Rocked Senseless: A Stand-Alone Rock Star Romance Page 2

  And I just fucked up royally, because that may very well be what I just did to him.

  Jay walks over to my bedside and hugs me around the table. “Good to see you awake, cuz. Mind if I sit with you?” He gestures to the foot of my bed.

  “Knock yourself out.” I bite into my sandwich, which is the only thing of any genuine importance to me at the moment. I haven’t eaten in days, and my body is crying out for nourishment.

  Jay and Dalton settle on each side of the bed and we all devour our subs, not saying much. The silence is deafening. Usually, this group is loud, boisterous, and generally obnoxious to everyone around us. The boys will never say so, but it broke them to think I might never wake up. Guilt crawls down from my chest into my stomach.

  Jay breaks the silence, pointing at my sandwich. “Hey Drummer Boy, are you sure she’s supposed to be eating this stuff?”

  Oh yeah, “Drummer Boy.” My old nickname for Logan, which caught on with literally everyone around us once we started this band. It pisses me off that other people call him that. That was ours. He called me Cricket, and I called him Drummer Boy. It was our thing, and they stole it.

  Logan shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like she had surgery or something. The doc said she’s free to leave tomorrow morning. She’s fine, just a little fucked in the head, that’s all.” He directs a teasing grin at me. I don’t know if I should kiss him or slap him.

  Slap. Definitely slap. Nothing good can come from thinking about kissing my best friend.

  Dalton pipes up. “What else is new?” The three of them laugh at my expense. I smile. It’s nice to see them recovering some of their usual joie de vivre.

  “So I’m leaving tomorrow?”

  Logan nods. “We have a concert tomorrow night. We’re driving straight from here to Seattle. We missed a couple of performances while you were in the hospital, so we’re going to have to make up for those at some point. Fair warning: our label is pissed as hell about the lost revenue.”

  “Not good, since this is our first time touring with them,” Dalton adds grimly. His lips pull into a thin line. Anger burns behind his eyes, giving them an eerie glow. It gives me chills, and not in a good way.

  I set my sandwich down on the table, my gaze downcast. My motto is “never apologize.” I’m a fierce, bad babe with a killer voice and a style to match. But this time I fucked up royally, and I feel like shit.

  “That’s what we get for letting Cricket snort a line before a concert.” Jay’s teasing grin creates a crease in each cheek.

  “Dude, I almost blurted that out in front of Nana,” Logan cackles. “That would have been a bad day.”

  “Dillweed,” Jay teases.

  “If we’d been smoking weed, none of this would have happened,” Dalton adds.

  “Nah, she still would have fallen off the stage. You know what a lightweight she is.”

  As Logan laughs, I watch his eyes crinkle and his Adam’s apple bob up and down. If he were mine, I would start at his crisp, white teeth and lick my way over his lips and his beard to his neck, biting down on his supple, tan skin . . .

  Whoa.

  I must have gone stupid after hitting my head. I need to get my shit together and fast. The guys are right. I’m on my first tour with one of the top record labels in the country. I can’t afford any more fuck-ups—least of all getting involved with someone in the band.

  Certainly not someone I’ve known my entire life . . . a person I can’t imagine ever living without.

  What the absolute fuck is going on in my brain?

  The words have been running through my mind on repeat ever since Madison fell into a coma five days ago. The past week has been a special kind of hell. Jay and Dalton were just as upset—especially Jay, being her cousin—but I don’t think they felt as desperate to have her back as I did.

  I kept having thoughts about her I didn’t want to have . . . thoughts I haven’t had in years.

  Madison Daley is the only thing that got me through the last fifteen years of my life. I don’t think she even knows how lost I would have been without her. After my dad was busted for being part of a prostitution ring and my mom fell into a depression, I felt completely and utterly alone. Even as an eleven-year-old boy, I knew how fucked my life was. It was hard to walk into school . . . hold my head up . . . even breathe.

  Then I met my new next-door neighbor. We had moved to South Carolina to get a new start. I didn’t realize Madison Daley was part of that package. She was a reckless, wild bundle of smiles. She’s still the most optimistic and crazy person I know. Just looking at her, you wouldn’t think she’d be a happy person. Her dark eye makeup, eyebrow and tongue piercings, the purple ombre in her black hair, and the tattoos on her arms scream “goth girl.” But one of her most defining traits is that she loves defying stereotypes, and by God, does she ever.

  It’s not that I’ve never been attracted to her. You can’t be friends with a girl that hot and not notice. It’s not just her big, blue eyes and plump lips—which are usually covered by purple or black lipstick—or her tight little body, it’s the confidence she exudes without even trying. She knows what she wants and doesn’t hesitate to step out and take it, just like she took me on as her best friend. I really didn’t have a choice in the matter . . . not that I’m complaining. She chose me all those years ago, and I’ve done my best to be the person she needs.

  But now, I’m starting to think about how good we are together. How well we work together as equals.

  How her sweet, resonant voice doesn’t grate on my ears the way my girlfriend’s does.

  Getting back on the bus, we all decide a rehearsal session is in order. It’s hard to do without any of our usual equipment, but our main concern is whether or not she remembers the songs, so all we really need is a guitar and her dusky, deep voice.

  As the bus pulls out of the hospital parking lot, Dalton settles in next to Madison on the couch in the small sitting area. The bus speeds over a pothole and jostles him out of position. Dalton, as usual, goes from zero to Incredible Hulk in two-point-five seconds.

  “Fucking hell, Rob! We’re trying to rehearse here. Drive like a human being.”

  “Sorry,” Rob calls back in his growly, tobacco-worn voice.

  Dalton strums a chord and looks to Madison for a sign of life. She glances up at me for reassurance, her eyes reflecting the stormy sea of uncertainty within. I smile at her like I always do when she starts getting nervous. I’ve been protecting and supporting this girl since we were kids. None of that’s going to change now. I’ll never understand why my crazy goth neighbor decided to make me her best friend, but she made me everything I am. I realize that now more than ever.

  Dalton continues playing the intro to one of Madison’s songs. Her raspy voice joins him, wrapping around his chords like a warm blanket. When she sings, she can soar high above the clouds and plunge into the depths of hell within the space of a few measures. Her range and the angst in her voice have been a huge factor in Malodie’s success so far. We may not be popular yet, but we’re good, and ninety percent of it is her.

  Luckily, she seems to remember her songs. I don’t know why I thought she might forget. After all, she wrote them. But something about her face when she first woke up . . . it seemed like she wasn’t all there, and in a way, it still does.

  I hold on to the side of the bus as I walk over to the mini-fridge to pull out my ever-present bottle of Kraken. This particular strain of rum is too strong for anyone else on this bus, so I know it’s always waiting for me when I look in the fridge. Normally, I would mix it with something, but today I feel the need to unscrew the cap and drink it straight out of the bottle. I’m sleep deprived and still recovering from the stress of the last few days. Alcohol is the only thing that will keep me from turning into a grouchy asshole. I always rag Madison about turning me into an alcoholic. She’s been working on it for the past few years, getting into all kinds of bullshit I’ve had to bail her out of, but these kinds of shenaniga
ns—diving off a stage headfirst and being dead to the world for five whole days—are too much to take.

  My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, and my stomach churns.

  It’s Celeste. I don’t even want to know what her reaction to all this is going to be, especially since I haven’t answered her last hundred calls.

  I let the phone ring until her name disappears from the screen, but then a text comes in.

  Celeste: Answer your goddamn phone right now or I’m destroying your Xbox.

  She follows up that nasty threat with a photo of a hammer positioned over my console. Growling, I unlock my phone and dial her number.

  “Well, look at that. You are still alive,” Celeste barks.

  “How dare you threaten my shit? You know I’ve been in the hospital for the last five days—”

  “Yeah, I heard, and I also know you’re on the road now, so what’s your excuse this time?”

  I sigh and walk toward the front of the bus to get some privacy. Rob never involves himself in our personal lives, so I know he won’t say anything. I can’t afford to let anyone know how shitty things have gotten with Celeste. If the band finds out, it could be the thing that makes everything go south. Celeste is the reason we have our record deal. She knows she could sabotage our future at any turn if we piss her off. We’re all at her mercy. I don’t want to give the guys and Madison any more reason to worry than they already have.

  “Look, I was going to call, but things are complicated right now. Madison is trying to prep for our next concert. I need to be available in case she needs me.”

  “Oh, so you can be available for her,” Celeste spits, her voice dripping with poison. “I’m your girlfriend, Logan. I’m supposed to come first.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I seethe. Every time I talk to Celeste about Madison, her attitude gets my hackles up. She hates my best friend with a passion and is always trying to one-up her and push her away from me. We’ve almost broken up over it, a few times, but she always manages to lure me back into her web. Part of it is the fact that her father owns our record label. Being the one to break Trevor Norman’s little girl’s heart isn’t a fate I would wish on my worst enemy. I’ve seen the way she has him wrapped around her little finger. If I screw her over, I screw us all over. It’s a catch-22 I’ve been wrestling with for a while.

  “Don’t snap at me,” Celeste snarls. “Is she still going to be able to perform?”

  I glance over at Madison and Dalton. Jay has joined them now on another acoustic guitar. A slight smile pulls at Madison’s lips. She sounds better than ever, she fucking knows it, and she’s proud of herself. I can see it written all over her face.

  It’s adorable.

  “I think so. I gotta go, okay? I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bye.” Celeste hangs up. I hear the frustration in her voice and feel a pang of guilt. It isn’t easy to date a member of a rock band, even if you are familiar with the music business. I should pay more attention to her, but it’s hard when her voice is starting to sound like a chaos chord banging relentlessly in my ears. I need some space to breathe.

  I settle back into my chair and pound the Kraken, watching my best friend’s face light up more and more with each song. She got lost for a while before her accident, but she’s coming back with a vengeance. It might take her a while to get all the way back to us, but no matter what, I’ll be here to welcome her home.

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I try to connect with the girl looking back at me. Outwardly, I’m a force to be reckoned with. My makeup is on, my platform boots have lifted me up into the heavens, and my clothes are clinging to all the right places. I look like a rock star. I feel like a scared little girl about to present in a kindergarten recital.

  What if I fall off the stage again? What if I do something stupid? Or worse, what if my injury flares up and I can’t even finish the concert? I do have a raging headache, after all . . .

  I reach into my makeup bag and pull out a bottle of oxycodone they gave me at the hospital. The dosage instructions say to take one at a time, but I pop two in my mouth and swallow them with some water. If I want to perform at my best tonight, I need to be pain-free and relaxed, and oxycodone has a nice “chilling” effect on me. Hopefully, the medicine won’t give me any weird side effects while I’m up on stage. The last thing I need is more bad PR.

  I slide spiky black rings onto my fingers and sigh. The show must go on, whether I feel prepared or not. Five days in a coma really threw me off my rhythm. I sang through my songs at least five times each on the bus. I think I’m back to normal, or maybe even better, but for some reason, I’m still so nervous, it’s like I have the flu. Maybe it’s because I have something to prove this time. Malodie’s future with Norman Records is in jeopardy, and it’s my fault.

  I don’t want to go into the spotlight when I’m still feeling so lost, but I have to. I can already hear the crowd gathering on the other side of the stadium. The earth is rumbling underneath thousands of feet. It’s happening. They’re here, and they’re going to see me for the fraud I am.

  My face is painted on. Is it enough to hide the scared child inside?

  A sharp rap comes at my door. Our PR specialist, Tia, speaks through it.

  “Madison, are you available for visitors? Trevor Norman is here, and he wants to speak with you.”

  My stomach turns a flip.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I knew I was in trouble. I had no idea it was this bad. My anxiety level just shot from a full ten all the way up to a fifteen. The owner of the record label is here.

  What the fuck does he want?

  I wait too long to answer, and a deep, viscose voice greets me. “Madison, this is Trevor Norman. I only need a few moments of your time.”

  I open the door and see Tia, a tall, slim woman with oak-colored skin and a straightened black bob, standing next to an even taller, slimmer man in an expensive-looking suit with a perfectly trimmed gray beard. His mouth opens in a wide, unsettling smile. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “So good to see you looking well.” He reaches out to shake my hand. My skin crawls when his clammy hand squeezes mine within an inch of its life, then lets go a little too abruptly. “We were all so sorry to hear about your accident. I trust it had nothing to do with the equipment or the venue? We’d hate to have a lawsuit on our hands.” His tight laughter ends on a sour note.

  I breathe out a sigh. Maybe he’s not so mad at me after all. “No, it wasn’t anything like that. I just got a little over-excited, that’s all. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Trevor nods. “Good to know our team didn’t play a role in the incident. Are you feeling well enough to perform tonight?”

  “I think so,” I tell him.

  Trevor scoops up my hand in both of his. I grin through the urge to recoil from him. “Wonderful. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. I look forward to the performance.”

  “Thank you.” I watch him retreat down the hallway. Tia shoots me a look with her big, dark eyes, and I know without her saying anything that I have to nail this performance. She follows closely behind him. I feel my chest tighten as I watch them walk away.

  The owner of our record label is attending the concert. The pressure I was feeling before just increased tenfold. Even though he doesn’t seem that upset with me, I know Trevor Norman. He is a textbook businessman, all smiles and pleasantries regardless of what he really thinks of you.

  I trudge down the hallway toward the staging area, my trepidation mounting with every step I take. I find Logan, Jay, and Dalton clustered around a table, holding shot glasses and laughing as if they don’t have a care in the world. Jay sees me first and hands me an empty shot glass. Before I can protest, he fills it with whiskey.

  Ah, whiskey. My old nemesis.

  Its smooth, rustic flavor belies its ability to fuck you up. With oxycodone already starting to warm my bloodstream, I’m not sure partakin
g in this little ritual is the best idea.

  “I can’t . . . ” I push my shot glass toward Jay, but he shoves it back at me, almost spilling it.

  “Drink, drink, drink,” the guys chant at me. I try to explain that I’m on pain meds, but no one can hear me over the sound of their childish peer pressure. I cave in and down the shot, a pleasant burn scorching me as it slides down my throat.

  “Just the one,” I say, holding up my index finger. They chortle and clap like fools. I’m not sure if I should be more worried about myself or the rest of them fucking things up tonight.

  “Chill out, Mads. It’s just alcohol. This ain’t half of the shit we’re usually on, and you know it,” Jay says, nudging me in the stomach with his elbow. I resist the urge to vomit on him. I’m never this nervous.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  The stagehands approach us and attach headpieces to our ears. I’m led to the entrance to the main stage, where I’m instructed to wait until I hear the cue in my ear. My body wears a sheen of sweat. A warm hand comes up to cup my back. His pleasant voice sends shivers through me.

  I suddenly realize why I’m on edge. Every cell in my body is hyper-aware of Logan Young.

  “I can tell you’re nervous. Remember our old trick. If you get scared, just look back at me.”

  I smile. I don’t know how, but Logan always knows when I’m nervous, even on stage. Back when we first started performing, I used to get nervous a lot in front of crowds. Logan made faces at me from the drum set whenever I looked back at him. It always made me giggle and helped me relax.

  I look up into Logan’s midnight-colored eyes.

  I don’t know what I would do without this weirdo.

  My body sags against his of its own accord. With my ear pressed against his chest, I can hear his steady heartbeat. Logan wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.

  His embrace is too warm, too inviting. I quickly pull away.