Having Hope (The Blow Hole Boys Book 4) (2 page)

I was swimming in a sea of snatch. My body was plunging into it on a nightly basis as I attempted to cleanse myself in the sweet waters of a willing woman at every shot. I was engrossed in so much gash that all their features began to blur, swirling in my memories and becoming one unidentifiable face.

No specific hair color.

No exact eye shade.

No ideal body shape.

Women were everywhere—ready, willing, and sometimes begging to climb all over my stick. One minute, they were there, riding me and bringing me so much pleasure that I couldn’t focus on anything around me, and the next, when it was over, they were gone. Discarding me like last night’s stale clothes and moving on to something fresh.

So I did what any normal red-blooded man would do.

I took advantage.

I indulged in their offers of release. Using their bodies to fill the void in my life and leaving them breathless with my experience and knowledge of the female body. Shutting out the world around me and forgetting the past that molded me so full of cracks and holes, I’d push myself inside another, and I’d disappear. Without fear of the future—without thinking—I’d shut down and go into fuck mode.

It was my serenity.

It was my escape.

I’d used this method ever since my younger days. Days far away in the back of my memory—days when the boys and me were playing hole-in-the-wall dive bars and scraping up change for smokes and the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

I’d known then that women loved boys in bands. They wanted the lead singer’s whispers against their flushed skin. They wanted the sweet vibrations of the bass player and the methodical fingering of the lead guitarist. But more than anything, they craved the stick of the drummer—the beat of him pounding inside until they sang with pleasure—writing a melody of release all over me.

It was fucking beautiful.

I gave them what they wanted. I gave them the only thing I was capable of giving … my body. 

No deep emotional connections—no declarations of love or promises of more—only me and my cock. Only sex.

Then there was nothing.

Throughout the years of play—throughout the many nameless, faceless women—only one thing stuck out in my mind. Only one thing made it to the forefront of my memories—shining through all my foggy recollections of fucking and forgetting.

A tiny blackbird nestled on perfect skin.

The tattoo stood out against her ivory complexion like a beacon for her memory. I’d close my eyes and flashes of her tattoo would appear, shoving me back to the moment that defined me and the man I one day hoped to become.

Where that tattoo was located, I couldn’t remember.

The only thing I remembered of what I’d deemed the best night with any woman was the blackbird. It was the only time I could remember going slow. The only time I took my time and melted with someone else—became one with a woman on another level.

The girl with the blackbird tattoo reached inside me—soothing internal scars—breathing life back into my decaying mind. She was an enigma—a dream—but she existed. I had no doubt in my mind that night had happened. Everything about her was real.

I was young. I was high and drunk out of my mind. Therefore, I didn’t remember much about her, but I did remember the tiny tattooed salvation. The symbol of freedom, which remarkably reminded me of the way she’d made me feel that night.

Not a day went by that I didn’t think about my Blackbird. I couldn’t remember her face—her smile—nothing. I only remembered the feeling of someone truly wanting me for me and no other reason. I wasn’t the drummer of Blow Hole. I was Chet Rhodes, and she looked inside and saw
me
.

I went to sleep next to her wearing a smile of relief for the first time in my entire life, thinking when I woke she’d still be there, and I’d possibly found the one who could lock me down. But when I woke the next morning with a raging headache and a sick stomach, she was nowhere to be found.

I hated myself for getting so fucked up that I couldn’t remember specifics, and I’d continue to hate myself. Until her and after her, they were the same woman—all the same, everything—nothing like my Blackbird.

That was my before.

She was my past and my biggest regret. I didn’t regret that she had happened. I regretted that she had gotten away so easily because I was too fucked up to keep it together. 

Fucked up was how I lived then. Things were rough in the beginning—the only good in my life had been the girls and the tiny bit of fame we’d earned back home in South Carolina.

Everything else about my existence had been the thing of nightmares. I never let on to the guys, but many nights I’d slept on a park bench with nowhere else to go—the cool night air stinging my skin, and the hard metal of the bench leaving me stiff.

The guys were my family—my brothers—my support. They had been since the moment I came home to our piece of shit trailer to find it empty.

No furniture.

No pictures.

No mother.

What kind of person packed up everything and left her son while he was at school?

Who could do something so fucked up?

My mother.

That was who.

Thankfully, the bitch left my shit on the front porch. I had my clothes and a few pieces of my past, and that was all until the moment we signed our contract.

That was then.

These days, we were living the glamorous life. After signing a major record deal, we had more money than we could blow.

Trust me.

I’d tried.

I’d spent many weekends with the white rabbit running up my nostrils, and the cocaine afterglow dripping down the back of my throat, numbing me from the inside out and frying my regrets and memories. I’d smoked more herb than my rattling lungs could contain, and I’d drunk enough booze to drown an Irishman.

Some days, I’d wake up with my head spinning and my stomach heaving—days I’d find myself surrounded by sleeping strangers with no memory of the night before—no memory of anything. Only tangled, naked limbs and the smell of sex to wake me.

That was my life.

My jam.

It was the only way I knew how to survive—to keep the truth hidden—to keep the darkness at bay. If I didn’t, it would choke me. If I didn’t keep it hidden, I’d live each day thinking about my last day, and I couldn’t do that. Instead, I lived without care, without knowing when that day would be.

I’d grown accustomed to that way of life.

It was fucking beautiful.

It was everything a young, carefree man like myself could ever want.

The boys and I were living the lives of kings, and then everything went away.

My boys were plucked off one by one, finding true love and starting families and shit.

Things were changing. Things were growing … evolving. The boys weren’t down for a good party anymore. They wanted more, and I couldn’t blame them for that. They were receiving the things that I could only dream of.

Zeke, our lead guitarist, was the first. He had fallen for a tiny blond with so much heart and love to offer it was sickening. They had kids together … beautiful blond girls who thought I was the funniest person on Earth.

Patience and Zeke were perfection together, and even though I never thought Zeke would settle down, Patience had captured him and locked him down … happily. I’d never seen him really smile, and I’d known him for years, but these days, and with Patience, he smiled all the time.

Finn, our lead singer, followed right behind Zeke, running into his first and only love again only to find out they had a son together. He was changed man from that moment on. And they made a home together and brought a daughter into the world.

To see our leader, the man who never broke for anything, fall so hard and be so completely wound up over a woman was hilarious. I couldn’t say I understood it, but the happiness on his face every time he saw his wife, Faith, made it easier to accept.

And then there was Tony, aka Tiny, who was marrying the daughter of a rock legend. They started out bumpy, drugs and their pasts getting in the way and keeping them apart, but their love was obvious, and I was happy for him and Constance. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they too were popping out babies and living the family lifestyle.

I didn’t hate them for deciding to settle down and become family men.

Not really.

I loved my nieces and nephew, and while I ragged the boys hard for being domesticated pussy boys, the truth was I was jealous of all the things they were gaining in their lives—things much bigger than a record deal—much better than the fame and money.

My boys were growing loving families, and I knew I could never have that. I would never shackle a woman to me. It would be wrong to do so since I had nothing to offer but a lifetime of pain and worry … a lifetime left of suffering.

So as I stood by Tiny’s side and played the part of his best man, I knew I was losing more than my final wingman. I was losing more than our nights partying at the condo we’d all once lived in together in California. I was losing the last ounce of hope that maybe I wouldn’t die alone.

Tiny was moving on. He’d found the one who filled his dark corners with light—the one who made breathing through his demons a little bit easier—and no matter how sad I was to be losing him, I was happy for him.

I was happy for all of them.

Standing beside my boys, all dressed in our wedding wear of suits and bowties, I looked across at the girls of Red Room Sirens and grinned. Tiny was marrying their lead guitarist—he was locking his life to hers—and I approved. I liked Constance and already considered her family.

She was beautiful—hardcore and a hard-ass, which was exactly what Tiny needed. She was tall and blond, a perfect match for Tiny and his large, muscular frame. She smiled up at him as he said his vows and the look in her eyes—the absolute love that I could see swimming in her emotions—left an aching sensation in my gut.

I’d never know that.

I’d never have that look directed at me.

Never.

Shaking my thoughts and clearing my throat, I let my attention settled on the stars of the show.

Tiny and Constance.

I wished them so much happiness, which I knew they’d have, and I silently cursed the devil in the back of my mind for taking away my chances for the same.

My eyes moved down the line of bridesmaids, leaving Constance and landing on their lead singer, Lena. She stood tall, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Feeling my gaze on her, she looked my way and grinned. I gave her my signature smirk, making her shake her head and turn away.

The girls of Red Room Sirens had grown accustomed to my flirty ways. After two months together on the Rock Across America tour, we had grown close. We spent time together, and they began to understand me the way my boys did. They knew what I was about, and in some strange way, I think they understood and respected my decision on how I chose to live my life.

These beautiful girls became my friends, which was a first for me. I didn’t have female friends, but after some time with them, I found myself not looking at their tits as much. Not thinking about fucking them.

They were different from the rest of the girls I knew. They were untouchable, worth more than a one-night roll in my bed. And when they smiled at me, I knew it was because they felt the same about me.

Except for one.

Hope, the drummer for Red Room Sirens, was the strangest woman I’d ever met.

She wasn’t sexy in the usual sense. Actually, she was awkward and unfriendly. She dressed unlike any other girl I knew and rarely smiled. She’d show up to rehearsal some days wearing cartoon pajama bottoms, a top that didn’t match, and combat boots.

Weird.

But something about her carefree attitude and thrown together style made her attractive. She was short and small; her shoulder-length hair weaved with rainbow strands, and her eyes were so dark the blackness threatened to steal away any light shining near her.

Her laughter was contagious—loud and as unique as her style—but also rare. Emotion of any kind wasn’t something I imagined Hope showed. She was unreadable. Her young face was like stone—expressionless and hiding what I guessed was a dark past—until she picked up her drumsticks and played.