Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1) (2 page)

“What happened?” I asked. The sound of my ravaged voice made me cringe.

“You fucked up my song,” Chaz bluntly stated from across the room.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chaz,” Luke huffed, “Shut the hell up about the damn song.” My eyes darted over to Nash. When he quickly looked away I knew something was wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Blane asked.

I slowly turned my head in his direction and cringed at the pain. “Tell you what?” I rasped.

“Seriously?” Chaz huffed.

“Chaz,” Nash warned. Chaz was directly in my line of sight, which was good because I didn’t think I could move my head again without vomiting.

Chaz threw up his hands and shouted, “What? He’s pretending he doesn’t know! None of you wanted to sing my song tonight. You admitted it!” His eyes jerked to mine. “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t intentionally sabotage each other.” As usual it was all about Chaz.

“I swear I didn’t sabotage you, man. I don’t know what happened out there tonight. One minute I was fine and the next I wasn’t,” I attempted to explain. His incredulous expression made me bristle. “What?” I asked. When he refused to answer I slowly turned to Blane. “What am I missing here?” Other than Nash, who quietly cursed under his breath, no one said a word. Clearly they were upset but I had no clue as to why. I was the one in the hospital bed so why were they acting like the injured parties?

“Why don’t we all calm down? Mr. Hardy has been through quite an ordeal this evening and doesn’t need to get overexcited,” the doctor said. He turned to me and smiled. “You have a very efficient team, Mr. Hardy. When you arrived we weren’t quite sure what was wrong with you. Judging from your pupil response I suspected an overdose but wasn’t sure until your toxicology report came back from the lab. Oxycodone is a very dangerous drug, especially when taken in such large quantities,” he chastised. It took a second to digest his words. Surely he wasn’t serious? I didn’t take any Oxy. “Your initial vomiting spell purged most of the drug from your system, however, I went ahead and pumped your stomach when you arrived, just to be sure. That’s why your throat is feeling irritated. It should be gone by tomorrow.”

“I didn’t take Oxy,” I rasped.

He continued as if I hadn’t spoken, “According to your bandmates you were in your dressing room…er…partying and such before tonight’s show, correct?” Not wanting to jostle my head again, I slowly turned to Nash and gave him a what-the-fuck look but he pretended not to see it. “Like I said before, Oxycodone is dangerous enough on its own. Mix it with alcohol and it becomes deadly. You are a very lucky man.”

“I didn’t take any Oxy,” I repeated.

“I suppose you didn’t drink tonight either?” Blane sarcastically drawled, and I wanted to nut punch him. He knew good and well I was drinking tonight because he was right there with me. For that matter so were Nash, Chaz and Luke. I was the victim here so why were they treating me like a villain?

Clenching my jaw to keep from lashing out, I calmly stated the facts. “I didn’t say I didn’t have a few drinks. I said I didn’t take any Oxy.”

“Yeah, right,” Chaz huffed, “somehow a massive dose of Oxycodone just magically appeared in your blood stream.” Leave it to Chaz to be a total douche bag.

“Look man, I know you’re pissed because I screwed up your song,” I glanced at each of my bandmates, “and that my head hasn’t been in the game lately. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t take Oxy or anything else beyond a few drinks before the show tonight.”

Nash uncoiled from the corner where he’d been standing and sprung towards the bed. “We found the stash in your room, you lying prick,” he hissed. Reflexively I reared back and grabbed my aching head.

“Boys, Mr. Hardy has a mild concussion. If you cannot calm it down I will have to ask you to leave,” Dr. Mann warned.
No wonder my head hurts like a motherfucker.

Nausea crept from my stomach to my throat as the earlier events started to resurface. I was pretty sure I fell off the side of the stage. Nash’s words suddenly registered and I turned my attention back to him. “What do you mean my stash?” I asked.

His eyebrows shot to the ceiling in disbelief. “Really?” he angrily hissed. Nash was my best friend, my confidant. Our junior year in college, when we barely had two pennies to rub together, we formed the band. Since then, we’d begged, borrowed, and busted our asses to get to the top. If anyone should believe me it was Nash, especially after what we’d gone through with Dale.

“What stash?” I repeated. He looked away in disgust and my heart clenched.

“We found the bottle of Oxy, along with a quarter bag of marijuana and two vials of cocaine in your hotel room tonight,” Blane stated. My spine stiffened both in disbelief and shock. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, or maybe I was being Punk’d? “After what happened to Dale, I have to say I’m shocked.”

He wasn’t the only one.

Fifteen months ago we had to let our drummer and close friend, Dale Nelson, go after he refused to acknowledge or seek help for his drug problem. Three months later he overdosed. I was nothing like Dale and resented the comparison.

“We have a shit pile of money invested in this tour right now,” Blane continued, “You of all people know this. As we speak I have Chloe and the team spinning this as a bad case of the flu.” It was hard to focus with my head pounding.
Focus, Grant.

“Look, I admit I probably smoke too much pot and have been drinking more than I should lately but Oxy and Coke? No fucking way.”

“You’ve been either stoned or wasted every night this week,” Chaz tattled. I glared at him and he returned it with a smirk.

What the fuck?

“I smoked pot three times this week and two of the three were with you,” I snapped. “And for your information, not that it’s any of your damned business, those were the only three nights I touched alcohol all week.”

“What about the coke?” Nash asked. A few months before we let Dale go there was a coke incident. Nash pulled my ass from that fire. Dale, Nash, Luke and I made a pact never to touch the hard shit again after that. Dale obviously didn’t hold up his end of the pact but I had.

I stared him straight in the eyes and said, “I’m telling you the Cocaine and Oxy aren’t mine.” I could see a glimpse of uncertainty in his expression and hoped that maybe I was finally starting to get through to him.

“So, while the media thinks you are convalescing at home, here’s what’s going to happen,” Blane cut in. “We are taking a two week break from the tour, which will cost us a small fortune, while you spend some time drying out in a nice little drug rehab that’s only a forty minute car ride from here.”

“Fuck that,” I growled, and tried not to puke as I awkwardly threw off the covers and hauled my ass out of the bed. They could go straight to hell for all I cared because I was not going to a fucking rehab. The doctor jumped to steady me as I swayed on my feet and I pushed him away.

Right as I reached down to rip the IV from my arm Blane spoke up, “You have no choice, Grant. If you don’t go to rehab you will be in breach of contract, in which case we will drop you from the label. Projections for the tour are upwards of ten million right now. You walk and Meltdown is responsible for every last penny. You and I know this will break you and destroy the band.” At that moment I’d never hated anyone more than I hated Blane Hamilton. If it were about just me I would walk, but it wasn’t. It was Nash who was paying for his mom’s cancer treatments and Luke who was paying for his sister’s culinary school. It was about years of friendship and love, crazy fucked up love for the music. Blane knew this. He was banking on it and I hated him for it. “Do you still want to walk?” he challenged. What I wanted was to plant my fist in his fake tanned face. Taking my lack of response as a no, he continued, “In two weeks we will meet back here in Houston, where you will put on two of the best shows of your career. After that we have five more months until the tour is complete. I strongly suggest you make the most of your time in rehab.” I glanced around the room at my bandmates and realized that not one of them was on my side. Never in my whole life had I felt so alone.

Turning to Nash, I tried one last time. “I didn’t take Oxy, I can’t, I….” I started to explain how I had an allergy to Oxycodone and couldn’t take it but he wouldn’t listen.

“If you hadn’t puked when you did, you could have died,” he quietly said. The pain in his voice spoke volumes.

He was right, I could have died, which raised several questions in my mind. If I didn’t take the Oxy, which I didn’t, then someone spiked my drink. Who would do that to me? Better yet, why? It looked as if I had the next few weeks to figure it out.

From Avalanche to Ambush

Mallory

A
s I rounded
the corner I ramped up my pace. I was still behind but not by much. Each pant of breath left little puffs of steam in my wake as I pushed myself harder and harder toward the finish line. Don’t lose her, I chanted in my head. Lowering into a mid-level squat I lifted my poles to my waist. The last time around I wasn’t prepared for the jump and almost fell. This time I had to stick it or I could forget about catching the lead. My skis caught air as I relaxed into the jump and I let out a loud whoop of joy as I stuck a perfect landing. One more sharp turn and I would be at the targets. Purely out of habit, one my trainer Cheryl told me to break but I couldn’t, I reached back to make sure my rifle was ready to go, only to discover it wasn’t there. What the hell? Where’s my rifle? My heart raced with much more than adrenaline as I scrambled to figure out where I’d screwed up. Did I drop it? If so, why didn’t I hear it hit the ground? I needed to stop and assess the situation but if I dared to stop mid circuit, coach would flip his mind. Shifting my poles to my left hand I used my right to double check my rifle harness. Maybe it got tangled in the harness? Please let it be there. As I reached my hand back it brushed across a hard object. I quickly glanced down and gasped. There, strapped to my waist, was a .38 caliber revolver. Before stopping to check it out I glanced back over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me. When I didn’t see anyone I skied over to the side of the trail and stopped. As quickly as possible I slammed my poles into the snow bank, lifted the pistol from the holster and gasped when I recognized the chipped handle. How can this be? As I stared in shock at the revolver my father taught me to shoot when I was thirteen years old, my mind raced. How is a gun which is secured in a lock box at my parent’s home in Lake Placid sitting in my hand? The sound of a rifle discharging brought me back into focus. It also made me realize I was about to forfeit the race. With a growl of frustration I shoved the pistol back into the holster and slipped on my gloves. Right as I lowered my poles to the ground…

My phone rang.

I shot up out of bed and gasped, “Oh God, not again.” Just to make sure, I clawed the covers away from my body and sighed in relief when I saw my legs, both intact
. Thank you, God
. The ridiculous hot pink knee brace my mother sent me last month never looked so good. My phone rang again, and I quickly snatched it off my night stand to see who was calling.

CiCilia.

Pressing answer, I raised the phone to my ear. “You’re up early.” I prayed she didn’t hear my voice shake.

“Trust me, I really wish I wasn’t,” she sighed. I stared down at my knee and wondered
why now?
“Hey, you okay?” she asked.

“Other than it being eight in the morning on a Saturday, I’m dandy,” I lied. CiCilia wasn’t only my best friend, she was a mother hen. If I told her I was having the dream again she would worry and, since I’d only had this one, I wasn’t ready to go there with her yet.

“Sorry about the early hour. I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.” She paused for a second before correcting herself, “Okay, maybe I would but I wouldn’t be calling
this
morning if it wasn’t important.” Her agitated tone got my attention. CiCi rarely got ruffled about anything.

“You sound stressed. What’s up?” I asked.

“I did something and I’m not sure you’re going to like it,” she confessed.

“Uh oh, that sounds ominous.”

Ignoring my teasing tone, she blurted, “I signed a six month contract with Jeff Jansen this morning.” My jaw dropped. Jeff Jansen was the hottest tennis player alive, and I don’t mean hot in just looks. He was projected to win both Wimbledon and the US Open this year.

“What?” I screeched.

“Yeah, apparently he has a thing for uppers and downers and they’re starting to affect his game.”

Dr. CiCilia M. Woods, or CiCi to her friends, is a psychiatrist who specializes in drug and alcohol rehabilitation. Three years ago she purchased Woodway, a large Victorian home in an affluent area of Dallas known as University Park. Woodway wasn’t just CiCi’s home but was also her place of business. The downstairs housed four offices, a full kitchen and a large meeting room. The meeting room was used for daily AA and NA meetings. While most drug and alcohol specialists worked in rehab facilities, CiCi and her employees worked on a contract only basis. In other words they were paid to travel to the client instead of the client coming to them. Over the past ten years or so there had become quite a demand for in house rehabilitation among the wealthier crowd. For the past year I’d been training under CiCi and recently I’d completed my first assignment, which was an experience to say the least.