Having Hope (The Blow Hole Boys Book 4) (14 page)

“The sex was amazing. You were amazing, but when I woke up you were gone, and all that was left was a spot of blood on the sheets. What the fuck happened, Hope? I deserve to know!”

He was yelling.

His cheeks were red in anger and his neck stiff and strained. He didn’t deserve anything from me. I’d forgotten that while he was busy pleasuring me, but it was time that things went back to the way they were, if that were even possible now. It was time I stayed away from Chet, and he stayed away from me.

“I said,” I bellowed in his face, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying.” His eyes moved over my face, and he picked up a strand of my hair and held it up. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. I was so fucking drunk that night, but I remember now. It was you, and you know it. Tell me what happened, Hope.” His voice softened to a deadly whisper.

I’d been around Chet for months. I’d seen him laugh and play. I’d seen him in a shitty mood. I’d seen him drunk and high. I’d watched him above me while he unloaded inside me. Hell, I’d seen him getting a blowjob with some bitch’s finger up his ass, but I’d never seen him so angry ever.

His nostrils flared with each breath, and his eyes were red and watered down. His jaws clenched, making the muscles tic. He was about to explode, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the room when that happened.

I could handle a man like Chet no problem. I knew how to use my fists and kick a man in the balls, but that didn’t mean I wanted it to go that far. That didn’t mean I didn’t feel fear when he looked at me the way he was.

Still, that didn’t keep me from screaming an answer in his face. He didn’t need to know how badly he’d hurt me.

No.

He hadn’t hurt me.

I’d hurt myself.

But I had to tell him something. I had to tell him anything that would make him let me go—anything that would make him forget about me again—make him go away.

Everything else, I’d keep locked away. The rest of my secrets were just that … secrets, and I’d keep them until the day I died.

“I left because I was done with you,” I lied. “I got what I wanted from you, and I left.”

It wasn’t true.

The truth was I woke up in his arms that night and felt something odd shift in my chest. He was spooning me, mumbling sweet nothings in my ear, and I knew … I just fucking knew that I was in love with him. That’d I’d been in love with him since the first time I’d laid eyes on him at The Pit, a small hole-in-the-wall bar where he and the guys used to play.

But I also knew that Chet Rhodes would never settle down. I’d realized during our night together what kind of guy Chet was. I’d heard it whispered all around us at the party. I saw it in the way the other girls looked at me—as if they felt sorry for me—like I was stupid enough to think there would be more between us.

Even seeing all these things—hearing the things I’d heard—I still slept with him that night. I couldn’t resist him. And when I woke up that morning, realizing how deep into Chet I was, I left.

It hurt to walk away from him. I’d walked around like a brokenhearted bitch for the following two weeks, but I did it to save myself a world of heartache. I did it to save myself from pain much worse than what I’d caused myself.

His expression shifted from anger to hurt before shifting to anger once again. His grip on me loosened, and he moved away from me.

He believed me.

He believed my lies, and in a way, it pissed me off that he could ever think I’d be that kind of girl.

I’d given myself to him. I’d opened up to him in a way that I never had with another human being, and then I’d left. I could never be the kind of person I was portraying myself to be. I could have never used a guy for sex. Even thinking it made me sick to my stomach.

He moved farther away, his eyes glued to mine, and again, hurt seeped into his expression.

Hurting him was killing me, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew it was the only option. It would keep the peace on the rest of the tour, which was important. Not to mention, we could go right back to hating each other—ignoring each other—and being normal around each other. At least, I hoped we could.

Because of that, I let him walk away from me thinking that I was a dirty bitch—that I’d fucked him and chucked him as he had done to so many women before and after me. I let him think whatever he wanted to think, as long as things could go back to the way they were.

I should have never let him touch me. I should have never let him in my room, but I had, and by doing so, I’d reset mentally and physically. I’d blown away all the work I’d put into myself to get over Chet and everything about him. But it was too late now. My body remembered him—longed for him—cried for him, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’d have to go cold turkey again. I’d done it before, and I could do it again.

I had to get Chet Rhodes out of my system. It was time I let the past go. It was time I moved on. I didn’t care if I had to sleep with every man I passed, I’d get over the past, and I’d move past Chet. I’d let it all go, and I’d never think of him again the minute our tour was over.

I was done … officially. 

When he reached my door, he popped it open and let the cool air from the hallway into my still room. With his back to me, he stopped.

“You’re a shitty liar, Hope,” he muttered.

And then he left my room, slamming the door behind him and leaving me alone.

My legs gave out, and I sat on the bed, the soft cushion keeping me from hitting the floor.

It was over.

Everything was done.

I’d lied and saved myself heartache once more. It was the right thing to do. It was the smart thing to do. And from that moment on, I’d keep my distance from Chet. I’d do whatever it took to make sure he never caught me alone ever again. Because while I’d hoped to keep my white flag tucked away never to be waved again, I knew I had no willpower when it came to him touching me.

Hope was Blackbird …
my
Blackbird. The girl who had been on my mind for the past five years of my life—who had given me a night unlike any other night with a woman—was Hope.

Sure, we were young. Of course, I was totally wasted, but the more I closed my eyes and saw Hope’s face, the more my memories with Blackbird came in clearly. I could hardly believe it, but I was slowly remembering everything about that night … every second.

We hopped on the bus and pulled out for New Orleans at exactly seven in the morning. Keeping my distance from the rest of the guys, I lay in my bunk and thought about every detail I could have of Blackbird and Hope. It was definitely her.

We pulled into the New Orleans hotel six hours later, and within the hour, I was settled into my room. Technically, we only had one show in New Orleans, but everyone had decided that since we had a few days until our show in Florida, we were going to stay that few days drinking fish bowls on Bourbon Street and eating jambalaya.

But I didn’t leave my room again until it was time to go on, and the guys didn’t push. Instead, I ordered room service and swallowed as many pills as I could without killing myself. My migraine remained, but the medicine made it manageable.

The following day, we played a great show. I kept my head in the game, playing hard and ignoring the pounding in my head. Constance sat on the side stage watching the show, but the other girls stayed away. Secretly, I had hoped Hope would show up so I could see her. Just because I had stayed away from her didn’t mean it was what I wanted. I wanted to see her.

No.

I needed to see her.

Because of that, I stood on the side stage and watched the Sirens play. Looking at Hope while she played the drums in front of a venue full of fans, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Sure, she had rainbow hair now instead of the long, dark locks. And sure, she didn’t dress provocatively the way she had five years ago. She was the opposite of provocative, in fact, with her boyish jeans and graphic tees.

It was more than the way she dressed, though. More than her hair color. It was her face and her dark eyes that were capable of looking right through me. She did it that night five years ago, and she was doing it now. 

It was glaringly obvious to me now.

How could I have missed it before?

Every time I closed my eyes, our night together came rushing back. My once blurred and drunken memories of her face—her smile—her eyes—were all clear as day now.

Her laughter.

The way she’d come apart in my hands in her hotel room.

It all brought back memories of our night together.

For years, I’d longed for Blackbird. I’d longed to feel the way she’d made me feel that night together. She made me feel like I was the only man in the world—like I was the only thing holding her to the planet. And for months, I’d been close to her and the possibility of feeling that way again, and I’d had no idea.

Her behavior toward me made sense now that I knew the truth. No wonder she stayed away from me in the beginning. No wonder she’d pushed me away. I didn’t understand her contempt since she was the one who walked away from me, but still, the last few months around her and the missing puzzles pieces were coming together.

I felt like the biggest dumbass ever. I was sure she had thought me an idiot on several occasions. A drunken playboy who slept with women and forgot about them the second they left. And while, yes, that was mostly true, it was different with her, and I needed to figure out a way to tell her that. I wanted to show her our situation was a unique one.

I was lost about many things when it came to Hope, but one thing was for certain … She was lying about her reasons for leaving that night.

I refused to believe that she had used me.

No.

I could remember the way she touched me. How inexperienced she was. How sweet and soft and amazing. There was no way she had used me for anything. The girl she was then could never, and something told me that even though she hid it well, that girl was still there. Locked behind rainbow hair and a bad attitude was my sweet Blackbird. And if it were the last thing I did in his life, I’d draw her out again.

When their show was over, I moved to the side and waited for the girls when they left the stage. They each acknowledged me as they ran toward the back of the venue. All except Hope.

She ran past me, her eyes never looking in my direction, even though I knew she knew I was there. I didn’t like the game she was playing. I was about to go after her and demand that she give me the attention I was used to, but when I turned, Zeke was standing there looking back at me.

“We’re ready to get the fuck out of here, man. We need real food. You coming or what?”

We had played a hard show, and I was beyond exhausted and starving. Not to mention, my headache had decided to return with a vengeance about thirty minutes into the Siren’s show. I wanted to go hang with the guys, and I especially wanted to eat something that wasn’t room service, but I wasn’t up for anything.

“Nah, man, I’m good. Bring me back a burger or something.”

I moved toward the back of the venue, prepared to go to the hotel and crash until we pulled out for the next city, but before I could get far, Zeke stopped me.

“What’s up with you, Chet? You’re acting fucked up. You stay in your room. You don’t want to party. You poke at your food. We’ve all noticed. Something’s not right.”

Zeke was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t sure I could lie to him and him not call me out on it. He had a blunt nature and no room for bullshit. Those were two of the biggest reasons I respected him so much.

I could trust him, but still, I didn’t want anyone knowing about my situation. I didn’t want the guys running around feeling sorry for me or trying to talk me into treatments that were going to make me feel even worse than I already did.

So I did what I always did in a serious moment.

I laughed.

“What the hell, man? You, too! You boys are something else.” I chuckled.

Zeke didn’t laugh with me. He didn’t even smile. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited silently—brooding in his usual way—telling me with his eyes that he knew I was full of shit.

I sobered and squeezed the back of my neck. “I’m fine, Zeke. No bullshit.”

“No bullshit?” He shook his head. “I call bullshit on your no bullshit.”

He moved closer so the crew members packing up couldn’t hear him.

“We’ll figure it out at some point, Chet. Whatever it is, we’re here, bro. We’ll always be here.” He reached out and squeezed my shoulder.

He moved around me and started toward the exit. Before he stepped through the door, he turned back around.

“Also, if you want a burger, come get it yourself. I’m not your fucking bitch.”

And then he was gone, leaving me laughing at his final words.

I fucking loved my bandmates … my brothers.

*****

My headache turned into something much worse, and I found myself gripping at my hair in my bunk, silently tortured as the bus swayed to our next destination. I hadn’t enjoyed even a second of New Orleans, and I was glad to be moving on.

My painkillers were running low, and I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get more, so I tried to keep my doses small. I took just enough to keep me from passing out from the pain.

I felt guilty carrying around narcotics since Tiny had some issues with addiction. It had gotten bad during the Rock Across America tour … so bad that Constance almost died from an overdose. Because of that, I kept my stash tucked away and made sure to never be caught taking my pills in front of the guys.

Tears worked themselves from my eyes and crept down the side of my face before rolling over the freshly shaved sides of my head. I wasn’t much for crying. I’d only done it a handful of times in my life, but the pain was ridiculous. It was like a vise clamping my brain, squeezing so tightly and throbbing so hard that I couldn’t think straight.

I didn’t have much longer. I was sure of it. Death was nipping at my ass, and I wasn’t sure I could hold him off much longer. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. The symptoms were getting worse—the pain unbearable. It wasn’t until the ache and pressure grew so bad, and I finally passed out that I got even a tiny bit of rest.

I woke up in Florida. The bus was empty, and when I climbed from my bunk, I could see the heat rising from the asphalt outside the bus in blurry waves. My pounding headache had waned a bit, but the pressure remained. Reaching into my bunk, I snatched my bottle of pain pills and downed two of them as quickly as I could.

I couldn’t go on like this much longer. There was no need to suffer for the last few weeks of my life. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. So once our next show was over, I was hauling ass back to California on a plane to see my doctor. I could make it back in time for the next show, but if I didn’t get something more for the pain, I wasn’t going to be very good for the guys on stage anyway.

After tossing on some clothes, I stepped off the bus and into the Florida humidity. Even behind my shades, my eyes hurt from the brightness, which of course added to the aggravating ache in my brain.

Shutting the bus door behind me, I strutted across the parking zone to the back of the venue we would be playing that night. A few crew members scurried around, rushing to finish putting together the set. Usually, I spoke with them and shot the shit for a few, but today, I couldn’t bring myself to talk. It hurt too much. Every fucking thing hurt too much.

Thank fuck the venue had its air-conditioning on full blast because, by the time I stepped foot into the dim hallway, I was about to pass out from the excruciating heat mixing with the sledgehammer that was beating its way through my head.

I kept walking until I heard Zeke’s guitar. He was tuning, and bits of the song kept playing and stopping. The closer I got, the louder the music became. The louder the music became, the worse my head pounded. Until finally, the pain became too much, and the space around me began to spin.

Stopping, I placed a hand against the wall to anchor myself.  I just needed to make it through that night’s show. After that, I could haul ass and get relief. Fourteen songs … I could play fourteen songs.

I moved again, and again, the room spun. I felt like a little bitch with the vapors or some shit. Being sick didn’t work for me. Losing control didn’t work for me either, and that was exactly what was happening. I was losing control.

My forehead was sweaty and stuck to the wall when I pressed my head against it. The pounding was getting harder and the pain worse. I gripped at the strands of hair falling into my eyes, pulling for relief that never came, and then I heard her voice break through the chaotic sounds of my own blood as it rushed through my diseased brain.

Hope.

Her name held so much meaning. Hope had given me some of the best nights of my life. And I was trying to hold on to hope that I’d stay alive for a few more months for my boys … for my family. Either way, a little hope was all I needed … her and the imaginary wish to survive.

“Are you okay, Chet?”

It was a simple question … one that I would have usually answered with a lie pretty easily any other time, but not this time. Not when I felt like a knife was being shoved in the side of my brain.

I shook my head, finally opening up about something I’d kept secret for so long.

No.

I wasn’t okay.

I would never be okay again.

Her hand warmed my arm, and I closed my eyes against the pleasure of having her touch me so innocently.

I’d been touched by women a lot since I was thirteen years old, but none of them even compared to Hope’s touch. The way she made me feel, even while being a bitch, was intoxicating. Sadly, I couldn’t even enjoy the feeling with my head hurting as badly as it was.

“Here”—she guided me across the hallway to a row of chairs—“have a seat. Do you need me to get someone for you?”

My knees shook as I sat down, and when she tried to pull away from me, I latched on to her hand and held it against my skin.

“No.”