Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1) (54 page)

She wasn’t even aware her eyes had drifted closed until they opened. Disoriented, she let her gaze wander the planes of the room. The edges of a huge dresser, twice the size of the one in her apartment bedroom. A guitar, resting upright in a leather chair. The low murmur of a television. Suddenly realizing where she was and why, she flipped her position and her eyes locked with Gage’s gaze.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” He didn’t smile, but the tone of his voice felt as warm and seductive as a smile.

Her head swiveled to the wall that was almost all glass windows and doors. Unlike the guest room, zero daylight filtered into this room from beyond the coverings. Yet it had to be morning. “What time is it?”

“Noon or so.”

She jackknifed to a sitting position and scowled at her phone, which was lying on the bed between them. Why hadn’t the alarm sounded? “Your IV bag! It needs switching—”

“Did it.”

“You did it?”

Rascal was in the bed between their legs, and he raised his furry head, cocking his ears at her screechy tone.

“Yeah. Your phone alarm woke me. And you—Miss Organized—had typed it in. To change out the IV.”

“And
you
did it?”

“Yeah. It’s not my first rodeo.” His mouth twitched as if his wry smile wanted to come out, but it didn’t.

“You’ve OD’d before?”

“Once. Yeah. Sort of twice. But the second time wasn’t this drastic.”

“Why?” If he’d been through that horror once, how could he repeat the circumstances leading up to it and go through it again? “Why!”

The television was the only sound in the room for several long seconds.

“Look, Scar. I remember everything.” His famous, sexy eyes drooped with fatigue, and at this admission, they clouded with guilt. “I wish I didn’t. It would be easier that way. But I do. And I’m sorry. I know that was… some fucked up shit for you to go through.” His head rolled so that he stared at the high ceiling. “Thank you.”

“But why? Why would you do this again and again?”

“Not like I meant to.”

“Was it because of where we went? The memories? Your ex?” She’d already worked this out in her head before drifting into a doze. The membership he’d never used to the house on Outpost. The ex who had been a regular there with another man.

“It’s because I like being high! I fucking love the rush. That’s it. Don’t make it noble.”

“You need help to beat this. You need rehab—to check in and stay in until you’re well.”

“Can’t. Got a song to record. And a show to play.”

“But you have to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“Because no one else will, Gage. You and me—all we seem to have is ourselves.”

“I’m fine, Scar. I promise. I got this.”

T
he atmosphere of the entire house pulsated. The sound honed in closer and closer until it was a steady hum. When the text chimed, a minute or so later from the pilot, Gage was amused as usual. As if he needed a text to alert him a helicopter had landed on his roof.

“Scar?”

“Yeah. Give me one second.”

He paused in the doorway to her room, and his breath hitched. She was tossing things into a black sling bag. Since she didn’t look up as he hovered, he studied her freely. Straight-legged jeans hugged her long legs and perfect heart-shaped ass. A trendy belt decorated her hips. And the black shirt—was it a shirt, or a slinky lingerie top?

As she bent, stepping into first one and then the other black boot, her long ginger hair swung to one side. There was no sign of the darker roots he’d glimpsed over the past week.

She straightened, and with a glance in the mirror, froze when she caught him in what was likely a pervy stare.

“You look great!” He tried to recover. “You need a jacket?”

“Do I?” Without turning, she surveyed her reflection.

Yes. A hoodie to cover all that honey skin and flaming hair
. “No. It’d mostly be something to keep up with I guess. There’ll be something long sleeved in one of our dressing rooms if you get cold.”

She slung the bag over one shoulder and followed him up the stairwell to the chopper on the roof. She seemed gobsmacked for a second or two, before her face was hidden from him as the pilot helped her board the craft.

At times, he couldn’t figure her out. With the station of life afforded by her money, nothing should surprise her. Yet… although she’d never gaped at the trappings of living large during the time she’d been in L.A., her initial reaction sometimes seemed awestruck.

He was surprised when she accepted a sip from the flask he pulled from his boot as they lifted off. Her fingers rose, wiping her lips as she passed it back. He tipped it to his mouth, but suddenly the scent of her hair whipping around while they flew like gods over the pulsating weekend life of the city was more intoxicating than any pre-show substance he’d ingested.

In a matter of minutes, they were circling the arena, and only several more minutes later, being escorted through the maze of backstage tunnels. Reluctantly, he left her chatting with Seth and several of the teen’s friends in the hospitality room while he closed himself inside his dressing room. His instinct had been to grab her hand and pull her along with him. To listen to her calming chatter as he readied himself to take stage.

Still, he considered, while sitting at the makeup area creating lines with a razor’s edge, having her in the room would have meant hiding in the small adjoining bathroom balancing these goods on the edge of the sink or on his knees.

He knew he’d given her good reason the other night, but Scar worried too much. In a way, her concern made him happy because it meant she wasn’t comfortable around drugs. And not being at ease meant she wasn’t doing them. He couldn’t deny it also gave him a good feeling to know she gave a shit. Sometimes, it seemed no one else did. She’d called it the morning after his stupidity.

“Because no one else will, Gage. You and me—all we seem to have is ourselves.”

He blasted the first two rails and saved a third for stage call.

A light rap sounded, and the visitor announced herself as “Stylist.”

He swung the door open to a tall, leggy brunette, and he let his admiring gaze slide from her rack to her hips as she entered. Wandering the room, he checked an incoming text as she set up her station. She eyed him as she moved about, and he knew every bat of her lashes and purse of her lips was an open solicitation. He’d lost count of the female stylists who’d ended up on their knees before or after packing their grooming kits up.

Dropping his eyes to his phone screen, he thumbed a return text to Scarlette, who had beeped to let him know she was headed to the stage with Seth and his friends to watch the current act.

An image of her swaying to the beat as the band had rehearsed the other night assaulted his senses. Worse even, the recollection of her fingernails on his chest and her lips on his had his jeans tightening.

He changed into the shirt he would wear when he performed and took a seat. The brunette’s nipples poking through her thin shirt were his eye candy for the next ten minutes or so. When she began putting away straightening irons, product, combs, and brushes, he moved from the mirror.

The jeans and accessories making up tonight’s clothing ensemble hung in an open tour case, and he paused before it with his fingers on his fly.

Snapping her last case closed, stylist chick tossed her hair back over her shoulders and waited.

Fuck, he could use the release. Hadn’t blown his load since Trish/Tina…

When he inclined his head, she wasted no time. As his zipper inched open and her knees brushed the buckles on his boots, he closed his eyes and sifted his fingers through her hair, imagining ginger tresses.

Was that wrong?

S
he had seen Gage play a few different instruments in the time she’d known him. As a teen, his guitar had hardly left his hands and he’d occasionally torn up the keys of the baby grand in the formal living room. As for vocals, she had watched videos of him performing, most recently, the one she’d stumbled on in the movie room. At his invitation, she had tagged along to their semi rehearsal at the drummer’s home studio. But none of that had prepared her for the live experience of Fire Flight—of Gage.

As she hung on every note, she wondered why she had never attended one of Fire Flight’s shows. The band was incredible. Together they were chemistry of cadence. Their charismatic aura worked the audience into a heated fervor. Fire Flight wasn’t a concert—it was a spiritual experience.

A few times, Gage glanced her way. She felt a tickle to the depths of her soul when their eyes met—as if he was crooning—well screaming—the current song to her alone.

Despite her worries about him doing a show less than a week after an almost fatal overdose, he rocked the arena as if he had never died for a few seconds over his shower drain. Bill, their band manager had been introduced to her during the rehearsal, and now he stood across from her, seeming particularly attentive of Gage, watching much of the show with his arms crossed over his chest. By the last few songs in the set, he relaxed his stance and appeared to enjoy the set rather than monitor it.

The band members said their thank-yous and goodbyes. The lights brightened in the arena as the boys exited the stage and hurried down the ramp. As the gear lifelessly shadowed center stage, the cheers in the audience evolved into a low rumble and then a roar to entice Fire Flight back onto the stage.

Seth’s mother had arrived mid-show, and she introduced herself as they waited for the encore. “I’m Caroline.” The woman was pretty in a unique way, not in a model fashion. Scarla recalled Gage mentioning Caroline and Colt had been high school sweethearts. Colt had helped move her to L.A. when Seth was seven so it would be easier to share parental responsibilities, but they had never married or had a relationship after the birth of Seth beyond co-parenting.

“Scarla,” she replied and put her own hand out.

“And you’re Gage’s sister?”

“Stepsister.” And then she amended, “Actually, ex-stepsister.”

“Ah. Thank God!”

“What do you mean?”

Caroline only beamed, letting the conversation drop when the band filed past. The audience began to shout the moment they spotted their idols.

Fire Flight rocked two more songs and then said their goodbyes for real. She saw Gage look across at her but they were separated by too many bodies, and he was bustled in the reigning chaos of camera phones and screaming fans.

“It was nice to meet you.” Caroline smiled as she herded her son and his friends off the stage and beyond.

Scarla responded likewise and drifted along with them. The fence of security herded Fire Flight ahead, presumably to their dressing rooms, and she returned to the hospitality room. After a few minutes of smiling at the few strangers who shared the space with her, she felt out of sorts and wished she’d made more specific arrangements to meet up with Gage.

After a glass of wine and several more minutes, she tried to figure out transportation to his house. Possibly a cab. Or the chauffeur service he’d once texted to her.

“Ms. Smythe?” One of the faces she remembered from backstage entered the room and greeted her. He possessed a laminated pass like the one hanging around her neck. With a wave of his arm, he gestured, and she followed him into a crowded room.

Everyone seemed to have a drink in hand. The decibel level of many simultaneous buzzing conversations rumbled around her. Again, she was left on her own in the midst of a crowd triple the size of the hospitality room. She stifled the urge to run out as she took in the scene.

From the few who noticed her entrance, the reactions to her presence were varied. Women in barely there clothing glared, while a few flicked dismissive, bored glances over her. She recognized faces from the other bands who had played their sets before Fire Flight. A few men sized her up with interest—and at least a couple of lascivious leers—despite their arms being full of other women.

Coke was everywhere. The white powder dusted, dotted, lined, and littered flat surfaces around the room.