Derailed_An Off Track Records Novel Read online

  “What?” I blurt, my eyes wider than the accusation.

  “Shit.” Austin cusses, his momentary man of God act obliterated by his four-letter vernacular.

  Trent shakes his head. “No, fucking way. Can’t be possible.”

  Bedo speaks slowly, his gaze even and accusatory. “We’re not placing blame. But this is your one and only get-out-of-jail-free card. We need to know what we’re dealing with before law enforcement is involved.”

  Austin blinks his eyes twice and laughs once. “You’re joking, right?”

  Bedo’s gaze turns hard and his nostrils flare. “Does it looks like I’m fucking laughing?”

  “We had no clue. Swear. At least I didn’t.” I sit totally stunned and glance up at Trent.

  He furrows his brow and it’s then I realize we all had no fucking idea. We all just sat by, enabling our friend. Week after week we knew he was using something, and expected nothing bad would ever happen.

  Lexi’s voice, usually strong and full of attitude, wavers as she meets my gaze. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  Trent’s glare snaps to Bedo. “He’s been high, sure. But I’ve only ever seen him smoke weed.”

  “Okay then, next question. Who was dealing?” At our blank expressions, Bedo’s voice grows louder. “He’s been living at the house. One of you has to know something.”

  Austin shrugs, meeting all of our stares before turning back to Bedo. “We had more of a don’t ask, don’t tell agreement.”

  I rub my temples at the tension building behind my eyes. “I looked the other way. Maybe if I hadn’t . . .”

  Trent presses his hand on my shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, man.”

  Lifting my gaze, I can barely meet his eyes.

  Bedo’s designer leather shoe taps at the floor while he gives us each one last hard stare. He settles on Lexi, but it’s Erika who speaks up, her tone steady and clear. “What about you, Lex? You two are close, right?”

  Lexi inhales and throws her hands up as her face falls. “I’m still trying to get him to stop smoking.” Trent winds her fingers in his and tugs her to his side. She rests her head on his side and meets Erika’s stare. “I don’t do any of that.”

  Bedo claps his hands together once. “Okay, then. That’s our story. You didn’t know. You never participated. You don’t know shit, get that? The story doesn’t change.”

  “It’s not a story, Bedo. It’s the truth,” Trent grinds out between clenched teeth.

  Bedo’s smile holds no humor and it’s only seconds before he fires back. “I don’t care about the truth, and excuse me for being indifferent, but in my experience stories start to change when piles of cash are thrown in the mix for tell-all exclusives.”

  I’m tired of this shit. I don’t want a fight, but Bedo’s got to be high himself if he thinks we’d throw one of our own to the press. “When can we see Iz?” The request leaves my lips as more of a demand.

  Bedo shakes his head. “They’ll let you stop in to say a quick hello, but that’s only if you don’t cause a scene or get him worked up. They’ve finally got him comfortable. He’s in and out of it, though. Might not recognize any of you.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Austin practically shouts, and I rise to my feet.

  “Oh, and congratulations,” Erika says with a weak smile and a shrug. At our puzzled expressions she forces a laugh. “Sorry. You don’t know. Congratulations on your first Grammy.”

  It’s sad because I’ve dreamed about this news my entire fucking life. Ever since I was a teen playing a borrowed guitar in my friend’s garage. It’s the epitome of success in the music business, but in this moment I can’t will myself to give a fuck.

  “Oh yeah? Cool.” Austin’s the only one who responds, but by everyone’s lackluster enthusiasm, I’m not the only one who feels this way. It’s hard to be excited about your career when your drummer is fighting for his life.

  “Best Rock Single. Not album, though. Better luck next time.” I have to admire her fortitude. Considering the circumstances, our joy at her announcement is indifferent, but she’s still trying to deliver this news with zeal.

  “Yep. Next time.” Trent’s words come out bitter and he turns to head toward Iz’s room.

  “Fine. Go. We’ll finish this conversation when you get back.” Bedo points down the hall. “303.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Austin mutters under his breath just loud enough we can hear. Normally, that would make me laugh. Normally, we’d continue to give Bedo a hard time, joking more only because it pisses him off. But tonight, or this morning rather, nothing is funny. I don’t think we’ve ever been this quiet. We walk along the linoleum floor, heavy steps mingled with intermittent soft squeaks. When we finally reach the door, Trent lifts the handle with a click, holding it open for us each to pass through.

  No one says a word.

  That’s how fucking scary it is to see our bandmate white as a goddamn corpse tucked under hospital sheets with all sorts of wires and tubes protruding from his body.

  “He looks dead,” Austin blurts and even though that’s my exact thought, I want to punch him for speaking it aloud.

  “Oxygen.” A nurse interrupts, shuffles up to the head of the bed, and touches the tubing that snakes out of our friend’s nostrils. “He’s not dead, he’s breathing. Just needs a little help.” She goes about what looks like a routine—checking machines, his pulse, and the bag of IV fluid that leads into his forearm. She explains it all, matter-of-factly and without dramatics. That alone settles my fears and apprehensions.

  “Thank you for taking good care of him.” Lexi offers a smile after the nurse tucks her metal clipboard in a holder fastened to the wall.

  “You’re welcome.” She smiles back and turns to leave.

  “He’s gonna be okay, though?” Austin’s question stops her. “Like, there’s no permanent damage?”

  She turns back to us with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

  Austin nods. “Right. Sorry. It’s just . . . We really care about . . . He scared us pretty good tonight.”

  “Can I be perfectly honest? Not as his nurse, but as someone who’s worked in health care for the past fifteen years?”

  Trent speaks but she’s the one who holds our attention. “Of course. Please.”

  “He won’t get better until he gets clean. He can’t do that without your support. He needs extensive rehab. Without it, this . . . This will only continue to happen. Until his body can’t anymore.”

  “This isn’t like Iz. Sure, he likes to smoke a little weed. But he’s not an addict,” Austin says.

  “Casual drug users don’t shoot half grams of heroin for fun. He’s an addict. He needs help. You’ll have to fight to get him that.”

  I thought we were quiet before, but that’s nothing compared to this moment. The machine that measures Iz’s heart rate thrums over the silence that stretches along with the nurse’s words. Her comments settle, along with the gravity of this situation. Our friend isn’t okay. Not even a little bit. And we never fucking noticed.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, and meet her stare.

  Her smile is grim, but in it I find honesty. “I’ll take good care of him. He won’t be up for another eight hours. Go home. Get some rest.”

  “Thank you,” Lexi says, and one by one we squeeze through the hospital door and back out to the waiting room.

  Bedo’s there, fingers tapping away on his cell. He doesn’t even acknowledge our return.

  Erika lifts her head and greets us with a sympathetic smile, but it’s forced and fake.

  Trent breaks the silence. “What happens next?”

  Bedo lifts his gaze long enough to answer. “Iz is done with Three Ugly Guys.”

  Austin scoffs. “That’s not fair, is it? One mistake and he’s out. Just like that?”

  Bedo locks the screen on his phone and points it at Austin, his brow scrunched with his scowl. “This wasn’t an innocent blunder. He made
a fucking joke of you all at the biggest awards ceremony of the year. It’s all anyone is gonna talk about. And that magnifying glass over your personal lives? It’s just got a whole lot bigger. You won’t be able to take a hit of weed or fuck a groupie ever again without the Pope knowing. Hell, you won’t be able to take a shit without some pap following you inside the stall. We’re beefing up security, but until things cool down, I need you all to stay at the house.”

  Austin’s face falls. “We can’t go out?”

  “No, Austin. You can’t. Not without permission.” Bedo glares at him before leveling us each with the same stare. “That’s if you care about not being dropped by your label. You all pissed off a lot of important people today. People who’ve worked their entire lives building up the music industry to what it is. They don’t take kindly to young asshats coming in and ruining their show.”

  Austin shakes his head. “But it wasn’t even us! It was Iz! We never even knew he was so far gone.”

  Erika interrupts. “Which is why the label will be sending him to one of the best rehab facilities in the state. We’re going to make this right. This isn’t how 3UG goes down in history.”

  “What about our album? The summer tour?” Trent sighs, because we’ve got studio time lined up for the next month to finish an album that’s set to release in two months. Hell, we’ve already sold out some of the shows.

  “Fucking shit. Not again.” I groan as the realization hits me.

  Austin grumbles. “Cursed. We’re cursed, I tell you.”

  We don’t say the words because we already know the truth. Fucking shit. You could call our band a whorehouse for how many who’ve rotated through the position. No use in bitching or complaining. The reality doesn’t change.

  We’re gonna need another goddamn drummer.

  3

  Jess

  “Babe! Babe, get up!” My boyfriend slaps my butt through the warm and comfortable sheets I’ve buried myself beneath.

  Cracking open my eyes, I allow them to adjust to the daylight in our room and pull myself up to sit, still hugging the sheets to my chest. Coy paces from the bathroom to the closet, tossing clothes next to me on the bed. He bustles with anxious energy and the pit of my belly clenches with alarm. “Is everything okay?”

  He stops on a dime before stepping back inside the bathroom with a smile that stretches across his entire face. “Fuck yeah, it is. My agent called. I have an audition.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so happy, and his enthusiasm replaces my caution with joy. “That’s great, baby. I’m so proud of you.” I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch my arms overhead while checking the time on the clock. I slept in for once and I actually feel rested.

  “How can you say that?” A chuckle escapes his lips, and he pokes his head out of the bathroom doorway while his fingers work gel into the tips of his hair. Shirtless in worn jeans, he’s never looked so handsome. I still don’t understand why someone like him would want someone like me, but in this moment I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. He turns back to the mirror and calls out, “You don’t even know what it’s for.”

  “Sorry, I can tell you’re excited, so it must be good. What’s your audition for?” I shout back.

  “Not what, but who.” He walks out and winks at me on the way back to our closet. The metal hangers scrape against the metal rod like chalk on a chalkboard and a shiver works its way down my spine. Coy curses under his breath and turns his chin to meet my stare. At my blank expression he blows out a breath and rolls his eyes. “You remember that band who fucked up the Grammy’s last month?”

  I tilt my head and my curiosity grows, because there’s no flipping way. “Three Ugly Guys? Yeah, it’s been all over the tabloids at the salon.” The minute the words fly out of my mouth, I wish I could suck them back in.

  A scowl crosses Coy’s forehead and he pins me with an accusatory glare. “I told you not to read that shit. I don’t want you getting caught up in all the hype of living here.”

  I lie to make things right, and because I don’t want him to take away my job. It’s the one productive contribution I make to our relationship, and though he doesn’t complain about being responsible for everything, I can’t help but want to do my part. He warned me not to read the gossip magazines and it was my error to disobey. “I don’t read them, I swear. I just noticed the headlines when I was stacking them at the end of my shift.”

  “Good. Because those stars aren’t any different than anyone else. Their shit still stinks. They just got a lucky break or were born with money,” he rants and goes back to the hangers, moving each and every one of our clothing items from one side of the closet to the other with hostile aggravation. “Fuck! Where’s my blue shirt? The one I always wear to auditions.” His scowl bores in my direction. It’s only nerves. I know this, but I still hate it when he gets upset.

  “It’s in the drawer.” I clamber from the bed, untangling myself from its warmth and safety, and tread over to the dresser to find it for him.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t fucking find it. Did you do laundry like you promised?”

  “It’s right here.” I hand him the shirt that still needs to be ironed. It’s clean but not pressed, the way he likes. I hustle to pull out the iron and go to the other room to lay a clean towel over our kitchen countertop. “When do you need to leave?”

  “Thirty minutes. Fuck, Jess, I hate it when you do this. It messes with my routine.” He stomps over, his lucky shirt in hand, and I take it from him before he gets worked up any further.

  “Give me two minutes. It’ll be ready and then you can kick ass at this audition. You’re seriously trying out for Three Ugly Guys?” I offer him my biggest smile, because even though we’re off to a rough start this morning, there is nothing I want more than to support Coy’s success. When we moved to LA a few months ago it wasn’t only to get away; it was to chase his big dreams. I might not know everything about music, but I know my man has what it takes. I’ve never met anyone more driven and focused on their goals. It inspires me. He inspires me.

  “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.” He falls back onto our second-hand couch and watches with a calculating stare as I press out the unwanted wrinkles from this well-loved fabric. There’s something sort of magical about how a flick of water from my fingers along with the pressing heat is enough to transform the material to like new. If only real life were so simple.

  I hold up the shirt for Coy’s approval and his grin grows when I wiggle my hips and dance to an imaginary beat.

  “You’re the best, you know that?” He springs off the couch, steals the shirt from my hands, and drops a kiss on my lips.

  “No. You’re the best.” I watch him pull on the final piece to his outfit and grin because he looks every bit the rock god I know him to be. “Which is why you’re going to nail this audition.”

  His lips pull up at one side, along with the lift of his eyebrow. “You’re good to me, Jess.”

  My entire body thrills with his compliment. That’s what he does to me: warms me from the inside out, and gives me hope. He goes back to sit on the couch and it’s then I realize I’ll have to find another way to work if he’s busy with his audition. That or I’ll find someplace to hang out until my shift starts. “Can you drop me at work on the way?”

  “I thought you didn’t work until this afternoon.” He pulls out two drumsticks and taps them in a steady beat along the practice pads that helps dampen the sound.

  “I don’t, but I can find a coffee shop or somewhere to hang out until two.” He’s busy practicing and I shouldn’t bug him with this problem. It’s trivial compared to what he’s preparing. The iron isn’t quite cool but I carefully wrap up the cord while I calculate just how early I’ll need to leave on my own. Coy always drops me at work. The salon is in Beverly Hills, and far from the affordable apartments here near the airport. “Or I can take the bus. It’s fine.”

  “Do you not want this for me?” He drops the sticks and stalks
across the room.

  I set down the iron and push it out of reach. My heart races with that look in his eyes, an incredible energy directed at me. Both fear and lust fight for dominance with his approach. I’ve witnessed first-hand what he’s capable of and with his brow pulled low in a scowl, his disapproval is clear. “You’re really gonna act like I don’t take care of you.”

  Damn it, I always say the wrong things. He should be practicing, not dealing with my ride.

  He towers over me with a glare. “After everything I’ve done, just because this is an inconvenience to your day!”

  I jump at his shout but I’m caught with my back to the counter where his body cages me in. “I’m sorry. No! I didn’t mean that. Don’t worry about me. I can get to work on my own.” I drop my gaze and let loose a shaky breath.

  “Hey.” His fingertips graze beneath my chin and he lifts until I meet his gaze. “I do worry. I don’t want you to do this on your own. You’re mine to take care of.” Pain. Anger. Maybe even a little sadness too stings with his words.

  “Coy. Don’t get upset.” I reach my hand between us so it rests near his heart, but he pulls away.

  “This is fucking bullshit. Stupid job isn’t worth shit.” He grabs his keys and sunglasses from the far corner of the counter. He turns back to me with a glare. “I’m auditioning for one of the hottest bands in the rock world but we’re fighting about how you’re gonna find a way to wash hair and sweep floors.”

  “I like my job.” It’s mine. I almost let the words slip through, but don’t because I know how much that’ll only stress him out more. He has every right to be, too. I don’t have any skills. I’m not educated. It’s difficult for me to keep a job; hell, I don’t even know how to drive, but he’s never complained.

  He points at me, his lips mashing together with his scowl. “I get this fucking gig and you’re quitting. Fuck, this is stressing me out!” He looks away.

  “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Together.” I walk to him, hold his stare, and this time I brush my hands up the length of his arms until I can knead his shoulders and the stress coiled in his muscles there. “How about I come with you? I can wait outside. That way I can be there for you the second it’s over.”