Twenty-one
Georgia McIntyre.
Gia McIntyre.
Mac In Tire.
Mac Entire.
Mac Ellenshire.
RIP Georgia McIntyre
--Mac Ellenshire, Age 17
Rex
The sound of my phone blowing up on my bedside table pulls me from a dreamless sleep. The double dose of Trazedone I took last night knocked me out cold. After celebrating Blake’s win and mine for all of ten minutes, my body gave in to fatigue.
I blink open heavy lids. My phone stops vibrating, and I let them fall closed. Muscles like concrete and blood like molasses, I sink back to sleep. Jackhammering sounds against my bedside table, and I force my eyes open.
Who the hell is trying to get a hold of me so bad?
A voice in the back of my head whispers that it could be Mac. Gia. The thought pushes my hand from beneath the warm covers. My sore muscles protest the movement. I face the lit up screen toward me.
Not her.
F*ck, it’s almost noon.
I slide my finger across the screen and press it to my ear. “What.”
“Dude, where the hell were you last night?” Talon sounds as if he woke up a few minutes before I did, but had a much rougher night. “Mario threw a huge deal for you at The Blackout.”
I had a feeling he might, but there was no way I could show my face there after what happened with Mac. When I told her I never wanted to see her again, I wasn’t kidding.
Rolling to my back, I rub my eyes. “Yeah, dropping weight did a number on me.” Lie. “I was exhausted.”
“Ha! Too tired to celebrate your win?” He chuckles. “p-ssy.”
His lighthearted insult does nothing to my anesthetized state. “I’ve been thinkin’. We’ve been playing The Blackout for years. Might be time we find a new regular gig.”
“What? You’re kidding, right? That place has supported our band since we were wearing eyeliner and painting our nails black.”
He’s right. There’s no logical reason to stop playing at the venue that has always been our biggest supporter. But I can never go there again. “Just an idea I was kickin’ around.”
“Yeah? Well kick it right the f*ck out of your numb-nut skull. I agree we need something new, but that’s why I’m callin’.”
New. New is good. I’ll have to figure out how to avoid The Blackout later. Maybe fake a stomach bug? Flu?
“Last night I met Carl Simpson. Carl f*cking Simpson, man!”
A tiny rush of adrenaline fights its way to my brain. We’ve been trying to make contact with the booking agent for The House of Blues for over a year.
“And?”
“He said he’s been hearing about the band. Good things. He wants to see if we’d be willing to open for Smythe at the end of the year.”
Excitement pushes through my drug-sludged blood. I sit up. “You f*ckin’ serious? Smythe?” They’re on fire right now. “Aren’t they finishing up a tour with Five Finger Death Punch?”
“Yeah. They finish in November and agreed to play a few smaller shows to round out the year. F*cking kick-ass, right?” His enthusiasm is catching.
“I can’t believe it.” A spasm ticks my lips. A smile? Never thought I’d do that again. “You hooked it up. Ataxia opening for Smythe.” I shake my head. “Never thought I’d say that.”
“So no pussin’ out on any gigs. We need to do whatever we can to up our fan base.”
I hear what he’s saying. We can’t ditch The Blackout. F*ck. My fifteen-second high plummets.
How the hell am I going to face her?
“We still rehearsing tonight?” Maybe when I’m there I can talk to the guys about taking a few weeks off to work on new music. It’s my only hope of gaining some distance.
“Yup.”
“Cool. Later.”
“Late.”
I drop back to the bed and scrub my face. Darren told me things would be overwhelming for a while and that I need to stay in the moment. Focus on this day, hour, minute, whatever it takes to keep from flippin’ out.
With a few deep breaths, I listen to the cues my body gives me. The pinch in my shoulder is screaming for ice. Even though I won the fight, Reece got in a few good hits. The angry jagged scab on my cheek is proof of that.
My stomach growls. No more need to diet and after last night’s fight on an almost empty stomach I’m ready to make good on my burrito promises.
With a plan for the next couple hours, I push out of bed and drag myself to the shower. I try to avoid thinking about the last forty-eight hours. I avoid all thoughts of what it felt like to be comforted by her again: her arms wrapped around me, replacing the memories of the hands that took and took until they got their fill.
I crank the shower to high and step under the spray, not at all missing the only person who I’ve ever let in.
The only woman who’s accepted me for me.
No regrets.
Not one.
It’s time to move on.
But how?
~*~
Mac
I’m lying in the dark in Hatch’s bed. The smell of stale booze and dirty ashtrays fills my nose. The low grumble of his snore pounds in my head, intensifying my hangover. As far as I can remember, I only had the beers at the bar. Once we got here to the motorcycle clubhouse, I flopped on Hatch’s bed and everything went black.
The second I woke up I checked to make sure I was still clothed. Thankfully my bra, jeans, and tee were still in place. I dig my fists into my eyes. Dirt from riding on the bike mixes with day old mascara. My brain feels like it’s going to explode and my stomach twists.
Why did I drink so much? The memory of Rex’s face haunts me: crystal blue eyes and black hair, a million different kinds of beautiful, him pulling that lip ring between his teeth to keep from smiling. Rex smiling. To think of all I’ve stolen from him: his happiness, a future. My eyes flood with tears, and I push back the weakness to avoid the full meltdown that threatens.
Crap. I can’t do this. Not here. I shrug off my self-pity and try to focus through my post-drunken blur.
I’m an idiot.
My original plan to ride through the country, stopping at random places and drinking myself into oblivion was not well thought out. Where would I be if Hatch hadn’t found me?
I lick my lips. So thirsty. My gut rumbles and spins. I need to eat, get my bike, and find a decent motel to recover in. Then I’ll come up with a better plan.
“Hatch.” I smack his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Wake up.”
He groans and rolls away, giving me his bare, tattooed back.
“Seriously.” I shake him. “I need you to take me to my bike.”
His answering snore tells me he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
“Shit.” Maybe there’s someone else who’s headed out who can take me. I push up from the bed and pain stabs through my temples. My hands grip at my head. “Ouch.”
I stumble across the room, tripping over biker boots and who knows what else. It’s too dark. I pull back the thick curtains and the bright sun makes me think it’s later than I thought.
Where did I put my backpack?
My eyes scan the area. It’s not here. I move across the room, flipping up dirty clothes and tossing food wrappers.
“Hatch! Where’s my backpack?” I have no memory of bringing it in here, but then again most of my memories from last night are fuzzy. “Shit, shit, shit!”
I race out of the room and down the hallway to the main living space. There’s a naked couple asleep on the couch, and one woman passed out on a recliner.
But no backpack.
Everything I own is in there: cash, cards to my bank account, clothes. If it’s gone . . . My heart pounds and I break out in a sweat. Bile rushes to my throat. I race to the kitchen, double over the sink just in time to cough up the sour taste.
I have nothing, no one I can call. The only person who would consider helping me would be Trix, but how do I explain being in Colorado with her semi-boyfriend. I’m screwed. Totally f*cked.
“Yo, Snow.” Hatch’s voice calls from behind me. “You okay?”
I spit bile and shake my head.
He laughs. A*shole.
“Where’s my backpack?” I just want to get the hell out of here. Physically, emotionally, these last two days have brought me to the threshold of my tolerance. I can’t handle anything more.
“No clue. Did you leave it at the bar?” He hands me a paper napkin.
I take it, straighten from the sink, and wipe my mouth. “Of course I didn’t.”
“You look like shit.”
“You’re an a*shole.”
A slow smile spreads across his goatee’d face. “Come on. I got something that’ll perk you up so we can find your backpack.”
“Perk me up?” I look around the dirty kitchen, open bottles of liquor, half-eaten food. “I don’t think I want whatever biker hangover cure you’ve got in mind.”
I just want my shit so I can leave.
“Hey, you want to find your shit and get on the road?”
God, yes. So badly. I nod.
He motions for me to follow him. “Then come on.”
My stomach still in knots, I follow him back to his room, scanning the entire way looking for my backpack. There are a lot of closed doors in this place. Maybe one of the guys pulled it into his room?
Even back inside Hatch’s room, I pull open the drapes and click on the bathroom light, searching. It’s nowhere. Dammit!
“Here.” He holds a small square mirror up to my face.
“What is that?” I’m pretty sure I know, but he can’t possibly think offering me drugs is going to help my situation.
“Coke. It’ll kick that hangover. Help you think straight.” He pushes it closer.
“No thanks.” I scoot around him and continue my search.
“You’ve got a better option?” The sound of him sucking the powder into his nose fills the room.
Do I? The only way I’d ever touch that shit would be to put myself out of my misery, which I may need to do if I can’t find my backpack.
Terror pricks along my nerves. If it’s gone, stolen, I’m at the mercy of Hatch until . . . until when?
I watch him pour out another line and suck it back, the biker dick who hates Rex and hit me.
But saved me last night.
And he’s my only hope.