No Strings Attached (13 page)

"I need to get out of here before the funeral."

"I asked the doctor if you'd be able to attend and he thinks you'll be released tomorrow.  If not, he'll try to work something out so you can get to the funeral."

"I can't believe this is happening."

"I know, Luke."

This last night in the hospital is the worst.  I begin to feel the pain all over my body.  I'm bruised across my chest and there are multiple cuts all over me.  The doctors are worried about internal bleeding and it doesn’t help that I’m not psychologically ready to be released.

Holden, Talon, Taron, and Ivy all come with Eaven to pick me up from the hospital.  My parents understand my need to be with the group today. 

"We're going to need each other to get through this day," Talon speaks first.  The thought of getting through the day isn't even logical.  How do we say goodbye to someone who means so much to us?

"I got you a suit for today.  You're a pall bearer."  Eaven wraps me up in a hug.

"I need to go by her house.  There's something I need to get."  No one objects, probably because they can hardly hear me over this fucking permanent lump in my throat.

I'm finally released with only two hours before the service.  We race to her house, and it nearly tears us all apart when we pull in to the driveway.  I use my key and open the door, instantly smelling a hint of her perfume in the air. 

Biting down and refusing a complete breakdown quite yet, I go straight for her room.  She has two guitars and I need them both.  I throw both over my shoulder and take one last look around her bedroom.  Memories of her surround me and I fight like hell to keep it together long enough to make it through this day.

Closing my eyes to block the tears, I turn to walk out of her house.  I lock the door and quickly jump back in Talon's truck.  The others don't say a word to me.  That's the problem—none of us know what to say.  There's nothing that can be said to make her come back to us.  We stop at my house so I can change and clean up.

The funeral home is packed when we arrive.  I grab one guitar and leave the other one behind.  We all walk in together, but they all stay behind when I begin to walk toward her.  Her casket is open and I can see her face over the edge as soon as I walk in the door. 

She's so pale and looks nothing like herself.  I fight to find the strength to hold it together, but this shit is getting to me.  How do I say goodbye to my best friend?  The only woman I've learned to love.  Regret washes over me at a lethal rate as I stand there and take in everything my eyes will allow me to see past the tears.

I open the case to her stage guitar and pull off the strap, placing it in my pocket.  I start strumming her song slowly, trying like hell to get through it perfectly.  The people in the foyer begin to listen, but I don't care to play for anyone but her today. 

I play through the song three times before I kiss the strings and slide the guitar into her casket.  I move her cold hands over the neck of the guitar and position them so that she's holding it.  It's only fitting that she be holding her passion when she goes.

The funeral falls upon deaf ears of mine.  The words that are spoken don't sink in at all as I sit there, a shell of myself through the whole thing.  We move her body to the hearse and then again over the hole at the grave site.  I sprinkle dirt over her when it's time and then turn to walk away from everything.  I grab her guitar out of Talon's truck and never turn back.

I keep walking until I make it to my house, staying just long enough to pack a large bag and lock up everything.     

Epilogue

Luke

Life can change in a heartbeat.  Everything you know can become a memory, and the future can be left in the hands of something greater than you can control. 

My life changed the second her heart stopped beating.  I haven't felt anything since she took her last breath.  Leaving the band and everything I knew before was imperative.  I can hardly live with myself, so how do I expect the others to live around me?

My cell phone is in the bottom of a river somewhere between Missouri and California.  The last thing I want to do is talk about it with anyone.  The endless list of girls isn’t welcome, either.  The thought of my old lifestyle repulses me and I have no idea how to overcome all of this.

I work and sleep.  Every day.

It's been six months since I sprinkled dirt over her casket and said goodbye to my best friend in life.  I have so many regrets when it comes to her.  I've played the 'if I would've' game over and over, coming up with the same conclusion every time.  I fucked up.  She died not knowing how I truly felt about her.  Would we have ended up in love, together forever?  We will never know.   

I know that I loved that girl and I had no idea what I had until it was gone.  Her heart was truly amazing and she was a huge inspiration to me.  I've never had anyone care for me so deeply and only want what was in my best interest.  I'll never forget her or our friendship we shared.

I kept her old guitar, and every once in a while I get it out to strum a few songs, hoping she can feel what I'm trying to say.

I've learned a lesson in all of this....

Life is short, but regret seems to last forever. 

Note from the author: 
Luke's story isn't over, check out the preview to book 4 in the series below.  Coming Spring 2014!

***Please
don't spoil the book for everyone by giving

away the twist in your review. 

Thanks ~ Hilary
 

Coming Spring 2014

Fighting the Odds

Luke

The mundane repetition of my life is exactly what I deserve.  I'm taking each day at a time and it doesn't help that I can't shake the guilt of not telling Lilly how I felt when I had the time. 

Tonight is the first night I've been anywhere besides the gym or in my tiny apartment.  I work twelve-hour shifts at the factory and barely bring home enough money to pay my bills.  The royalties from the music collect in my bank account, but I refuse to touch them.  I don't want
anything
that'll remind me of my past. 

Music is a huge problem for me.  Every song either reminds me of her, or it's something that 'Rebel Walking' played at one time.  The worst was when I heard
her
song on the radio.  I didn't realize they were going to actually release it after everything that happened.

Parking is ridiculous at the coliseum, so I choose to jog the five miles instead.  This fight is supposed to be between two of the best in the division.  There was an advertisement for it in the gym and I thought it would be interesting to see how it plays out.  Both of these guys are stacked, so it's not like there's a clear cut favorite.  Sure, fans are screaming for each of them, but I'm not impressed enough with either to care who wins.

I watch the fight inside the crowd of crazy fans.  The irony of being on this side of the show isn't lost on me.  Neither one of the fighters takes the fight and it comes down to a split decision between the judges.  The fans go wild when Greg ‘The Punisher' Mills takes the victory.

The people don't start to file out for a long time, and I'm in no hurry to leave, either.  People-watching has become a past time of mine, and there's no reason for me to rush home to the empty walls that confine me every night. 

Waiting ‘til most of the crowd files out, I decide to go around the back of the building to miss all the traffic.  As soon as I turn the corner I can hear an idiot yelling obscenities, so I look toward the open door to see a man slap a smaller figure across the face. 

I try to calm my inner rage until I get close enough to see what's going on.  All I can see is someone shorter than him, with a hood on, cowering down from his blows.

"Kimber, you're just a fucking slut.  How many did you fuck?  You let them look at you and I'm fucking tired of it."  He backhands her this time and gets in a punch to her stomach before I can reach him.

Yanking him into the dark alley, I tear into this man.  I can't fucking handle when a guy hits a girl for
any
reason.  I punch him over and over in the face until he falls to the ground and then pull him into a headlock.

"Why don't you hit someone your own fucking size, asshole?  I'm waiting."  Blood covers my fists and I keep going until he finally stops fighting me.  I know he's passed out, but anger is still flowing through me.  Hell, I haven't felt anything in months, and right now I'm a whole fucking array of emotions.

I climb up off the ground and move to check on her.  Her cries gut me and I don't even know her.  I slide her hood down off her head and see the bruising already.  Her face is swollen and her lip is bleeding and this pisses me off even more. 

"Can I take you somewhere?"

"No, he'll just find me."  Her voice is so small and weak that I struggle to hear her.  The door slams open and I instinctively shield her.  A guy in a suit walks over to the idiot on the ground and checks his pulse.  When he finds one, he moves to face me and the girl disappears through the doorway.

"What's your name?"

"I don't have one."

"You just took out my top fighter, what's your fucking name?"

"I don't fucking have one."

This novel featured a crossover from Lexi Buchanan's Spicy. 

To read more about Callie and the members of Destruction

check out Lexi's books!

Bad Boy Rocker's Series Order

Sizzle

Spicy

Don't Close Your Eyes

By Hilary Storm

Short Story available in the Anthology 'Pink Shades of Words' until May 31st, 2014

(All proceeds go to breast cancer research)

Full novel coming Summer 2014

Chapter One

These bags are extremely heavy.  I should've asked Scott to help me, but I'd hate to inconvenience him and his new wife.  There really isn't anyone else to call for help since they've all stepped out of my 'crazy' world; the sudden changes I made scared everyone off.  I can still hear their comments about how unstable I am.  'Who quits their job to write a book?'  Yeah, well bitches, I did.  I've written five novels in a series and I have plans for so many more, but none of them know that.  They seriously think I sit here in my apartment and grieve. 

I didn't become a New York Times bestselling author by crying myself to sleep at night.  I don't have time for tears; there are places to go and people to meet.  I'm headed to a book signing in New York City.  It's a privilege to even be invited to this event.  A part of me is excited and another is dreading this day. 

I just wish I could have one more day with him.  I'd love to show him that I'm doing it, even though our friends and family have zero faith in me.  He always believed in me and supported me in everything I set out to do.  Very few people find a person who truly comes through for them when they have off the wall ideas.  You know, like work as an accountant for six years and then one day decide you'd like to write a book.  I guess it didn't help that I decided to do that exactly one month from the day he died. 

He would’ve been one hundred percent behind me, but he's not here, so I go it alone.  Don't get me wrong, I miss him like crazy, but that won’t bring him back to me.  As for everyone else, they stepped away from me when I needed the support the most.  They got off this crazy train and it doesn't circle back around to pick up passengers who jump ship.  Scott’s the only one who has had much to do with me since I 'went crazy'.

To be honest, my emotions were so out of control that it took me spilling it all onto paper for me to be able to cope with everything.  I miss him so much and everyone wants me to 'talk' about it.  I just can't and it's easier to work through my demons on my own.

I finally work my way past airport security after checking my luggage.  Obviously, security isn't getting any easier to pass through because I had to be scanned separately from the others.  It's probably because they sense the 'crazy' that the others speak of.  This loneliness is partly my fault, but it would've been nice for them to believe in me a
little
.    

The flight is full of people and should be interesting.  I haven't been in a crowd of people since the funeral almost a year ago.  This is a big step for me, though.  A book signing in New York City is huge for an author to attend, never mind the fact that I've always wanted to go there.  James and I talked about traveling there together many times.

I sit in my window seat and hope for the peace I need to stay focused on my inner strength to get through this weekend.  My ear buds begin to blare one of my favorite Hinder songs and I pull my magazine out of my bag to stay entertained for the non-stop flight across the states. 

The passengers keep piling in and I begin to wonder just how large this airplane is.  I paid extra money to fly First Class in hopes of staying under the radar of any chatty passengers and kids that don't mind their parents.

I’m trying to stay focused on my article while someone is reaching over my head to load his luggage, completely distracting me.  I really should’ve purchased the seat next to me. 
Why didn't I think of that before now?
  Even with the help of the flight attendant he has to force the bags into the compartment. 
How the hell much stuff does he have?