Broken instrument wrecke.., p.1
Broken Instrument (Wrecked Roommates), page 1
BROKEN INSTRUMENT
WRECKED ROOMMATES SERIES
KELSIE RAE
Broken Instrument
Cover Art by Cover My Wagon Dragon Art
Editing by Wickedcoolflight Editing Services
Proofreading by Stephanie Taylor
Published by Twisty Pines Publishing, LLC
April 2022 Edition
Published in the United States of America
Copyright © 2022 by Kelsie Rae
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Fender
2. Fender
3. Hadley
4. Fender
5. Hadley
6. Fender
7. Hadley
8. Fender
9. Fender
10. Hadley
11. Fender
12. Hadley
13. Fender
14. Fender
15. Hadley
16. Fender
17. Fender
18. Fender
19. Fender
20. Hadley
21. Fender
22. Hadley
23. Fender
24. Fender
25. Fender
26. Hadley
27. Fender
28. Hadley
29. Fender
30. Hadley
31. Hadley
32. Hadley
33. Fender
Epilogue
Also by Kelsie Rae
Dear Reader
About the Author
1
FENDER
My palms are sweaty, and my heart rate spikes as I drag my hands along the back of the brunette’s head. She opens her throat and dives in deeper, practically swallowing my cock while I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to lose myself in the feel of her lips wrapped around me.
This should feel good.
And it does.
But the closer I get to coming, the more I crave it. Not the woman in front of me, but the high. The oblivion. The moment when all the heavy shit doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating anymore.
I can’t crave it, though. Not anymore. Not after rehab. Not after everything I had to give up because I couldn’t keep my addiction in check.
It’s funny.
On paper, it sounds easy. Don’t do drugs, or it’ll ruin your life.
But what happens when your life is in shambles before you start using a handful of white pills and a bottle of dark brown liquor to cope with the day-to-day shit? It doesn’t feel like you’re giving up quite as much.
Because what’s there to give up in the first place? If anything, it feels like you’re finally able to breathe. To let go. To not feel quite so deeply for a few minutes.
And I was so tired of feeling.
That’s what I was addicted to. That’s what I wanted to ease for a little while. That’s why I popped those little white pills. Why I drank straight from the bottle. It’s why I shot heroin into my veins, and why I woke up in a hospital bed not so long ago.
It’s also why the band I created, Broken Vows, is now touring across the country with my older brother as the lead singer instead of me. It’s why I recently spent time in rehab, and it’s why I can’t even enjoy the feel of this random brunette’s mouth as she swallows my cock. Because even though it feels good, I know how much better it could feel if I was high.
My stomach tightens at the thought.
I want it.
I want it so damn badly.
I rest the back of my head against the bathroom stall’s door, tangle my fingers in the stranger’s hair, and pull her off me. With a soft pop, my hard dick slips out of her mouth, and she looks up at me.
“Something wrong?” she questions, her dark lashes fluttering, and the corner of her hazel eyes smudged with dark liner.
I shake my head, tuck myself back into my pants, and offer to help her up.
She takes my hand and smiles wickedly, proving my poker face really is worth all the years of practice I spent controlling it.
“Should we take this back to my place?” she asks as her blood-red fingernail wipes the edge of her mouth. The sight should turn me on. But all I feel is empty inside. Empty and wanting. But not for her. I don’t want her. She’s sexy. Don’t get me wrong. But she’s somehow…faceless. Not a person, but an object. And I hate it. It’s not me. Not who I am. Not who I want to be. It’s like she’s a means to an end who can’t even get me there without the help of my addiction.
Fuck.
“Can’t,” I grunt. “Thanks, though.”
Her perfectly drawn brows furrow. “But you didn’t––”
“Yeah.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I know. Have a good night.”
“You sure?” Her fingers drag down my chest and toy with the waistband of my recently buttoned dark jeans. “I could––”
I grab her wrist. “Leave. Now.”
Her breath hitches as she tugs her hand away from me and races toward the exit like a bat out of hell. The bathroom door slams against the rough brick wall, her heels clicking against the tile floor before silence settles over the bar’s bathroom.
If only my unsettled soul could quiet so easily.
With my chin to my chest, I fist my hands at my sides and count to ten, reminding myself of every single fucking reason I can think of as to why I shouldn’t call Marty––my half-brother turned dealer. Why I shouldn’t track him down and buy a few pills. Only a few. Just enough to get me through the next few weeks when I know it’ll only cause me to spiral more. Shoving my hands into my hair, I tug at the roots––hard––and push the stall door open with all my strength. It slams against the wall with a reverberating crash as I make my way to the sink and wash my hands with scalding hot water, though it does shit to wash away my past mistakes.
Shoving my hand into my pocket, I pull out a fun-sized bag of M&M’s and rip the package between my teeth. The pieces fall in a cacophony of a rainbow as I pour the entire bag into my mouth and chew mechanically. Not sure how they became my new vice or why I started eating them by the handful when I was in rehab, but they’re the only thing that curbs my dry mouth when I’m craving something stronger. Or at least, they usually do. Right now, they taste like sawdust. My annoyance flares as I avoid my gaze in the mirror, crinkle the wrapper into my fist, and toss it into the trash.
In a daze and not ready to go home, I head to the bar and collapse onto the nearest stool, ordering a shot of Jameson. I’m not addicted to alcohol. Or at least not any more than anyone else in this bar. But I’m not stupid either. I know it’s the first step to spiraling. To giving in. To becoming the weak, broken lead singer of my band.
Old band, I remind myself. Right now, I’m not sure where we stand.
I chose Broken Vows as its name for a reason. I’m not exactly great at keeping promises. Especially not ones that are so damn hard to keep.
The sound of glass clinking against the bar top startles me, bringing me back to the present as the bartender sets my order in front of me. I blink slowly and stare at the amber liquid.
It’s taunting me. Daring me to drink it. Promising to numb me the way I’m desperate to be numbed. I swirl my finger around the small rim, the familiar itch begging me to grab hold of the tiny glass and swallow its contents whole.
And it would be so easy to do.
Sure, there are rumors about why I left Broken Vows a few months ago. Why they’re touring across the country while I took an extended leave of absence as their lead singer and guitarist before showing up on the porch of my old place.
River, Milo, Jake, and my brother, Gibson, and I used to all room together. I moved in with my friend, Buddy, when the proximity to Gibson, aka Sonny, became too much.
It feels like a lifetime ago. When things were simple, yet oh so complicated at the same time.
Before River and Milo’s little sister, Reese, was cast in a Hollywood movie. Before Broken Vows took off, my brother fell in love for the first time with an innocent little coworker named Dove, who wound up touring with us as the co-singer in the band. Before my addiction consumed me and tore apart everything we’d been working for. Before I had to let go of my dreams because I was pissing on everyone else’s.
Yeah.
It really does feel like a lifetime ago.
So much has changed since then. Hell, I’ve only been gone for a little while, but half my roommates have moved out, Milo’s now a dad, and his girlfriend and new daughter are living across the hall from me.
Yup. A lot has changed. And I have no idea how to handle any of it.
I shouldn’t have come back.
But I didn’t know where else to go.
I had nowhere else to go.
Which led me here. To SeaBird. Desperate to get away and breathe for a little while. But realizing being around alcohol, a live band who doesn’t hold a candle to Broken Vows playing on the stage where we used to play, and the temptation of a one-night-stand––which is apparently a trigger for me––is enough to drive a guy insane.
And I am going insane.
The fact I’m actually considering drinking the beverage in front of me is enough evidence to put me in a crazy house.
It should be easy.
Especially after everything it’s cost me.
So why am I considering throwing away all the progress I’ve made?
Because you’re weak, a little voice inside my head reminds me. And I hate the voice almost as much as I hate the alcohol in front of me.
The barstool next to mine squeaks softly as a pair of suit-covered arms taint my periphery.
“They’re shit, aren’t they?” he says.
Confused, I look at the stranger. When I recognize him, I barely bite back my groan.
It’s Hawthorne.
The guy who almost turned Broken Vows down but extended an invitation to tour with Organized Chaos after I begged my father, the infamous Donny Hayes, to intervene. Without him, Hawthorne would’ve never caved and given Broken Vows another chance after I screwed everything up by almost missing our audition ‘cause I was too busy getting shitfaced at home. I guess it’s one benefit to having a rockstar as your dad.
The irony isn’t lost on me since it’s what screwed me over in the end, anyway.
Regardless, my dad stepped in and convinced Hawthorne to give us another chance. Without him, my brother wouldn’t be living out my dream with his girlfriend by his side. And even though I’m happy for him, it doesn’t stop the bitterness from flooding my mouth.
It should’ve been me.
Sucking my cheeks between my teeth, I look over my shoulder at the shitty band playing a cover of Aerosmith and go back to staring at my untouched drink.
“I keep telling Chuck to stop hiring the wanna-be's, but I guess not everyone’s Broken Vows, huh?”
I scoff and drop my chin to my chest but stay quiet. Chuck’s the owner of SeaBird and is one of the most supportive bastards I know. If it wasn’t for him, Broken Vows wouldn’t have had anywhere to perform and would’ve never wound up on Hawthorne’s radar. Not sure it matters anymore, but––
“How’ve you been?” Hawthorne prods.
Without bothering to look at him, I mutter, “Fan-freaking-tastic. You?”
He pauses, though I can feel him looking me up and down. “Better than you.”
I glare at him and turn back to my untouched drink.
“You gonna drink that?” he asks.
Tearing my gaze from the alcohol, again, I twist on my seat and demand, “What are you doing here? Are you checking on me or something? My dad send you?”
“No––”
“Coming to hear the local bands?” I wave my hand toward the stage but don’t look. I can’t. Not again. It’s too much. The reminder of all I’m missing. All that was taken from me. No. All I let go because I was too weak to control myself. Still, Hawthorne’s presence brings too many memories and emotions to the surface. I can only handle so many. Then I’m left more itchy and raw than after my encounter with the girl in the bathroom. And my self-control is only so strong.
I clear my throat and get to my feet. “Are you trying to find the next big thing? Don’t let me interrupt––”
“I’m here because Sammie needed to do some inventory before we could grab takeout.”
His response makes me pause.
“Sammie?” I push, mentioning Chuck’s daughter and the favorite bartender at SeaBird, who I was surprised to not see pouring drinks when I’d first walked in.
“Yeah. We started dating when I came to check out Broken Vows the first time.”
“Oh.”
I hadn’t noticed.
“Yeah. Speaking of which, I asked Gibson about you the other day. He said he hadn’t heard from you.”
Aaaand, there he is again. My brother. The golden boy.
I shrug one shoulder and reach for the glass, my thumbnail turning white from gripping the thing too hard. I let it go and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. My gaze remains zeroed in on the shot glass still within reach.
“You’re not going to hook up with them for the end of the tour?” he presses, leaning onto his elbows to get a better view of my blank expression.
Again, I stay quiet, but my jaw’s tight.
“Does Gibson even know you’re out of…?” He clears his throat and drops his voice low. “Last I heard, you were still…on hiatus. Does Gibson know you’re home?”
“Doesn’t matter. He should be focusing on the tour.”
“Fender, they miss you––”
“Stop,” I snap. “Just stop. I’m not going to call Sonny and beg to meet up with Broken Vows and finish the tour.”
“Who said you’d have to beg? From what I’ve gathered, the plan all along was for you to rejoin the tour as soon as you were released from…” Again, his voice trails off as his gaze darts from one end of the bar to the other. And while I know I should be grateful for his secrecy, it only pisses me off more.
God forbid anyone finds out I’m a fuck-up.
I scrape my hand over my face and sit back down, resting my elbows against the countertop, mirroring Hawthorne’s stance as I steeple my fingers against my chin. “Yeah, well. There was a change of plans.”
“Does Gibson know?”
“It doesn’t matter what Sonny does or doesn’t know. He should finish the tour without me. He and Dove have great chemistry. The fans are loving them. The music is dope. Let’s leave it at that.”
“And you?” Hawthorne asks.
“What about me?”
“Now that you’re out, what are your plans?”
Tongue in cheek, I don’t say a word. Honestly, I don’t know what to say or what he expects to hear.
“You still playing?” he prods.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you have talent––”
I scoff and lift my hand to silence him. “If I had so much talent, I wouldn’t have needed to call in a favor and have my dad convince you to give Broken Vows a shot––”
“It wasn’t a lack of talent that made me hesitant, Fender, and you know it.” His gaze narrows, daring me to argue with him.
But he’s right.
I hang my head as the reminder washes over me. I do know. The reason he was going to pass on Broken Vows was because of me. Because I was a loose cannon. Because I couldn’t be trusted. Because I wasn’t reliable. Because he knew my addiction would inevitably get in the way of my music. And he was right. It did. But the worst part is where it left me.
Fucking broken.
And alone.
So damn alone.
“I understand why you haven’t reached out to Gibson,” he adds carefully. “But I want you to understand something. Your future as a musician isn’t over.”
Another scoff slips out of me. He reaches over and grabs the shot glass in front of me. “As long as you stay clean,” he finishes, his gaze pointed. “Think you can do that for me?”
No.
I hold his stare and watch him bring the hard liquor to his lips, swallowing my temptation before setting the empty glass back down on the bartop. He digs into his suit pocket, pulls out a shiny black business card, and places it beside the empty shot glass. “Call me.”
“I’m retired,” I hedge.
“From Broken Vows? Maybe. But from the music industry in general?” He tsks. “It’s in your blood, Fen. People don’t retire from what’s in their DNA. Bury it? Sure. Run from it? More often than you’d think. But they don’t retire from who they are. Call me. Give yourself something to live for again. Because this?” His astute gaze slides over me. “Is hardly what I’d call living.”
He gets to his feet and leaves me alone while making me second guess my reason for living all over again.
2
FENDER
With my shoulders hiked up to my ears and my head down, I rock back on my heels, blown away that I’m actually here.
I shouldn’t be here.
