Drive Me Crazy

CHAPTER Three


A few hours later, after making sure Elise ate a few bites of the soup he’d gone out and gotten her for lunch, Quinn bullied her into taking a pain pill. She fell asleep soon afterwards and he snuck out, doing his best not to disturb her. Or to alert the nursing staff that he was on the loose.

While he was successful with his first goal, the second was a total loss. As such, it ended up taking him nearly twenty minutes to get out the front door of the hospital, since it didn’t take long for the word that he was around to spread to other visitors. And since Austin was nothing if not a music town, he had a lot of autographs to sign.

Which normally wasn’t something he would ever complain about. How could he when he was incredibly grateful for the support of Shaken Dirty’s fans—especially after the latest mess they’d gotten themselves into.

But he’d stayed too long with Elise as it was. He had other responsibilities, ones that he couldn’t shirk even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

And yet, even knowing he had somewhere else to be, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. Not because he didn’t want to leave her alone—although that was true, too—but because something about being near her, listening to her voice, soothed him.

Considering how tightly wound—and how wary of him—she was, it made no sense. But it was true, nonetheless. No matter how hard it was to sit in that room with her when all he wanted to do was pull her onto his lap and hold her, kiss her, make love to her, it still made him feel good just to talk to her. Just to see her beautiful green eyes light up or her skin flush with pleasure or embarrassment.

But indulging himself had made him really late, so once he finally managed to break free of the fans, he hightailed it across the parking lot to his motorcycle. Minutes later he was on the highway, headed north, and thirty minutes after that, he was pulling into the parking lot of his destination.

After securing his helmet, he bounded up the stairs to the private facility and checked in at the front desk. By the time he’d presented his ID and made it to the rec room where small groups of people had taken up nearly every available spot, he felt like a total ass. The festivities had started two hours before—he should have been here then, like he’d originally planned.

Pissed off—at himself and the world in general—he was pretty much lost in his own little world until Wyatt’s laconic voice broke through the fog. “What the hell are you doing here?”


Quinn turned from looking out the window at what he thought was a putting green to find his band’s drummer—and his best friend—regarding him with narrowed eyes. Despite the fact that he thought he’d prepared himself for this moment, his stomach clenched a little as he took in Wyatt’s appearance.

The guy looked like hell.

His normally tanned skin was a sick, pasty white that made his tattoos—not to mention the purple circles under his green eyes—stand out in stark definition. His hands were shaking so badly that even shoving them in his pockets couldn’t disguise the involuntary movements. And he’d lost more weight, weight he had no business losing.

It had only been three weeks since Quinn and Ryder had dropped him off at this place, but it felt—and Wyatt looked—like it had been three months. Three excruciatingly long and torturous months that had done nothing for him but make him look more like the heroin addict he was instead of less.

Worry crawled through him, made Quinn’s own hands shake a little. He didn’t know what would happen—to Wyatt or to the band—if this trip to rehab didn’t take. But he couldn’t let his friend see his concern or his doubts. He didn’t want to sabotage any progress, however small, that the guy had made. So instead of asking how Wyatt was doing, Quinn did what he did best, what he’d been doing for more years than he could count. He shoved that shit down deep inside himself and forced a smile onto his face that he was far from feeling.

“I guess you didn’t get the memo,” he told Wyatt. “It’s family weekend.”

“I think that’s supposed to be for real families.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t tell if you don’t.” After all, they’d been each other’s family for eight years—ever since Quinn had been absorbed into the band Wyatt had started with three other guys back when they were still in high school.

Quinn didn’t point that out either. The look in Wyatt’s eyes said he didn’t have to, that despite his words he knew exactly why Quinn was there. So that he didn’t have to be alone on the one weekend a month rehab patients were actually allowed visitors.

“Ryder and Jamison will be here tomorrow. And Jared plans on coming Sunday.”

Something flickered in Wyatt’s blank eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, right.” Wyatt jerked his head toward the sliding glass doors that led outside. “Wanna sit?”

“Sure.”

Quinn silently followed his friend onto the shaded patio, watched as Wyatt grabbed a spot on one of the loungers next to the metal railing before doing the same. While there were a few people on the patio with them, most of the guests were lounging by the pool or trying their hands at what was, indeed, a putting green.

He shook his head. Rehab or five star luxury resort? He didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care as long as it helped Wyatt. His last two rehab stints had been done at places that would give even the most stringent boot camp a run for its money, and they hadn’t worked. Who was he to say that this place, with its tennis courts and acres of hiking trails, wouldn’t do the job?

Silence stretched between them, taut as a guitar string. There were a million things Quinn wanted to say and none that he was certain he should say, so for long minutes he just sat there, watching and waiting. Eventually Wyatt would speak. They’d been friends long enough for him to know that the only thing the drummer was more afraid of than sobriety was quiet.

Sure enough, Wyatt was the first to crack. “How’s Jared?

Quinn’s laugh was anything but humorous. “Completely f*cked.”

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He swiped a weary hand over his face. “What the hell was Micah even thinking?”

“When does Micah ever think? He wanted to sleep with Victoria, so he did. He didn’t give a shit that she was Jared’s fiancée any more than he cared about what would happen when he got caught.”

“God, he’s such a dick.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Wyatt drummed his fingers on his thighs for long seconds, then—before the silence could get any more oppressive, asked, “So where does that leave Shaken Dirty?”

Completely f*cked. Those two words were becoming a refrain, one that was killing him. He’d spent the last eight years of his life doing everything he could to make this band a success, to prove to himself that they had what it took. And now that they were finally on the edge of breaking huge, of entering the elusive world of superstardom, everything that could go wrong was.

But again, he didn’t say that. When their current predicament was at least partially due to Wyatt’s inability to kick heroin, it seemed like a bad idea to lay out right now just how completely screwed they were.

After all, they’d just pulled out of a four-month tour that they were co-headlining—a tour that had been exactly what they needed to move from popular band to superstardom—so that he could get the rehab he needed. Tens of millions of dollars, countless disappointed fans, tons of bad publicity, and hundreds of man-hours of work all down the tubes because Wyatt couldn’t stay clean. Add to that the stress of the lead guitarist and bass player being at each other’s throats and it seemed impossible to think that Shaken Dirty would ever find their way through the mess.

But it also seemed impossible that they wouldn’t.

Quinn hadn’t been around for the beginning of the band, but when they’d picked him up, it had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. Wyatt might say that they weren’t family, but that was bullshit. For Quinn, Wyatt, and Ryder particularly, Shaken Dirty was the only real family they’d ever had. And while Ryder had his fiancée, Jamison, now, his loyalty to the band—and his band mates—was as powerful as ever.

Which was only one of the reasons Micah’s betrayal had cut at all of them, not just Jared.

“We’ll get through it,” he said, because he couldn’t let himself believe anything else. “We always do.”

Wyatt reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Fumbled one out and then lit it up, taking a long, steady drag. Quinn bit back an instinctive protest. One addiction at a time, he told himself. Or two, considering Wyatt was currently trying to kick smack and booze. They could deal with the cigarettes later.

“You know that Micah needs to go,” Wyatt told him.

Quinn nodded. “That’s not even a question. But Ryder and I’ve already talked to the label, management, and our lawyers. If Micah is willing to leave, it’ll be easy to get him out of the contract. But if he wants to stay…it could mean a fight. Being an a*shole isn’t legal grounds for getting dropped from the band. Not when he’s one of the founding members.”

And not like, say, a recurring drug problem that was currently costing the label millions of dollars—and endangering their chance of ever getting tour insurance again—would be. It was one of the reasons they had to walk lightly around Micah. If the label let him go under code of conduct stuff and hung on to Wyatt, despite all the trouble his addiction had caused, there could be definite grounds for a lawsuit.

Quinn didn’t see any reason to get into any of that thought, at least not right then. But again, Wyatt read between the lines. It didn’t take much for him to figure out exactly what Quinn had tried so hard not to say.

“I really screwed everything up, didn’t I?”

“What are you talking about? The band’s mystique just grew about five hundred percent. You know how the fans like their rock stars on the f*cked up side.”

“I know how the record label likes its bottom line on the fat side.”

Yeah. After the last three weeks of down and dirty brawling with their label, so did Quinn. But that’s what their agents and management company were for. He’d spent a lot of time recently trying to figure out the best way to fix the mess he and his band mates found themselves in.

“It’s fine,” he said, because he refused to think any other way. “Ryder and I are going to talk to Drew next week. We’ll get this all sorted out. You just concentrate on—”

“If you say I need to concentrate on getting well, like I’m some ninety-year-old grandma trying to beat a bad case of pneumonia, I will kick your f*cking ass.”

Funny. Wyatt and Elise couldn’t be more different, yet she had said pretty much the same thing to him before he’d left her hospital room. Maybe he was being a little too overprotective, but it was a flaw of his. He tended to be that way about people he cared about.

Not that he was going to tell Wyatt that. “I was going to say kicking heroin’s ass, but now I’m scared. You looked a little fierce there.”

“I feel fierce,” Wyatt said with a laugh, exactly as Quinn had intended. But then he got serious quickly. “I’m so f*cking sick of this bullshit. So f*cking sick of this addiction. I’m done with it this time, man. I swear it.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it. I know how badly I messed things up, for everyone. And I know the three of you are working your asses off trying to fix my mistakes. But this is the last time you’ll ever have to do that.”


Quinn nodded. “I know. You’ve got this.” And if there was a part of him that doubted this time would be any different from the ones that had come before, well, he kept that to himself. Locked it away with everything else he refused to talk—or think—about and kept on sending positive vibes Wyatt’s way. The last thing his best friend needed from him right now was doubt.

“You’re going to kick this addiction,” he continued. “We’re going to figure out a way to get rid of Micah. We’ll find a new bass player, one who is just as talented but not such a pain in the ass. And in six months, Shaken Dirty will be stronger than ever.”

He would make sure of it. Because the alternative—losing the band and his best friends—wasn’t an option. Quinn wouldn’t let it be.

Four hours later, Quinn threw down his hand of cards and said, “I’m out.”

Wyatt grinned and swept the huge collection of licorice and miniature candy bars they’d been playing for into his already bulging pile. “Looks like your luck has finally run out, my friend.”

“Looks like.” He pushed back from the table. “I should probably get going, anyway. Visitor hours are almost up.”

“F*ck ‘em,” Wyatt said, but there was little heat in his tone. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Quinn leaned over and snagged a couple of chocolate bars from Wyatt’s pile. “I’m pretty sure I can find my way.”

“Forgive me for not being as confident. Your sense of direction—or lack of it—is truly awe-inspiring.”

“That’s when I’m in a strange city. I can find my damn bike in the parking lot.”

Wyatt grinned. “Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he continued when Quinn would have protested, “it gives me an excuse to walk with you.”

“You need an excuse?”

“Not to walk, but to grill you. And I very definitely intend to do that.”

Figuring forewarned was forearmed, Quinn regarded him warily. “What am I about to get grilled on?”

“I’m not sure yet. But something is definitely up your ass, something that has nothing to do with the band.”

“Nothing is up my ass, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Dude, save that shit for Jared or Jamison, someone who actually believes the world is filled with unicorns and rainbows.”

Quinn burst out laughing at the image of their lead guitarist with stars in his eyes. Jared might be a decent guy from a decent home, but he was a long way from believing in unicorns. Especially these days. “I’ll be sure to mention your description to him.”

Wyatt shrugged. “And I’ll be sure to mention your preoccupation to him. I wonder how long it will take Jamison to get it out of you.”

Quinn didn’t even want to contemplate that—Jamison was sweet, but wily, and the last person he’d want to bare his soul to. She still thought he was a nice guy—an illusion he’d like to keep up if he could. “Look, it’s no big deal.”

“Excuse me, but I’ll say if it’s a big deal.” Wyatt sounded so prim and proper and obviously bent on busting his balls that Quinn cracked up all over again. It was one of the things he loved about being in this band. How through the years they’d all learned each other well enough to know when to call bullshit and when to just let stuff go. And while he’d prefer if this were one of the latter times, he recognized the look on Wyatt’s face well enough to know that he wasn’t going to bow out of the discussion. Not this time.

“Have you ever heard of Elise McKinney?” he finally asked

Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “Is she a singer?”

“No. She’s a world-class pianist.”

“Oh, right. She did that Phillip Glass album a while back. The one that got all kinds of press.”

He loved that album. There was something about Phillip Glass—and something about Elise playing his stuff—that always got to him. “She was in a car accident a couple days ago. On I-35. Her left hand is pretty much ruined.”

Wyatt winced, flexed his own fingers in sympathy. “God, that’s rough.”

“Yeah.”

“You know her? Back from your days…” He extended his arms, did such a terrible impression of someone playing the piano that he almost looked like he had Tourette’s.

“Nice,” Quinn told him, shaking his head in exasperation. “But, yes, we used to be…friends.”

“You used to be friends?” Wyatt wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “Or you used to be friends?”

“Seriously? Are you twelve?”

“Pretty much. The doc here says I’m emotionally stunted. It’s why I engage in pleasure-seeking behavior that is also destructive to myself and those around me.”

Quinn eyed him. In some ways that description sounded about right to him. In other ways, it sounded way too simplistic for a guy as complicated and screwed up as Wyatt. “And what do you think?”

“I think I’m a f*cking heroin addict and an alcoholic. That’s what I’m here to kick. The rest of the psycho-babble pretty much goes in one ear and out the other.”

Yeah, that’s what Quinn was afraid of. “Wy—”

He waved him off. “Enough talk about my shit. It’s boring, man. Besides, we were talking about your friend.”

“She’s here, in Austin, totally alone. I went to visit her earlier, but they’re going to let her out in a day or two and I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

“What does she want to do?”

“She says she wants to go home to Chicago, but the doctor won’t let her travel for a week.”

“So where’s she going to stay for that week?”

“That’s the thing. When we were playing tic-tac-toe—”

“Tic-tac-toe?” Wyatt looked at him incredulously. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Dude, she’s in the hospital. Like a day out of surgery. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“The only reason my mind’s in the gutter is the way you look when you talk about her.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at him. “Can we get back to the issue at hand? She’s planning on going to a hotel, but I hate the idea of that. I mean, her left hand is in a cast, plus she’s on pretty heavy-duty pain medication after the surgery. She needs someone to take care of her.”

“And you want to be that someone.”

“I think I have to be. She has no one else.” The fact that he got a raging hard-on every time Elise so much as looked at him was something Wyatt didn’t need to know. Not when he had no plans to act on it, after all.

“What about her manager?”

A pang hit him when he thought of Ellington. “He died in the crash.”

Wyatt whistled. “Tough break.”

“Yeah.”

“Her family?”

“She hasn’t got any.”

Someone else might have been shocked at the state of Elise’s life, but this was Wyatt, who had pretty much been alone since he came out of the womb. At least until he’d found Shaken Dirty. “You know, you could always take her home with you.”

“Yeah.” Quinn blew out a long breath. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

“So, what’s the problem? You’ve got that huge house. Hire a nurse and you won’t even have to see her if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to see her. It’s that…there’s some pretty shitty history between us.”

“I knew it. So you were ‘friends.’” He used his fingers to make quote marks around the word.

“We were. It ended not so great between us—”

“Meaning what?” Wyatt interrupted.

“Meaning I was a total dick. And while she was polite to me today, I know she doesn’t trust me. I don’t think she’ll come home with me.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “You still have feelings for her.”

“No…of course… I just… I want… No.”

His friend burst out laughing. “Yeah. That was convincing.”

“I feel responsible for her. She needs help and—”

“You need to give it. Believe me, I get it. Your savior complex is well-documented.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Can you just shut up and tell me what to do?”

“You know that’s physically impossible, right? For me to do both at the same time.”

He made a low, frustrated sound at the back of his throat, and Wyatt held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop messing with you.”

“Thank you.” He waited impatiently for Wyatt’s advice. The guy’s own life was a total mess and he couldn’t help himself for shit. But when he was sober, he had an uncanny ability to get to the heart of other people’s problems and give advice that was almost always spot on.

It took a couple minutes, but then he said, “Well, you could always kidnap her.”

Quinn waited for the punch line, but when Wyatt didn’t say anything else, he turned to stare at his friend incredulously. “That’s it? That’s your advice? To kidnap a physically injured and emotionally damaged woman?”


“Pretty much,” Wyatt answered with a shrug.

“I’m sorry, but do you have any advice that doesn’t include me committing a felony?”

“Not so much, no.”

“Awesome. Thanks for nothing.” He turned away, took the steps leading down to the path of tranquility two at a time.

“You’re welcome.”

Quinn flipped him off and kept walking.

Wyatt laughed, then called after him. “Pick her up from the hospital. Tell her you’re taking her to the hotel, then take her to your place instead. Believe me, she’ll take one look at all that luxury and decide hanging out with you isn’t such a bad idea after all. You could put on some of those famous Bradford moves, get her all hot and bothered. She won’t know what hit her.”

Quinn flipped him off again.

“Or you could be a p-ssy and just take her to the hotel. Then spend the next week worrying about her getting gangrene or some such shit.”

Quinn whirled on him. “Seriously? That’s the image I need in my head?”

“Just trying to help.”

“You’re failing.”

“Yeah.” This time Wyatt’s grin was lopsided. “I get that a lot.”

Shit. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it, bro. Just go get your girl.”

“She’s not my girl. If she was, I wouldn’t have to kidnap her for the chance to take care of her.”

“So make her your girl. You know you want to.”

“I never said that’s what I wanted.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Night, Quinn.”

“Night, Wyatt. Hang in there, okay?”

“Don’t I always?”

Quinn thought of Wyatt’s last overdose, of how Ryder, Jamison, and Jared had found him on their dressing room floor, not breathing and with no heartbeat. He’d walked in, in the middle of them giving Wyatt CPR. It was a sight that had haunted his nightmares ever since—and would for a long time to come.

“Wyatt—”

“I got it, Quinn. I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Promise?”

“You know my promises aren’t worth shit.”

“They are to me.”

“Jesus.” Wyatt pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. “Get the f*ck out of here before you start singing ‘Kumbaya’ or some shit.”

“That’s Jared’s department.”

Wyatt snorted. “Don’t I know it?” With another wave, he turned and walked back inside.

Quinn watched his friend go, watched as the door closed behind him and his shoulders slumped, like he couldn’t stand the weight on them for one second more.

Quinn knew the feeling. Between the tour, the album, Wyatt, Jared, Micah, and now Elise, he felt like the world was collapsing all around him. Too bad he didn’t have a clue what to do about any of it.