Chapter 9

Tommy

I gotout of the hospital the next day and Z strongarmed me into going to his place instead of back to my empty condo. Having help was nice but it was at the expense of my privacy, so it was a balancing act not to lose my temper. He was one of my closest friends, and I loved the guy, but ever since he’d married Presley he’d gotten way too in touch with his feelings for my taste.

The irony didn’t escape me, since I’d recently realized how few people I had to talk to in my life, but talking to Z about Carter and Harley didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was afraid he’d take their side over mine, or some other imaginary issue, so I just kept everything bottled up inside.

They’d sent me home from the hospital with crutches and a walker, and I hated both, but my knee hurt like a motherfucker so I needed to use them. The doctors had told me to be careful, because the more times the knee popped out of joint, the easier it would be to happen in the future. I needed to let it heal and then start strengthening the leg and knee as soon as possible. Especially if I wanted to be able to leave on a world tour in approximately nine weeks. Luckily, I was in pretty good shape, so we didn’t foresee any delays.

The band hadn’t yet figured out how rehearsals would go, but we were a well-oiled machine that could practically play with our eyes closed and hands tied behind our backs. We had a system that had been working for a decade, so we didn’t need a lot of practice. What we needed was to figure out the new set list, with new songs, and learn new choreography. Luckily, very little of the choreography had anything to do with me. No matter what the others did, I was almost always behind my drum set. They dealt with dance moves, spinning guitars, positioning of the piano, and other things that had nothing to do with me.

They could rehearse without me, too, but we all hated that idea, so we were going to wait two weeks. I’d wanted to do another take on the drums for one of the new songs, but after Z played me one of the tapes, I had to admit it was good as it was. Another take was basically for vanity, because we were all perfectionists, but there was honestly nothing for me to improve on.

“It’ll be fine,” Kingston said as we sat around after dinner. The band and their significant others were all here to eat and hang out, and now we were having an impromptu meeting. “The album is done. We were going to redo a couple of songs because we had the studio time booked, but we all know they’re killer just the way they are.”

“I hate that we have to leave it as is because of me,” I admitted.

“The only reason we were going to do another take is because we had the time,” Kellan reiterated. “The stuff is good. And if they find anything they want to fix during production, we’ll figure it out.”

I looked down at my knee. “If I literally have to redo something, it could be problematic, but I’m on steroids so they’re thinking that’ll help with inflammation and get me on the mend sooner rather than later.”

“You just relax,” Z said. “You got lucky with the accident and?—”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that!” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “It’s like you’re wishing for something worse or expecting the worst. What the fuck?”

Everyone froze and turned to look at me.

Shit.

“Look.” I tried to back pedal a little. “I get that the video footage out there makes me look a little crazy, but I was totally in control. Car accidents happen every day. The knee will heal. You have to stop acting like this was some big thing.”

Z frowned. “Dude. It was a big thing. It was a huge thing. I know you’ve been in denial, but we just lost Carter sixteen months ago. Potentially losing someone else in the band is not a fucking option.”

“But you didn’t lose me! And he did what he did on purpose. It’s not the same fucking thing!” I got to my feet, grabbed my crutches, and tried to stalk out of the room. It was more of a pathetic hobble, but I just kept going until I was on the back patio, staring out at the pool and jacuzzi.

What the fuck had just happened and why had I lost my temper with my bandmates? They were like family to me and none of this was their fault. Technically, it wasn’t even my fault. Yet it felt like it. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the idea that now that Carter was gone, I was the band’s problem child. As if I was living for both of us now.

I hadn’t done anything overt, but on the European tour last spring, I’d been the one having threesomes on the bus. I’d been the one getting so shitfaced they had to carry me to bed. Basically, I’d been the one who’d inadvertently replaced Carter as the party animal.

I didn’t do drugs, that was a hard no for me these days, but I could drink like the proverbial fish and could go days without sleep if I was having a good time. It wasn’t healthy but it had become the norm after the divorce. Harley and I had partied hard too, probably too hard if I was honest, but we’d been on top of the world back then.

And maybe that was the problem.

Without her, I’d lost my drug of choice, which had been a combination of music and love. I still had the music, but without the love, it wasn’t the same. I’d compensated with a lot of bad habits. None as dangerous as Carter’s addiction, but not all that healthy either. Women and booze and motorcycles.

“You okay?” Kellan’s voice was quiet as he lounged against the wall, watching me intently.

“Yeah.” I stared off at nothing, trying to shake off the ever-present frustration that had become a part of me.

“What’s going on, man? You want to talk?”

“Not particularly.”

I was such a liar sometimes.

“You’re still pissed off at Carter.”

That was an understatement if I’d ever heard one.

“Well, aren’t you?” I demanded. “I mean, what the fuck was he thinking? He had a kid, a career, and people counting on him, and he just decided to end it all? What gave him the right to fuck up not just the band, but the lives of so many people? To leave his kid without a dad and the woman he loved without a partner. And don’t get me started on the rest of us. I’m not mad—I’m fucking furious.”

“I get it. You think I’m not mad? You think I don’t wake up sometimes wanting to punch him in the face? Or tell him exactly what I think? But what good does it do? You might have some answer to those questions if you’d bothered with the group therapy.”

“Jesus, not you too.” I shook my head at him.

“The one thing therapy helped us understand was that we couldn’t have saved him. Nothing we said or did would have made a difference. His demons, his mental health, his addiction—whatever it was—it was too much for him. He chose to check out. Like it or not, the rest of us are still here. And we have to be better. Both for him and because of him.”

“I don’t know what better means. Better what? Musicians? Humans? What?”

“Better friends. Better men. Just better.”

“For whom?”

“For each other and the millions of people who look up to us, listen to our music, and consider us role models.”

“I never signed up to be a role model.”

“Maybe not, but that’s what you are. Kids look up to us, men want to be us, and women want to be with us… it can be a hell of a burden. But the alternative is walking away, and we already know we aren’t prepared to do that.”

“I was ready,” I said. “When Carter died, I was ready to walk away.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Because you fuckers talked me into staying, into keeping on.”

“Are you sorry?”

I shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that sometimes it’s a lot.”

“It’s always been a lot.” He paused. “But you had Harley back then.”

“And Carter.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And now that all of us are in relationships, you’re floundering.”

Leave it to Kellan to hit the nail on the fucking head.

He hit it hard too.

“If you’re not happy with the status quo, you’re the only one who can change it,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “Only you have the power to do things differently going forward. You can’t tell me there are no decent ladies out there. I found one. You can too. Or, if you’re not ready, just have fun and let it happen organically. But nothing good is going to happen if you keep trying to punish yourself for not being able to save him.”

He paused, looking at me, but I felt like a weird combination of a surly toddler and a professional boxer, alternately wanting to stomp my feet and punch Kellan in the mouth. I opted to keep my mouth shut instead, on the off chance I did either of those things.

“Fine. You don’t want to talk to me, you don’t have to, but you need to talk to someone. Therapist, priest, your dad… hell, go sit at the cemetery and yell at Carter.”

Ha.

Joke was on him since I’d tried that, and it hadn’t gone according to plan.

“I know you want to help,” I said finally. “But I have to figure this out on my own.”

“Well, you’ve got about nine weeks to do it,” he said quietly. “Don’t waste this unplanned time off. Go somewhere, find a therapist, do what you have to do, but I don’t think you’ll last on tour if you don’t fix whatever it is that’s eating at you. I heard about this wellness center called Harmony Place. It’s up in Santa Barbara, right on the water. High-end, expensive as fuck, and they’re known for working on a multitude of issues. Maybe you should check them out. It can’t hurt to look it up, see if it’s something you might want to do.”

He was right, the fucker.

“I’ll think about it,” was all I said.

But that was a lie because I already knew what I had to do.

Seeing the bruises on Harley had been the nudge I needed.

Hurting myself wasn’t even on my radar, but I’d never left those kinds of bruises before, and hurting her like that wasn’t acceptable.

Now that I had the name of a facility, first thing tomorrow, I was going to make some calls.