Bullet(78)

“We’ll always be friends, right?”

His voice was soft again, and I could barely hear him. “Fuck, yeah. This time with you…the last few months…Jesus. Some of the best times of my life. I don’t ever want to forget you. I want you to be in my life forever.”

I smiled. “You too.” I felt that grin finally move to my eyes and I said, “Just don’t pretend you don’t know me when you finally make it big.”

He kissed me again and said, “Spend the night? One last time?”

I nodded and felt my body respond to him. My body would always want to be with him, and I savored the feel of his lips on my collarbone, the way his shoulder tasted, the feel of his cock inside me one last time. And even though we’d been civil—friendly and compassionate, even—I still felt tears sliding down my cheeks as I drifted off to sleep, his arms holding me close.

* * *

The next morning felt so much better. I left feeling a weight off my shoulders. Clay had insisted upon making breakfast—pancakes, sausage, and eggs—and we laughed and joked. It was like a huge weight was off our shoulders. He even kidded—well, maybe not so much—that we could hook up now and again whenever we needed a friend with benefits.

I laughed. “You know, Clay, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not a slut.”

He grinned, sliding two pancakes off the griddle onto my plate. “It’s not being a slut if they’re your friend, right?”

But as we cleaned up the dishes before I left, he said, “Anytime you need me, call.” He placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look in his eyes. “That prick Ethan…if he ever does shit to you, you come to me.” I nodded, but I don’t think he believed he had my attention. “Jet’s a bad boy in more ways than you know. He’d like to knock Ethan’s teeth out, and the only reason he never did was because of you.”

If he hadn’t been so serious, I would have started laughing at how he was talking about himself in the third person, as though the Jet part of himself were another personality entirely. I realized then that Clay felt safer being Clay, but Jet really was the part of himself that he needed to be sometimes…when he needed to blow off steam or wanted to do something the rest of society didn’t approve of. “Thanks, Clay.” I hugged him. “And Jet.” And then I hurried up and got dressed and got out of there before both of us changed our minds.





Chapter Thirty-three

Present



CHRIS WAS ABOUT a year and half when Fully Automatic went on tour again. The first leg was in the U.S., but I knew they had some international dates too. I would have worried if I hadn’t known the band was in good hands with Brad.

Ethan denied it. Completely denied it. And maybe it was because I loved him so much, I wanted to believe him, but I was positive he was using again. I had no proof, though. None. Just suspicions. And even though I had plenty of historical evidence to support those suspicions, I chose to push them to the back of my mind. I know I did it because of the baby. I wanted our marriage to work. I wanted Ethan to be a good dad. And I’d seen glimpses of that man. I knew he was there. I just had to find a way to entice him to stay.

I knew that was foolish too, though, because I knew Ethan had to decide he had a problem and also decide he was tired of living that way. Until he did, he’d continue to victimize himself, me, and his son…even if he wasn’t using.

But those thoughts were hidden in the back of my mind where I didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that I was fully absorbed in being a new mother, both the wonderful and not-so-great parts. I felt like a bad mom half the time, because it seemed like I was inept when it came to so many things. Other things, though, like holding my son when he cried, were instinctive. And, when Ethan wasn’t around, I gave that child my everything. He was a joy to watch, to love.

One night—or, actually, it was early one Friday morning, sometime after three a.m., my phone rang. I wasn’t fully awake when I sat up in bed and answered it.

It was Brad.

Oh, no. This couldn’t be good. “Sorry to wake you.”

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

I already knew. Something had happened to Ethan. No. God, no. In the space of those few seconds before Brad answered, my mind conjured up every horrifying scenario I could think of—the tour bus crashed or a crazed fan tried to kill him or the scenario most likely: “He OD’d on H.”

The air escaped my lungs. Jesus Christ, Ethan. I knew he’d been hooked on heroine before, but hadn’t he promised to never take it again? He’d called it a siren…she beckoned to him, urged him to follow her to his demise, but because he knew his demons, he’d said, he knew he could never ever ever do it again. Never. So why the f*ck was I getting this phone call?

I kept my voice calm even though inside I felt like quivering jelly. “So…how is he. Is he—?” I couldn’t even finish my thought.

“They’ve got him stabilized now. He should pull through, but he’s in a coma right now.”

I swallowed. I heard Chris starting to fuss in his crib and got out of bed, but I said, “Coma?” I took another breath. “What the hell happened?” I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder and reached into the crib to lift out my son. “He told me he wasn’t using.”

I heard Brad sigh into the phone. “Apparently he was lying. Like that’s a first. You know him as well as I do, Val. Ethan’s gonna do what Ethan’s gonna do.” Yes, I knew that, but I didn’t need to hear it. “We were partying, and you know Ethan parties harder than anyone else.”

I tried to concentrate. I couldn’t even remember how many weeks they’d been on tour. “Where are you guys right now?”

“Spokane.”

“I’m gonna book a flight. Not sure when I’ll be there.” In less than eight hours, Chris and I were in the air heading to Washington, and I was praying harder than I had in years.





Chapter Thirty-four

Past



SUMMER DRIFTED INTO fall. Yeah, I missed Clay. I missed the hot sex, and I missed the sweet playful guy I’d grown so very fond of. But I felt like I was able to refocus on what I was in Denver for in the first place—the music. And Clay would have respected that.

Brad managed to find a studio where we could record four or five of our best songs and put together an EP. Not just the shitty little garage-band type demo we’d been selling at our gigs but a professional-sounding, high quality CD that would maybe get us noticed. I thought it would be cool to hear ourselves sounding clean and polished. Like everything, though, that EP was going to cost us a pretty penny, so we wouldn’t be able to record right away.

Brad had written an insane song. He played it in the living room of our new apartment one day, having perfected it. It was tight and hardcore, but what I appreciated most was the solo. Brad had never until now invested too much time in solos, but this time, he had so much to say through his guitar, and it was the most mature playing by him I’d ever seen. He’d been practicing this song for a long time; I could tell by watching him play. His fingers were flawless and flying so quickly across the fretboard that I could barely see them. More than that, though…it sounded different. It was hardcore, yeah, but there was something different. It was more melodic. I could literally hear more emotion in it.

I just stared. It was impressive. Brad had changed so much in past two years since I’d first met him. Not as a person. No, Brad was even more solid, more trustworthy, and even harder working than when I’d first met him. But instead of looking like a kid fresh out of high school, he looked like a rock god. He had a few more tattoos and his hair was rock star long. When he worked, he pulled it back into a ponytail and even sometimes at home, but at concerts, he let it flow. Nothing in his wardrobe looked out of place on him. Even the coveralls he had to wear for his day job seemed to fit somehow.

And that was a good thing, because after listening to that solo, I knew it was just a matter of time before we got noticed on a bigger level. I was still working on my own performances, because I wanted to sound as hardcore as our band. There were times, though, that my throat would be sore after a particularly grueling performance. Yeah, I should have taken that as a clue to get vocal training or at least cut back on what I was doing, but I was young. I wasn’t thinking. I just figured after all I was putting my voice through, a little discomfort was natural. It came with the territory, and I just had to suck it up and drink some warm tea with honey and lemon.

Brad kept us booked. We were becoming recognized locally and so we started earning more money as the venues figured we were actually drawing crowds. And then I thought back to Brad’s lecture to our bandmates last spring, where he asked them to contribute somehow. I wondered how, aside from writing, singing, and working another job I was contributing to our success as a band. More than that, I wondered how I could do more.