Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Dragon

This last stint in rehab put me through a high-speed wash cycle and hung me out to dry.

I don’t like to think about my past. I don’t talk about it to anyone. Even Jesse doesn’t know everything, and there are a few things that are such a blur, I’m not even sure exactly what happened.

But for the most part, it’s out on the table now.

All starting with Griffin’s birth. That pretty baby my parents brought home.

Everyone doted on her. Within two months, she had morphed into the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. Bright-blue eyes, a fuzzy bald head that was starting to sprout cotton-candy blond hair. Chubby red cheeks, full pink lips, and a toothless smile that melted my heart.

She smiled the most for me.

Even my mother noticed that. “Look at that, Felix. I’m the one who carried that child inside me for nine months, had terrible morning sickness and high blood pressure, and she only smiles for him.”

“It’s not a reflection on you, Stevie,” Dad would say. “She just loves her big brother, and he loves her. Is that such a bad thing?”

Mom would sulk for a few minutes, but then it would be time to nurse Griffin, and she’d get the alone time she wanted with her daughter.

That was when Dad and I had our time. It was my father who gave me my first drum. The memory collides into my mind, and though I try to stop it, it unfolds in technicolor inside my head.

“Son, I got a bonus at work the other day. I brought you a present.”

I jump up and down, clapping my hands. “I love presents!”

“I know you do, Dragon, and we don’t have a lot of money for presents, but with Griffin arriving, and her getting all the attention, I thought you might like something for yourself.”

He presents me with a large box wrapped in paper with dragons printed on it.

I rip the paper off, open the box, and inside ? —

“Oh, wow! A drum!”

Dad smiles warmly. “Yes, it’s a drum, Dragon. When you were a little boy, still in your highchair, you used to bang your hands on the tray, and I swear to God, I heard rhythm in your creations. I said to your mother, ‘Stevie, that boy is going to be a drummer.’”

Dad pulls the drum out of the box and sets it in front of me.

I start beating it with my fists. Bang, bang, bang. Thud, thud, thud.

“You use these.” Dad hands me two wooden sticks.

I take each of them in a fist and bang on the drum. This time it clicks, like a snapping sound. I like it.

Dad smiles. “You’ll get the hang of it. You’re young yet, but someday I think you’re going to be a mighty fine drummer.”

I don’t care about being a drummer. All I care about is that I got a present. My daddy bought me a present, and it makes me feel good. All warm inside. Because ever since Griffin was born, she seems to get all the presents. Mom and Dad say that’s what happens when you bring a new baby into the house, and that I got just as many presents when I was born. I don’t remember any of that, though, so I’m not sure I believe it.

My new drum is red and shiny. The top is white and shiny, and the lines on the sides are silver.

“It’s called a snare drum, Dragon.”

“Snare drum,” I growl. “Sounds like a snarl.”

“Kind of,” Dad says, “but the drum has nothing to do with snarling. The snare drum is a central piece in a drum set.”

“Drum set?”

“Yeah. That’s a collection of different drums and other things that are used in lots of music. But the snare drum is the best drum to learn the basic rhythms on, especially at your age.”

I beat on the drum with the sticks, enjoying the sharp sound.

Dad crouches down and looks into my eyes. “You have to take care of your drum, Dragon. This is an actual musical instrument, and I know you’re young, but I want you to have it.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” I continue beating on the drum.

“Dragon.”

I look up, still playing.

He grabs my hands mid-beat. “I’m serious. This isn’t just a toy. I want you to have fun with it, but it’s an actual musical instrument that you need to take care of. Now, I’m going to help you because you’re so young. I’ll show you how to take care of it, and then, as you get older, I’m going to expect you to do it.”

I nod vigorously. “Okay, Daddy. I promise I’ll take good care of it.”

“And there’s one other thing,” Dad says.

“What’s that?”

“You can only play it in the garage.”

I frown. “Why, Daddy?”

“Because we have a new baby in the house. The drum might wake up Griffin. She needs her sleep, and so does your mom.”

I frown again.

“No frowning, son. I know how much you love your little sister.”

Then I smile. “I do. I love her so much.”

“Then you need to do what’s good for her as well. So we’re going to put your drum in the garage, and you’ll have certain times when you can go out and play it.”

“Okay, Daddy.” I smile again.

Because the first time I laid eyes on that little baby, I knew I would do anything for her.

Even if it means playing my drum in the garage.

It didn’t take me long to unpack. I stay in the bedroom Diana assigned. It feels weird to leave, walk around a place that isn’t mine. Part of me feels like I’m back in my room in rehab, not sure what to do next.

Except I don’t have activities or therapy to go to during the day. They keep us on a strict schedule in rehab to keep our minds busy so we won’t think about drugs or alcohol.

Of course, all we think about is drugs and alcohol.

That’s the life of an addict. It’s always there in the back of my mind. I can leave it there, but I’ll never forget about it. It’s like a shadow lurking in a dark alley, ready to resurface at the slightest provocation.

Luckily, I’m not easily provoked. But it’s still there, haunting me, sometimes even jeering at me.

What also jeers at me is the fact that Jesse and Brianna helped pay for my rehab stay. They said I didn’t have to pay them back, but I will. Somehow I’ll find a way.

I stayed there for six months. It didn’t take long for me to dry out, but I stayed because I needed to take it seriously this time. I couldn’t be half-assed about it like I was last time. No more pot and no more booze.

An addict is an addict, and you can’t allow yourself gateway drugs and still expect to stay sober.

I did it for several years, and I honestly thought I had it figured out.

Until that night in London, after the concert.

The two women, both brunettes—I have no idea what their names are, and I don’t rightfully care—push me down on the bed and then strip their clothes off.

Their tits are pert and bouncy, and I’ve got one huge-assed hard-on.

I’m still high on adrenaline from the concert. Man, we rocked it. All the Emerald Phoenix fans loved us, and lots of groupies stuck around us after the show—including these two.

Jesse took off, so I’m alone in the room with these ladies.

“You got anything to drink in here?” one of them asks in her British accent.

“Should be something in the minifridge,” I say.

She saunters over to the minifridge, opens it, and pulls out some cans of some kind of ale. “This what you mean?”

“Yeah. Help yourself. If we run out, we can have some sent up.”

She takes a can of beer, pops the tab open, and hands it to her friend. Then she pops another one and takes a long drink.

“You want one?” she asks me.

“Sure. Bring it on over.”

She pops the third can and sets it on the nightstand next to the bed. “So you up for some fun?”

“I figured that’s why we’re here,” I say in a slow drawl, which sounds so different from their flirty English accents.

“Then let’s start with getting you undressed.” Lady one climbs on top of me, pulls me into a sitting position, and then she slides my black T-shirt over my head.

She drops her jaw. “God, you’re sexy. Nipple rings.”

Lady two flicks them, licking her lips. “Fuck, yes, they’re sexy. Do they hurt?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” She leans down and slides her lips over one of them.

My nipples are more sensitive than the average man’s, and boy, does that get me going.

“What a great tattoo.” Lady one traces her fingers over the dragon that covers a large portion of my chest.

I only have one other tattoo—on the back of my thigh, where I can’t see it.

I have my reasons for having the tattoo, and also for not wanting to see it.

“Let’s get those fucking pants off you,” Lady two says. She unties my black boots and slides them off my feet along with my socks.

Lady one works on my belt and zipper and then my black jeans. “God, you’re fucking sexy,” she says.

“So are you.”

Once my jeans are off and my cock is free, they both widen their eyes at my girth. Yeah, I’m not just long. I’m thick. I’ve had women run away screaming.

But not these two. They want to fuck a rock star.

I’m far from a rock star. I’m Emerald Phoenix’s sloppy seconds, but who the fuck cares? I’m going to get laid by two hotties, and boy, am I ready.