Kade squints, wagging the thick tumbler back and forth at me. “Nah. If I didn’t see you living like Jesus with my own two eyes, I’d check your pupils right now. Because that’s straight bullshit.” The smirk riding the corner of his mouth as he tips the whiskey to his mouth contradicts his irritated grunt.
I duck my head, reaching for my bottle of apple juice, my new favorite drink since getting out of rehab. But Kade has been my friend for too long—almost from the moment me and my piece of shit Mustang rode into L.A.—to not see the gesture for what it is.
An avoidance.
“Hey.” Kade’s hands, with their thick, callused palms cupping the tumbler of whiskey, encroached into my view. “You know I’m fucking with you, right? Where you go, we go. There was never a choice about that.”
He’s right.
And he’s wrong.
That’s what has guilt beating me like a prize fighter pummeling a boxer far past his prime. I can’t even put up a defense, so I absorb the blows, arms stretched wide, chin tilted, ready for the swing that will lay me out and put me out of my misery.
Because in the last nine and a half years, wherever I’ve led, Kade, Mac, Gideon… They’ve all followed. Not blindly. They’re all too proud, too intelligent and strong to follow anyone like sheep. It’s loyalty that has kept them by my side even when I’ve been set on a countdown to my personal Armageddon.
Kade’s also wrong. He had a choice just as the rest of them did. They could’ve decided to remain in L.A. instead of uprooting their whole lives and moving over a thousand miles to be with me and Gunner. The smart thing to do would’ve been to wait it out back in California, see if sobriety, fatherhood and this change in lifestyle stuck. Determine what kind of singer, musician, fuckingpersonI am without the drugs.
That should’ve been their choice.
But no. They’re here with me. Having bought homes just a couple of blocks away from me. Helping renovate my carriage house into a recording studio. Giving the nine-month-old son I didn’t know existed until ninety days ago a family.
Yeah, they had choices.
And, though there are moments—like this one—when I believe they all bet on the wrong horse—I’m still damn glad they did.
Yep, that’s me. Still fucking selfish to the core.
“You know, when you get in moods like this I really wish you’d chosen fucking as a coping mechanism instead of working out.”
My head snaps up, and I stare at him lips parted in horror and…wonder. Becausethe hell?
“Did you really just let that shit come out of your mouth?”
He shrugs one big shoulder, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit, taking a small sip of the whiskey.
“I’m just saying. I wanna swing on you so bad right now, but with those freakishly big muscles you got going on, I’m only twenty-three percent sure you wouldn’t lay my ass out. But pussy? I could beat the shit outta youandthere could be a threesome in my future…” He shrugs again.
“You do hear yourself, right? How incredibly insensitive and fucked up to hell you sound?”
“Maybe. But what’s the saying?” He tips his head to the side, and the dark blond bun at the back of his head slides to the side. “Ain’t no fun if the homies can’t have none.”
I snort. And wonder if maybe sensitivity training for rock bands is a thing.
Shaking my head, I set my apple juice on the table and push to my feet. Stretching my arms above my head, I scan the living room, taking in the still unpacked boxes stacked against walls. I’d only brought things with me from L.A. that I absolutely couldn’t leave behind, not wanting to drag any of that old shit with me to my fresh start in Pike’s End. One of the most common triggers for relapses is being around the people, places and things that surrounded you while deep in your addiction. For Gunner’s sake—and mine—I had to leave.
But I couldn’t part from certain things. Like my guitar collection. My parents’ wedding album. My mother’s china set, passed down to her from her mother, that I took with me all those years ago when I left Pike’s End, afraid Dad would destroy it in one of his drunken fits. My gran’s afghans. And more items that someone like me shouldn’t be sentimental about.
Lowering my arms, I roll my shoulders back. Tomorrow, I’ll tackle the rest of it. Finish unpacking and attempt to hit reboot on this new life I insisted on. But for now, a restlessness crawls under my skin like a convoy of ants and I need to get moving.
Get out.
Just for a little while.
“I’m going for a run. You want to come with me? Matt’s got Gunner down for the night and can listen out for him while we’re gone,” I say, mentioning our “manny” Matt Kramer, who moved with us to Pike’s End.
Kade snorts.
“A day of driving, more hours of unpacking and a punishing run to top everything off.OrI could crash on your couch and cuddle up with this,” he held up his glass, “for the night. Tough choice, but I’m choosing B.”