right?”
“No!” I retort, my face hot with frenzied anger. “How dare you. How dare you fucking speak to me that way.”
“Speak to you that way?” He leans forward, clumsily placing his hands on the keys so that it creates a composition of chaos. I look down to see that they’re all scuffed up, the top layer of skin on his knuckles caked with dried blood. What the hell? “You like it. You begged for it. Don’t try to act like I sought you out. And now that you’ve gotten what you want, you just throw me away, is that it? Just use me like a fucking dildo and throw me back in your lingerie drawer with all your other dirty, little toys.”