Rock Page 3

  My eyes track the snow to my room, where I was not earlier.

  Someone is here.

  I walk down the hallway to my room, slide my hand around the side of the wall, and flick the light on as I raise the bottle, ready to slam it over the intruder’s head.

  Melanie is sitting on my bed. I squint at her because my fucking throat still hurts. She looks at the raised bottle and I let my arm drop to my side. I raise my hands in a shrug, asking her ‘what the fuck?’ in Rock sign language.

  She shakes her head, and starts writing on a pad of paper in her hand. She scribbles furiously for a few seconds, and then lifts it up for me to see.

  If you won’t talk to me, then I won’t talk to you.

  “Get out,” I grumble, the pain shooting through my whole body this time. I have to hold my breath and close my eyes to make it stop, and even then, it takes to the count of ten. I point to the front door. “Get. Out!” I scream the last part so loud, I taste the blood rising up from my throat. I turn and plow my way through the house, bouncing off white-sheeted furniture, until I make it to the kitchen and turn the cold tap on and douse my mouth with Grand Lake’s finest icy mountain water.

  I gulp until my throat is nothing but burning cold. I shut the tap off but stare down into the black drain of the sink. I can feel Melanie’s eyes on my back. I give her a sidelong look over my shoulder and find her just a step or two behind me, her eyes filled with hate and loathing.

  Fuck you, I mouth.

  You’d like to, she mouths back.

  I shake my head, a little stunned that she’d say something like that. After everything that happened, that she would dare. I turn all the way around and take her in. She shrugs the jacket off, letting the heavy leather slide down her arms and fall to a heap on the floor.

  What the fuck?

  Her fingertips whip her black Metallica t-shirt over her head and she lets that drop to the floor too.

  “Mel—” But I stop when her bra comes off and she stands there, baring her breasts to me with downcast eyes. She takes my hand and places it on top of her peaked-up nipple, rubbing it, squeezing it—her hand over mine.

  Then she’s tugging on my jeans and breathing heavy in my ear. I see the past so clearly, I almost get dizzy.

  “RK,” she whispers, and I swear to God—I swear on all the things I’ve lost and all the things God owes me—she sounds so much like Missy, I let myself buy into the illusion.

  She has my dick out before I can shake myself back to reality, and who the fuck wants reality when all it is is death?

  Fuck reality. This girl is my girl. She is the exact image. The same voice. A precise copy of the only person I will ever love.

  I flip the button on her jeans and rip the zipper down, my hands reaching between her legs, my fingertips sliding into the slick pool of wetness. She moans as I push her back down the hallway and into my room, both of us tripping over the rug covering the faux-antique barn wood planks.

  She laughs as we fall, her head hitting the floor hard enough to make her wince. I breathe through the thumping of my heart and place my hand under her head to make sure she’s OK.

  She takes that opportunity to fist my cock. I tug her jeans down, backing off enough to drag them down to her knees, then flip her knees up to her chin and place my tongue over her pussy.

  I kiss it. Thoroughly. Deeply. I lick and suck her clit until she’s fisting my hair and bucking her hips.

  “RK,” she moans, gripping my shoulders, urging me to continue. But now all I can think about is how I never fucked Missy. How she got away and I never even fucked her. Why didn’t I fuck her?

  I move to Melanie’s stomach, licking and biting my way up her body until I reach her neck and I bury my face into the scent of her hair as my cock buries itself inside her pussy.

  She moans loudly this time. “Jesus,” she says.

  I rock into her, my hands cupping her face, my hips grinding against hers. Thrusting, harder, deeper, then slow and soft until she’s urging me to go fast again. I rest my body on top of her chest, dip my head down and bite the sensitive skin of her breast as she cups it and pushes her nipple into my mouth.

  Her other hand is on my back, her long fingernails digging into my flesh as I pump her harder and harder.

  “I hate you,” she says into my ear, her voice way too soft for the harsh words. “I hate you so much, RK. For leaving me. For leaving this town and never coming back. For being so talented and smart, and so willing to throw it all away.”

  But she’s still moving with our shared rhythm as she talks.

  “I hate you too,” I croak back, thrusting deep inside her until she buckles underneath me, throws her head back, and comes all over my dick. “I hate you for not being…” I have to force the words out through the pain, because I need her to feel them. I need her to hurt with me. “For not being the one I want.”

  Her whole body goes still—and then she grips my shoulders, pushes me back, and manages to get her foot up against my chest even though her jeans are still around her knees.

  She kicks and I go flying backwards, crashing my head against the tiled floor. She stands up, hiking her jeans back into place, buttons them. Then she stands over me, straddling my hips, and sinks down until she’s sitting on my stomach.

  Her face is nothing but sadness as she reaches for me, placing her warm palms against my cheeks. “You are a sick, sick, man, Rowan Kyle Saber. A very sick man.”

  “Melanie—” I croak.

  “Fuck you.” She slaps my face and stands back up. “Just fuck you. You should know me better.”

  I breathe in her contempt and hate as she walks out.

  The front door slams just as I’m pulling my pants back up and I can’t get to that bottle of Scotch fast enough. I find it hastily discarded on the front room couch as I rush through to the kitchen and twist the cap off.

  I guzzle this time. I need it. I need this fucking whiskey like death needs darkness. And when I finally come up for air, my whole body is heating up and my head is spinning from the burn, and the pain, and the heartache.

  Ian. Elias. Mo… Missy. Dad. Mom.

  Why the fuck am I still alive when everyone I ever loved gets to enjoy that darkness?

  Just why?

  My phone buzzes in my pants and I whip it out and check the incoming call. Jayce. I tab accept and grunt into the phone.

  “Rock,” Jayce says on the other end. Her voice is strong but small, just like her. She’s been our manager—was our manager—ever since we signed that first deal. “You were supposed to text me when you got home. I have to report you in if you don’t want the sheriff issuing a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Mmm,” I grunt again. I’m going to pay for that last yell. I can feel my vocal cords swelling as the seconds pass. I can taste the blood. My hand flies up to my neck and palms the skin over my Adam’s apple. I close my eyes and wish this fucking night would just—

  “OK, I’m going to take that as an I’m fine and let you get some rest.” She pauses for a moment, breathing into the phone. “You’re fine, right?”

  I shake my head, because no, I’m so fucking far from fine.

  “Kenner woke up,” she blurts.

  I swallow hard before I can stop myself and let out a small cry of pain.

  “Rock?”

  “Yeah.” I try to talk. “Is he—”

  “He doesn’t remember anything. They’re still assessing nerve damage, but the fractures have mostly healed while he was unconscious.” She drops off for a few seconds before adding, “He will be OK, Rock. We just have to let him heal. We all have to heal, Rock. We just need a little time to get a grip on it, right?”

  She waits for my answer but I can’t even force myself to lie. “No,” I say through the pain. “We’re not going to heal, Jayce. We’re never getting past this.”

  I end the call and the tears build in my eyes. From the pain, I tell myself. The throat. But that’s not why I want to cry.

&nb
sp; It’s relief. It overwhelms me so thoroughly, I fall to my knees, just barely managing to keep a hold of the neck of the Scotch, and crawl over to the living room.

  I drink the whole thing propped up on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, imagining all the ways life might get better. All the ways Kenner might get better. Both his arms are dislocated at the elbow, splinted from wrist to shoulder, and his hands are held together with pins and plates.

  How long before he can pound on another drum?

  How long before I can sing?

  How long before we both realize we’ll never do either of those things again and life isn’t worth living?

  I think I’m there.

  Chapter Five

  A knocking wakes me up. My eyelids flip open, then close again as the bright light of the sun blinds me.

  “Sir?” a voice says outside my window. “Sir? Are you OK?” More knocking. “Can you open the door, sir?”

  I shield my eyes from the sun and shake my head as I try to process what’s happening. I try to talk, to ask where I am, how did I get here… but the pain in my throat comes back so acutely, I have to take a deep, deep breath and close my eyes again.

  “Sir, do you need a doctor? I’m a doctor. Do you need help?”

  I swallow, my hand flying up to my throat to try to ease the flash of agony, and then turn my head to see who’s talking to me. A man, about thirty or so, wearing a nice suit and a concerned expression. He’s got thin wire-rimmed glasses that he pushes up his nose while staring at me intently, trying to make an assessment.

  I realize my truck is running, so I tab the window and gesture to my throat, making a scribbling motion with my other hand.

  “You can’t talk?” the genius asks.

  I nod.

  He fishes around inside his coat and comes out with a pen and a business card, handing it to me. “Can you write?”

  I take the pen and scribble, Throat injury. Accident two months ago. I need something.

  Something, meaning drugs, but also something more than drugs. Because I’ve had enough blackouts in the past several years to recognize what just happened.

  The guy nods, sympathetic. “You’re Rock, right? My nephew called me up yesterday and said you might come by. I’m William Chancer. Dr. William Chancer. Ear, nose, throat. I’ve read a little about your injury. What they had of it online. I’m not sure I’m the right guy to help you long term, but I’m probably the only guy up here in the mountains today. So come on inside and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Finally, I sigh, a fucking break.

  I tab the window until it’s closed, then turn the truck off, pocket the keys, and get out, slamming the door behind me.

  He skips up the snowy front steps, unlocks the medical building, and then holds the door open for me as I walk past him. I follow him down the hall and then wait as he unlocks his office door and waves me inside.

  I stand at the counter while he begins flipping lights on and bringing the place to life.

  “I usually get here first on Mondays,” he says good-naturedly. “Actually, Pam took the day off since we’re real slow today. Just one appointment in the afternoon. Figured I’d catch up on paperwork. And Dr. Patah, my partner, is taking advantage of the recent snow up in A-Basin before they shut the runs down for the summer.”

  I nod. Sure, sure. A-Basin is at thirteen thousand feet, so they still have plenty of snow up there to ski.

  “So just…” He fumbles though a file cabinet for a clipboard and paperwork, and then places it on the counter in front of me. “Just fill these out the best you can while I get the coffee started. You want a cup?”

  I think about this for a moment and then decide I do, and nod.

  He disappears into a break room as I take a seat and start scribbling down information. I don’t know any of the important stuff, like insurance, but I check my pants, realize I have my wallet, and then decide insurance doesn’t matter. I have a gold card. I give him the number and expiration date instead.

  The smell of freshly brewing coffee fills the office after a few minutes, and Chancer appears in a white coat looking official. “Come on back, Rock.”

  Is it weird that he calls me Rock? I decide it is. Mr. Saber is what professional people usually call me. Strangers sometimes call me Rowan, even though I have never answered to that name. They think Kyle is my middle name, but it’s not. Friends call me RK and family switches off between RK and Rowan Kyle.

  Fans call me Rock. Maybe he’s a fan?

  “Take a seat on the exam table in there. I’ll grab the coffee. You like cream and sugar?” I shake my head and he says, “Me either,” with a smile.

  I take a seat on the edge of the table, paper crinkling under my jeans, and then shrug off my jacket since the heat is blasting in here. Chancer appears a few minutes later, two ceramic cups in hand. I take the one he offers me, stare at it dubiously, and decide I’m not quite ready to test out hot liquids.

  “Yeah,” Chancer says. “I imagine it hurts. I can see your throat is swollen from here. So hold off on the coffee for a moment and let me take a look first. It might go down fine, but it might not.”

  I nod. I kinda like Chancer. He’s pretty good at one-way conversations.

  “OK, I’ll tell you what I think happened, you stop me when I get it wrong.”

  “’K,” I manage to croak.

  “Oh, definitely no talking yet. Just keep this handy,” he says, taking my mug and offering me a pen and small notepad. “And stop me when you need to.” He waits for my nod and then proceeds. “Some kind of incident up in the mountains about eight weeks ago?”

  I nod. Incident. Nice.

  “Some reports said group III fracture of the larynx. You ended up in Denver where they did surgery and made repairs. That was eight weeks ago, so…” Chancer’s eyes wander up to the ceiling as his fingertips leave my throat and play with the two-day stubble of beard on his chin. “So technically you should’ve recovered.” He stops talking to wait for my approval.

  I shrug.

  “Are you getting speech therapy?”

  I scribble, No. I had a therapist at rehab. But I don’t want to talk yet.

  “OK, well, you should seriously consider doing that. But today, I’m guessing you’re in pain.”

  I nod, then scribble, It hurts, man. I’m not a wimp. I know they all think I’m after drugs, so they don’t want to give them to me. But it fucking hurts.

  “Is it worse now than when they discharged you?”

  I nod again. I got home on Saturday night, saw some people, yelled a couple of times.

  Chancer nods sympathetically. “That’s pretty indicative of a secondary flare-up. So I’m going to write you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. As far as pain goes, I know all doctors have their own philosophy on addiction, but I firmly believe pain management takes precedent over past history. I also believe you, it’s gotta hurt. The anti-inflammatory will help a little, but I’ll give you a prescription for oxycodone too. Try not to use it. Don’t fill it until you can’t handle the pain. Are you really addicted to opiates?”

  I nod, looking down at my feet, then scribble, Been clean for eight months, though.

  Chancer smiles. “Just know that if you take the oxycodone your addiction will come back. The cravings, the shakes, the nausea. All the symptoms of withdrawal will have to be dealt with once you stop taking them. But you’re a grown man, so I’m going to give you that option. It’s up to you to decide.”

  Jesus, I could kiss this man.

  “Give the coffee a try. See if it helps or hurts.” He hands me the cup and I take it. “You are technically healed, Rock. They probably used resorbable plates to fix your fracture?”

  I nod and write, They did. I’m really fucking afraid of how this coffee might go down, but I take a small sip. It’s not hot. Like Chancer added cold water to the brew to spare me that shock. Just the right kind of warm. It goes down nice, actually. A small burn, but nothing like the a
lcohol.

  “And your trach scar,” Chancer says, pointing to the closed-up hole at the base of my throat, “looks like it healed well. So you are whole again.” He gives me a sympathetic look. “On the outside. Well”—he chuckles—“inside too. But my point is, you’re probably just afraid of the pain. Of not being able to manage it, and probably—” Chancer throws up his hands in a shrug. “Probably not all that interested in dealing with what really happened that night. The sad outcome.”

  I don’t nod or scribble anything for that accusation.

  “I’m sorry about that. I’ve always loved your music and I read about you in magazines. About your band. You guys were close, I think. And it’s a shock to lose people like that. Especially after what happened to the Vetti girl back in high school.”

  Jesus fuck. It’s time to go.

  “But I’m glad you came by, OK?” Chancer sits down on a stool and starts scribbling prescriptions. He rips them off one at a time and then hands them over. “Just give the voice a rest for a few days. Pick up some liquid nutrition shakes from the pharmacy so the throat can heal again. And start thinking about speech therapy and…” He hesitates for a second. “Maybe even some regular therapy? Even if you just go through the motions, it helps, Rock. It does.” He shuffles through a drawer until he comes up with a card. “Margie Sanderson is upstairs and she’s nice in an old-fart kind of way. She won’t judge you. She might not be the most professional therapist I’ve ever met,” he says with a chuckle, “but she’s good. And she knows you, so she’ll want to help.”

  I’m never calling Margie Sanderson, but I take the card and stuff it into my wallet. I’m not interested in having that one-sided conversation with Chancer, regardless of how cool he’s been about this.

  “You’re OK, Rock,” Chancer says when I stand and shrug on my jacket. “And if you need to come back, I can ask for your medical files from the hospital. I just need your permission.” He grabs a clipboard off the wall and hands it to me with a pen.

  I sign. Whatever. Then I raise a hand in thanks and walk out of the building.