Blue Horizons (A Horizons Novel Book 1) (2 page)

A rueful chuckle escapes me as I think about the repercussions of this, but I just don’t give a shit. For years, I’ve laughed at those in the industry who caved under the pressure . . . and now, I’m no different.

Or maybe I am.

I don’t feel pressure so much as I feel unease. The thrill and the passion, it’s all gone. I used to think I was born for this. I craved it with every fiber of my being. Music has always been what fed my soul. But now, I just don’t know . . .

I lean forward and grab the mic. My eyes drift shut as I place my bottom lip against the cool metal like I have a thousand times. I can do this. Just one more song . . . One last time.

TWO LOUD KNOCKS hit the front door startling me. Whiskey lets out a warning bark and then it swings open. Clay leans against the door frame, toes off his shoes, and barges in, slamming the door shut behind him. He spots me immediately, scowls, and I can’t help the smile that splits across my face. I’m surprised it took him this long, but seeing him here, man, have I missed him.

“You d-d-do know that everyone, and I do mean everyone is looking for you,” he says as he shoulders past, glaring at me. He’s more upset than I thought he would be, and hearing the stutter catch makes me feel like shit. It only comes out when he’s feeling extreme emotions, and he hates it.

He drops his bag next to the couch and turns to face me. I’ve been avoiding his calls, so I can completely understand his irritation. It’s been two months since I walked away from him after that last show and went into hiding. Hiding from life, hiding from responsibilities, hiding from myself. It was desperately needed and felt so good.

I drag my hand back and forth through my hair, suddenly noticing how long and shaggy it’s gotten. Dark brown pieces fall over my eyes and I push them off. “I figured as much. Good thing we never told anyone about this place.” I eye him suspiciously, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve known him for so long that I’ll immediately be able to tell if he lies to me.

His frown deepens as Whiskey runs over and rams his head into Clay’s leg. Clay grunts, but bends down to give him a good petting. Whiskey is just as much his as he is mine, and I’m elated the three of us are together again. Living on the tour bus and being on the road, I had forgotten what it was like to live by myself. Growing up as an only child, there’s more silence than there is noise, and in a way, that silence is equal parts comfort and loneliness. But the day I met Clay, the silence vanished. He became my best friend and the brother I never had.

Letting out a sigh, he makes his way into the kitchen and grabs a beer from the refrigerator. Clay’s never been much for words, but even through the unspoken, I’ve always heard him loud and clear. He leans back against the counter, and I feel him watch me as I move away from him and drop into a large leather chair in the living room. I’m still smiling and he’s still frowning.

For the last five years, Clay and I have been trekking around the U.S. with barely any breaks between tours. This last tour,
The Roundup,
we hit twenty different cities in four months. We are constantly on the go, and lately, the only thing I’ve wanted to do is stop. Now, I’m not gonna lie and say it’s all bad, but there are a lot of moving parts to this job that just outright suck.

The label assembles most of the band. It’s easy for them to find the talent; what’s hard is getting them to stay committed and focused when none of us have any personal connection. We all work tirelessly to make this unified sound, but if one person is off, it affects everyone. Between finding rehearsal space, getting equipment, being on the road, and making sure everyone stays motivated, it’s a twenty-four seven job to lead this group. There is no down time. I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit worrying that someone will flake and not show, and by the time we hit Phoenix, I was mentally spent and just over it. Yes, walking off was a dick move, and all my preaching about loyalty was discredited in a flash. I can own that it was an incredibly irresponsible thing to do, but sometimes a man can only take so much before he cracks.

Guilt hits me as I take in Clay’s appearance, my smile slipping. He runs a hand through his blonde hair, stress lines on his face. Clay never frowns. Me shutting him out at the end of the tour has hit him harder than I thought it would. I hate that I’ve disappointed him, but at the time, I just didn’t know what else to do.

Taking a bow, I raise my guitar with one hand and wave toward the guys in the band with the other. The crowd is wild and has begun chanting, “More, more, more . . .” But I just don’t have any more left in me. Brian, our manager, is standing off to the right enthusiastically rocking back and forth—heel to toe—and sheer joy is radiating off of him. I know this show was probably the best of the tour, but damn, if it wasn’t completely draining. I left it all out there. I have nothing.

With one more wave, I brush past Clay and walk off the stage. Immediately, I’m surrounded by crew and security. After our last show in Flagstaff, I had asked for more security coverage. I swear, with each show the fans have been getting crazier and crazier.

“Hey, Will, over here!” a shout comes from my left.

“Oh my God, it’s Will Ashton!” comes from my right.

“Will!”

“Will!”

“Will!”

All around me, people are shouting my name and trying to reach through security to touch me. The noise turns into a buzz and the people turn into a blur. I’m hot, my head is pounding behind my eyes, and I just need out of here. I pull my hat down a little lower over my face and focus on walking.

I miss the days of the small town bar. People came out because they enjoyed the quaintness and realness of listening to original live music. The people here at these concerts? I'm not so sure. The piercing screaming of the girls night after night has drilled into the base of my skull, giving me a headache that can only be relieved by a six-pack in dead silence, along with some ibuprofen and sleep.

I weave my way past those who’ve somehow managed a backstage pass. Rudely, I don't stop for any of them, and I just don't care. That seems to be my motto tonight, not caring. Whatever. Clay and the other guys will handle them.

Out of nowhere, a tiny blonde girl steps in front of me, forcing me to stop.

“Great show tonight, Will.” She draws out my name, looking at the ground and then back up through her eyelashes. If I've seen this look once, I've seen it a thousand times.

I look her over from head to toe and can't help but smirk at her in disgust. Sure, she's cute and all, but at this point, they all look exactly the same, and easy girls have never been my thing.

My eyes shift to Frank, the head of my security team, and he knows I want her gone. Moving past her, she grabs on to my arm to stop me. Frank immediately pulls her off.

“Hey, aren’t you going to say anything?” She sounds desperate. How did she get back here and out from behind the barricades anyway? I glance behind her and see Brian, our self-appointed ass monitor. Why this guy thinks he knows what I need and want, I’ll never know. I glare at him with complete loathing and he takes a step backward.

Gritting my teeth, I walk straight past the rest of the guys from the stage crew and out to the tour bus. I’m done with this shit. No more lights, no more screaming, just no more.

By the time I have my bag packed, I already know where I’m headed. Grabbing the Gibson, and with Whiskey by my side, we hop off the bus and start walking.

“Ash!” Clay’s voice echoes from behind me.

I close my eyes for a brief second before turning around to face him. I shake my head at him, and we stare at each other from across the parking lot. His eyes are locked onto mine and he sees the desperation. He knows not to come any closer and understanding widens the space between us. No words are said—they aren’t needed. He understands. Instead he lifts his head and throws me a cocky grin. That’s his way of saying, “I’ll see you soon.”

Clay clears his throat and I’m pulled from the memory. “You look like shit,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe.

My hand automatically goes to my chin, and I rub the full beard that’s grown in. I haven’t bothered to shave or even brush my hair really. I stocked up on groceries on the drive in and I’ve only gone out a few other times. I haven’t seen anyone; there’s been no need.

My tongue rakes across my teeth—yep, at least I remembered to brush them today—and my smile grows bigger. I’m so freaking excited to see him. I didn’t realize how much I missed him. I’m trying to think of another time when we’ve been apart this long, and I can’t come up with anything.

Clay and I met the summer I turned thirteen, just after my grandfather died.

Up until then, my grandfather raised me. I have no idea what happened to my parents, and he refused to talk about them. I don’t remember them at all, but I don’t miss them either. Can’t miss something you never had, right? Out of curiosity, I asked him once, and a pained expression crossed his face before one of anger. He looked right at me and said, “Do you see them here?” I shook my head no. “Exactly, so no point in talking about what doesn’t exist.” I hated making him upset, mad, or whatever—he was always so happy—and I never wanted to see him like that again. So I let it go.

I ended up in foster care when he died, and bless the day I was assigned to Clay’s family. The first few months after losing the one and only constant I ever had in my life was devastating, unbearable. To me, my grandfather was larger than life. I idolized him in every way, and felt so lost and scared without him. But I got lucky. Instead of ending up another foster care horror story, Clay became my best friend, and his family eventually became mine.

“So?” he finally asks, breaking the silence, his eyebrows raised in annoyance. What he really wants to know is, “Are you at least going to tell
me
what’s going on?” and honestly, I’m not sure.

I love being a musician, but something’s got to give. I miss the quiet days Clay and I used to have when we were writing music and just being ourselves. The originality, the level of talent, and the heart that poured out of us was what I lived for. Not this. On our last album, of the fourteen songs, only two of them were ours, and they were so patched together I didn’t even want them. They were forced by the label, and that lack of control has also been eating me up.