Sweet Ache

Chapter 8

HAWKIN

The Jack and Coke quenches my thirst but not my anger.

Or the sexual frustration.

Quinlan. The thought of her has my hands banging Giz’s sticks harder and harder on the mid-toms. I suck at playing the drums but there is something about them and the unsteady rhythm I attempt to create that helps me when I’m stressed. Plus the physicality of it drives me to think only of the notes—nothing else—and fuck if I don’t need to not think right now.

No Hunter and his bullshit disappearing act with my car doing who the fuck knows what.

No Benji and the lectures on my voice mail that I need to come clean and turn my brother in. No now that I’ve pleaded, I can’t change my mind or else I’ll perjure myself, and we’ll both end up in jail.

No Vince telling me on one side that I need to keep this Quinlan shit under lock and key so that Hunter doesn’t try to screw up this part of my life, and out of the other side of his mouth teasing me to let him fuck this up so that I can lose and get that first heart-shaped tattoo of idiocy like the rest of the guys.

No lecture where I stumble through stories to try to make it meaningful and memorable somehow for the students flocking in just because I’m Hawkin Play, the lead singer of Bent, rather than because I actually have something good to say. And oddly, it’s quite rewarding, regardless of why they are there, to have someone actually listening to my words. Crazy how shit happens.

And lastly when I’m pounding the fuck out of the drums, there’s no Quinlan tempting me with that hot body, smart mouth, and unaffected nonchalance. I take that back. She was most definitely affected. No doubt I could have seen just how affected if I’d gotten her upstairs.

Talk about a two for one: sex that I have no doubt would have been stellar and cinching the win with Vince and our bet in record time. Well, the first part of the bet anyway. His proof can wait.

Shit, I see Sledge’s tattoo parlor in our near future for him. So why in the hell did I not so subtly kick her out like I did?

Because you’re a pansy-ass motherfucker, that’s why. I hit the high-tom harder, pissed at myself for the necessary brush-off. I’d tried to appease Vince and his fucked-up theory that Hunter would go after her just because I’m seeing her. Little does Hunter know the reasons behind my pursuit of Quin, and that’s for the best, or Vince is right, he’d purposely try to be part of it.

And truth be told, I fucking wanted to drag her up the stairs to my bedroom, lay her out naked, and have my every which way with her. Fuck her like there’s no tomorrow so that I could get all this pent-up shit out: anger, frustration, irritation, validation—all of it.

But no way in hell would that be fair to her. Being rough in the sack is one thing—the sting of a hand in a spank, the bite of a flogger—I’m all for it, but being aggressive because you’re pissed off at the fucking world and the hand you were dealt isn’t cool. There may be pleasure in pain but it’s gotta come with the right motivation or you’re just a sick fuck.

Hell if it didn’t make me feel like shit to push her away, though. Partially to keep Vince at bay and his asinine claims about Hunter being vindictive, but more so because my balls ached so goddamn bad it was painful to send her off when they were begging for her to come and play.

I groan at the thought, the drums drowning out the sound and my shoulders starting to scream from the hour I’ve been doing this, trying to purge the need to punch my hand through the wall.

Because broken drywall means a hurt hand. And a hurt hand means I can’t play the guitar.

But muscles screaming from the workout does nothing to abate the goddamn ache in my balls from wanting her.

I hit the last drum, sweat trickling down my forehead, and open my eyes, expecting to see Vince there but not sure if I would after we got into it earlier. He’s a moody fucker and likes to dwell on things when we fight, so I’m surprised he’s sitting at the soundboard, beer in one hand, feet up on an opposing chair and indifference in his expression.

“You get it all out? Feel better, now?” He lifts the bottle to his lips but keeps his eyes fixed on mine. The silent fuck you relayed in his unrelenting stare.

I grab my shirt that’s lying on the floor beside me and scrub it over my sweat-drenched face. I hold it there for a minute as I catch my breath, waiting for him to start in on me but when silence remains, I look up.

“Rough day?”

I can’t help but laugh at his accurate assessment of today’s events. “Fucking stellar.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

He knows I don’t—I never want to—but I appreciate the offer. I rise from the drums without answering and toss the sticks in a case Gizmo has for them. I grab a handful of Sugar Babies from my tray and toss them into my mouth. For some reason I think of Quin, of her fruit to my loop comment and think sugar to your daddy would be a good one.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Oh my God, I have issues if that’s the shit that I’m thinking of. But at the same time, I did find it so damn adorable when she said that, even when the only reason I should want her is the quick fuck to shut Vince up.

“I’m surprised your teeth aren’t rotted out yet,” Vince says as he plops down on the recliner we have in the pseudo-studio we’ve created here at the rental house.

Something’s rotten in me, all right, but it’s not my teeth. I flop down onto the couch adjacent to the recliner and lie across the seat of it with my feet crossed over the armrest. Out of habit, I put my hands behind my head and stare up at the ceiling for a bit, the thought angering me. “Do you ever miss our old life when it was strictly music and chicks and ramen? When we had like five groupies and we thought we were the shit?”

He snorts. “You mean you had five groupies and we were just the assholes they had to get through to get to you.”

“Those were the days.” It all seems so long ago. The funny thing is I had all the same shit in my life back then—Hunter’s antics, figuring out how to help my mom, trying to keep my promise to my dad—just on a much different scale, but it still seemed simpler back then somehow. Less stress, less pressure, less bullshit.

“Living the dream, man,” Vince says.

“Yeah, living the dream.” I fall silent, my mind running over the day and what exactly I’m going to do about it.

“Dude, the guys and I talked and we’re willing to push back the start of the tour if we need to so you can take care of all of your shit.” I hear the sincerity in his voice and it pisses me off. The guys have to keep adjusting and reprioritizing because of me and the shitstorm currently surrounding me. “We’re just worried about you.”

“Thanks, man … appreciate it, but I can’t do that to you guys. I’ll get it figured out, leave it all behind by the time we kick it off. Besides, man, I need this—to get the fuck away for a bit.”

“New women, new faces, more just for the nights,” he muses.

I grunt in response because normally that sounds more than appealing to me. An escape from the pressure here although I still worry about it all when we’re on the road. I push away the thought that the only new face I see in my mind is Quinlan’s tonight as I basically kicked her off the porch. I shake the image away.

“Offer stands,” he reasserts as I sit up and rest my elbows on my knees so I can meet his eyes. “We can pull out of the benefit if need be as well. Might raise some eyebrows but you can have a nodule on your chords again and have to rest your vocals or some shit like that.”

“You’ve got this all planned out, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “Well …”

And as much as I’d love to blow off the upcoming fund-raiser, take a weekend for myself and get lost in a cabin in the High Sierras to clear my head, I can’t be that hypocritical by abandoning the cause so near and dear to my heart.

“Family comes first, Hawkin. Always.”

And it’s the way he says it that causes the pang in my chest. Family. “Well that depends who you’re talking about since you guys are more my family than …” I let my voice trail off and pause a moment before I continue. “I know with where my priorities are right now it doesn’t seem like it, but you are….” That’s all I can say because it’s been a shit day and fuck if I want to think about how someday I know Hunt will be in jail and my mom will be gone but the guys—Vince, Rocket, and Gizmo—will still be here.

Life and reality suck sometimes. I learned that the hard way a long-ass time ago and it still kicks me in the teeth on a regular basis regardless of how much success comes my way.

“I know. We know.” The resignation in his tone is an echo of how I feel.

“Hunter has to get help, see a therapist, something. I made that a stipulation to all of this.” That’s as close to a confession that I’m going to make in regard to taking the blame for my brother’s stupidity the night I was arrested.

“Uh-huh.” And that inherent part of me that’s always ready to defend my brother bubbles up before I rein it in. Yet Vince deserves to be skeptical after the numerous fallouts he’s had to deal with over the years. “Dude, if kicking him out of the band didn’t sober him up, nothing’s going to. Shit, it’s almost worse now. Him being high, missing a rehearsal, being too coked out to perform is one thing … but now, it’s like he has a vendetta against you to fucking take you down too, except he knows he can’t get to us, so he goes after everything else he can,” he says.

The urge to punch a wall returns; my hands fist, and jaw clenches as I’m reminded of the fallout years ago before we became successful. The decision the band ultimately left up to me when it came to my brother. The choice I made that still eats at me, still causes guilt, and that my brother uses every chance he gets to remind me of it. To try to pay me back for kicking him out of Bent because he couldn’t control his habit and was risking our chance at a record deal.

One of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made was whether to push him away or try to help him and at the same time save me in a sense. I close my eyes momentarily, Depeche Mode’s lyrics to “Halo” running through my mind: You wear guilt like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse. The words serve as a reminder that the one constant in my life, besides music, has been guilt.

And then I look at my other constant, Vince and his unwavering friendship. “Man, I’m doing the best I can.” I blow out a breath, staring at my hands for a beat, knowing I’m going to say the words and Vince isn’t going to believe them but I need to say them anyway. “I told him he has to set something up and follow through by next month.”

Vince just meets my eyes with a disbelieving nod. “Whatever you say, Play.”

“Fuck, I told him if he didn’t, I’m going to Ben and telling him what happened that night….” My words drift off as I realize what I just said. The combination of Quin and the fight with Hunt and the alcohol and … just fucking everything had scattered my thoughts and it took its toll on me in the form of a semiconfession.

Vince’s eyes flash over to mine, the I fucking knew it written all over his face, but he doesn’t say a word. He just twists his lips in thought and takes a deep breath as he digests the admission that he already knew. I know he wants to chastise me, get in my face over what he deems is my stupidity, but he knows me so well, knows that this was a slip I never intended to make, understands that I’ll shut down and take the fuck off for a while so that I don’t have to deal with everything, so he bites back the bitterness on his tongue.

Little does he know at this juncture I’ve fucked myself to the point that if I do change my story, there will be repercussions—perjury—so I just keep my mouth shut. The giant wave of guilt crashing into my conscience once again.

“I promise man, I’m not going to let his shit affect me or the group.”

Vince sighs and the room falls quiet for a moment, only the second-hand click of the clock hanging on the wall breaking through the silence. “You don’t go back on promises and we believed you when you told us that Hunter’s bullshit won’t come into our house again. I don’t know how you’re going to do that man but we believe you will.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, lying back down and bending my arm over my eyes, wanting to shut this all out. Wanting to shrug out of the responsibility that fell on me at much too early an age to take care of my mother and Hunter.

It all flashes in my memory like it was yesterday—his voice, his words, the images. My dad’s grown-up rant to my nine-year-old ears. How love makes the strongest person weak, can ruin them, make them lose their way. I remember my confusion, not understanding what he meant, why tears were streaming down his face as he told me over and over that love would make me weak.

That he was weak.

I can still hear my voice asking him how love can make you weak when Mommy loves him and he wasn’t weak. The tears came harder then from him and me as he knelt down in front of me and looked me in the eyes, made me swear to take care of them because I was the strongest of all. He went on to make me promise that no matter what, I’d do all I could to protect them because weak people made stupid mistakes and only brave men—me—could try to help them.

And I remember how the nine-year-old me was so proud that my dad had called me a man that I nodded, I agreed with everything I had, I promised faithfully because I had no idea what would happen next.

So I swore to protect my own blood at all costs and if I didn’t, I would be weak too. My only choice would be the same as his. He rambled on, scaring me with his words, his sudden anger that turned back to tears, shaking me by the shoulders to reinforce them. I kept glancing at the door, wondering when Mom and Hunter were going to come home because I didn’t know what to do, how to calm him. All I wanted when I came downstairs was my Transformers and yet I was scared to move and go get them from where they sat on the fireplace.

I remember glancing at the hearth and then back to him just in time to see him load the bullet in the gun I was never supposed to touch. The taste of the fear was like acid in my mouth and yet I couldn’t swallow. He looked me in the eye and told me that if I was weak, if I let him down by not being strong and taking care of them, then I would have to do what a weak man does. And then he put the tip under his chin as I whimpered and cowered. He yelled at me to stand up, to show him how strong I was by watching because if I didn’t, I’d be just as weak as he was and earn the same fate.

I stood tall, so afraid to let him down despite the tears sliding down my cheeks and the taste of vomit in my mouth from fear, and looked him in the eyes, and said the words, I promise, Daddy.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Vince calling my name shakes me from the memories that have scarred me like a brand, deep and irreversible. The Jack and Coke no longer sits well in my stomach and yet I’m sure as fuck going to have another to quiet the shit in my head.

“Yeah, what?” I ask as he eyes me, trying to determine whether I’m okay. I just shake my head at him to drop it as I scrub my hand over my face to try to rub away the memory that’s etched in permanent ink.

“I’m gonna be honest, man. You’re toeing that fine line with everything—Hunt, Quin, the other shit,” he implies without acknowledging. “The sucky thing about lines though is once you step over the edge, you can’t always find your way back.”

I stare at him, unsure which of those lines he’s talking about specifically but I don’t even want to venture a guess because I’m just glad it drags my thoughts from my past. “Maybe I don’t want to find my way back.”

“You talking about Trixie now?” He chuckles.

I’m not talking about anything in particular, just that unsettled feeling in regard to everything tumbling out of control around me … everything except for our music. My one and only constant through life. And I don’t really want to sit here and talk about this shit with myself let alone Vince so I hold on to the comment and use it as an out.

“I would definitely toe any line with her especially if I can use it to tie her to the headboard and have some fun.” The smile that graces my lips is genuine in what feels like the first time since the moment Quin left the house.

“You’re a sick fuck but I love the way you think.”

I laugh with him. “Living the dream, man.”

He laughs harder. “You’re going to be living in a tattoo shop pretty soon if you don’t set things right with little Miss Q.”

“Things are fine,” I correct him even though I know I was an asshole to her. Fuck. What I’d give to have her here right now since my anger has been thoroughly taken out on Giz’s drums. “I’ll fix it,” I say, and then realize I didn’t tell him anything about how the two of us left things. I shift to sit up and stare at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed so that I don’t even say a word and yet he knows what I’m thinking.

“Yep. I spied,” he confesses with a smirk. “Gotta know where I stand so I know when I’ll be needed to step in. Dude, being a third wheel never sounded so fucking appealing. I still think she’s going to grab you by the balls and add a little twist when telling you to fuck off after how you handled her tonight, but I’ll gladly take the extra ring around my tattooed heart because she’s hot.”

“That she is.” I blow out a breath and angle my head back against the cushion, thinking how I’m not too thrilled with the terms of this bet anymore. I’m not a possessive guy but fuck if I want Vinny in on this one. Then again, I’m not getting a tattoo of a heart like a pussy either.

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. Shit, I’d much rather just be between her thighs.

But Vince might just be right. I might have screwed the pooch here in how I left things tonight. Talk about a hard row to hoe, kiss her like I want to fuck her and then shove her out the door without so much as a hug. Stellar, Play. Frickin’ stellar.

The sad fact is I’m being protective of her as if I’m looking for something more than some fun between the sheets with a girl who readily admits that she enjoys sex. But I’m not. I don’t have time for that in my life right now, and definitely don’t want to invite the crazy in that comes with the steady woman territory. Jealousy over groupies, inability to handle lonely nights while I’m on the road, and the constant underlying feeling that they’re with me for the wrong reasons. I have enough crazy already to last a lifetime.

Besides, something more means love. Love means weak. Weak means I’ve failed.

No, I most definitely am in this for the challenge, wanting to prove I can bed her as well as get a kick out of fucking with Vince.

Now I have to figure out how to do that since I just proved to her she was right in assuming I was the player she kept telling me I was. But I’m not worried. She hated me at first sight and came around, so it can’t be that much harder to get her into bed.

Now, if I only had her phone number.

“I see you figuring your angles on how to fix this over there Hawky-boy … but it’s going to take a whole lot more than you think. A woman scorned is a whole different animal than a groupie….”

I laugh. “Yeah, they leave bite marks.”

“Hey, a little pain never hurt anybody,” he muses with a slow nod of his head and a tip of his bottle back up.

My phone breaks through our comfortable laughter. Vince looks down at my phone sitting on the soundboard next to him. “Westbrook,” he says, holding the phone out to me.

Fuck. Dread rifles through me. They never call for good news. “Hello?”

“Mr. Play, please.”

“Is my mom okay?” I ask like I don’t know what’s coming next.

“She’s quite agitated. I’ve called your brother but he isn’t answering. We can either give her something to calm her down or—”

“I’m on my way.” I blow out a breath and give Vince a look he knows all to well.

I grab my keys on the run, the familiar burden of responsibility a son should never have weighing heavy on my shoulders. I just wonder how much longer I’ll be able to carry the brunt of it before my back breaks.

Weak is not an option.