8. Brixton

Chapter 8

Brixton

I glare at Sam as my words pelt the air like bullets. Color drains, shock seeping into his confused expression.

“Brixton, I—I didn’t know,” he sputters. “We didn’t have anything to do with the transplant. Donors are always anonymous. Chase had been on a waiting list for years and that was the night they got one. We had no idea it was your brother who saved his life.”

Then he reaches for my arm. His palm scalds my skin, fingertips sending electrical pulses shooting up to my shoulder.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Your brother was dying, not mine.” Anger bubbles deep in my chest, my gaze dropping to his hand. “For two years, I’ve had to live without him when Chase has the only part of him that’s still living.”

My vision blurs, head foggy from the whiskey I downed on the way here.

After Tyler found me at Half-Moon Bay, there hadn’t been time to think about that letter. He made sure I was occupied from the second we got to the venue and didn’t leave my side until we took the stage. I didn’t tell him about what happened at Allie’s, and he didn’t ask since he’s used to my shit. The guys were concerned that I’d taken off again and when they asked, I wouldn’t say why. It hurt too much to think about, much less talk about.

Lane would be the only one I’d tell but when he casually said Lucas, Jase, and fucking Sam Hartley were in the VIP suite, I silently spiraled.

I don’t know how I even made it through the show. Snippets from that letter wallpapered my mind and floated in front of my eyes, a voice I’d never heard before reading the painful words as I tried to focus on what the hell was happening on stage. Then when the guys said they wanted to hit Doc’s afterward, I said I was going back to the hotel.

But knowing Sam was going changed my mind. I needed to unleash the fury on someone and he seemed like the right mark. Why the fuck not? He got what he wanted and I was the one who was robbed. And if I’m being honest, a small part of me has been gnawed apart by guilt because of the spark I’d felt in the chapel with him. He was grieving and I was thinking about things that God obviously felt the need to punish me for.

Maybe if I’d never had those thoughts, Davis would be here today. I wasn’t praying for him to survive because I thought he was in the clear. Maybe if I’d kept my focus on something other than what I’d have liked to do to Sam, he’d have been saved after all.

Now I hate like hell that I felt anything for Sam Hartley. It feels almost like…betrayal. That I chose lust over my brother. That may sound fucked up but it’s how I feel. And it’s why I’m shaking with anger now, because I’m choked by something similar to what I felt that night.

I need to get the fuck away from him.

Gritting my teeth, I pull my arm out of Sam’s grip. “Don’t fucking touch me. You have no idea what I’ve gone through since that night.”

He nods. “And I’m so thankful for that. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been on you. But this isn’t on me or Chase or my parents. You know it but you want to blame someone for what happened and I’m the closest target. Fine. Say whatever you want. But you know as well as I do that attacking me for a decision I didn’t make won’t bring your brother back.”

Sharp pains shoot through my insides like lasers, igniting my fury. I fist the sides of his shirt and back him farther against the wall. He lets me, doesn’t put up a fight. He just stares at me.

“Stop being so fucking rational. I want to tear your head off your body right now,” I growl.

“You know it won’t help. It’ll only bring you more bad press.”

My vision floods with red. “Oh, and you think you know me after reading a few tabloid articles?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I know enough to say that guys who have their heads screwed on straight don’t go looking for trouble at bars.”

I ball my hands into fists. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

“And I’m not pretending to. But you’re in the public eye. A huge star. Do you think your brother would want you to throw it all away because of what happened?”

I recoil. “Fuck you, Hartley. Little Mr. Fucking Perfect. Your golden halo is blinding me, brah. What are you trying to prove with all your do-gooder work? Huh? You got skeletons in your closet or something? What the hell are you trying to make up for?”

“You don’t know anything about me either,” he says through clenched teeth.

We stand there, toe to toe, heated gazes locked on each other. My head spins, clouded with a carnal mix of desire and fury. I don’t know whether I want to punch him in the jaw or crush my lips against his.

“Hey, B. Where the hell have you been?”

I slowly turn my head in Lane’s direction. He looks between us, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You guys know each other?”

With a tight nod, Sam pushes me away from him and rounds the corner, leaving us alone.

“Dude, what the hell is up with you? You look like you wanna kill that guy.”

I rake a hand through my hair and slam the other hand against the wall for support.

“Forget it.” Pushing past him, I let out a sigh. But he grabs my wrist and yanks me back.

“Tell me what the hell is up with you. Let me help you.”

I shake off his hand. “I don’t need help. I’m fucking fine.”

“You couldn’t be further from fine if you were in another universe.”

My throat tightens. He’s right. I’m obviously nowhere close to fine. I can’t even really touch “okay.” Completely fucked is way closer to where I am right now.

“Come on, nobody really gives a shit, Lane. Everyone wants their payday and I’m the weak link right now. You know it. Don’t pretend to give a damn about what I’m going through.”

Hurt flashes on his face and my gut clenches. I’m being a dick but I can’t stop myself. And of all those guys, Lane isn’t the one who deserves it. The rest of the band is more concerned about how my actions impact our social media standings but Lane actually cares. We grew up together and he knew Davis for years before he died.

My shoulders slump and I collapse backward against the wall .

Maybe I want him to feel like shit, too. Misery loves company and all that.

I figured if I was an asshole, he’d tell me so and walk away. He’s not.

Dammit.

“Talk to me. You look like…”

His voice trails off, his unspoken words hanging in the air.

Like you lost your best friend.

I did. And it fucking hurts.

I pull myself away from the wall, my lips pulled into a tight line. “Lay the fuck off, Lane. I’m done talking about this.”

“You never started. I’ve tried to be here for you for all this time but all you do is shut me the hell down. I actually give a damn about you. Why the hell is that so hard for you to swallow?”

My pulse throbs against the side of my throat. “What the fuck do you want to hear? That I feel like a walking zombie most days? That I can barely live with the fact that I walked away without a scratch and my brother died?”

I can’t bring myself to tell him about Sam and Chase and the letter. Even thinking of those words guts me worse than any knife could.

“You’re being too hard on yourself. He wouldn’t have wanted this for you. He was so proud of you, Brix. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t accept that. I pissed God off that night. Davis was supposed to live. That’s what the doctors told me. Like, God was on my side and then switched teams for some reason. And I’m so fucking angry.” I grab his jacket and tug it tight. “I wanted to go instead of Davis. I would have traded my life in a second for him to get his back.”

“You know that’s not how it works. And you’re destroying yourself because of it. Don’t fucking go and try to kill yourself surfing because you feel survivor’s guilt. This self-destructive bullshit isn’t gonna bring Davis back.”

“Don’t tell me how to handle this. You don’t understand.” My voice is flat even though blood rushes between my ears.

“I’m your family. I’m always going to be here for you.”

My jaw sets. “Not like Davis was.”

The second I say it, I want to suck the words back in. The shock and rejection on his face twist my gut even more.

“You’ve become a real fucking asshole, you know that?” Lane seethes. “Next time, think again about alienating the only one who gives a shit enough to help.”

He pushes past me, jamming my arm with his shoulder as he stalks back to the main area. I let out a deep sigh and push back my hair.

I can’t leave like this. I need to apologize.

Rounding the corner in the direction of the VIP area, I notice a hot blonde with huge tits edging toward Lane, licking her lips as she looks at him.

She’s clearly hungry for our drummer.

He gives her an appraising look as he passes.

I shove my way forward and just as I’m about to grab his arm, something hard crashes against my left shoulder. Stumbling sideways from the force, I see a huge bald guy in a leather cut push the blonde aside and give Lane a hard shove into a half wall.

Lane and I are pretty big guys but this one is twice our size, covered in tattoos and piercings. Two others who look almost exactly like him flank him on both sides.

He moves toward Lane. “I saw you give my girl the eye. She’s mine, prick. I don’t give a fuck that you’re a rock star. I’m gonna fuck your shit up so that you won’t be able to play the drums for the rest of your fucking life.”

I flex my ringed fingers before balling them into tight fists, rage coursing through me. The guy takes a punch and Lane ducks out of the way. But he doesn’t escape the second one and the guy gets a clear shot to his nose. He staggers sideways, bringing his hand to his bloodied face.

He looks at me and I give him a slight nod.

“Hey,” I yell at the bald guy, edging around people to get to him. I give my neck a good crack, a slow smile lifting my lips.

“You messed with the wrong fucking crew tonight, dick.”

The guy laughs. “Fucking no talent prick. I’m supposed to be afraid of you?”

“Oh fuck yeah. And you know why?” My smile widens. “Two reasons. One, you touched my brother. And two, I don’t give a flying fuck about consequences. Prick. ”