“Thank you, New York!” I yell into the mic, the crowd going wild. “We want to thank y’all for supporting us, for buying the new album, and for being here tonight. We’ve had a great tour, and we have all of you to thank for that.” The guys step forward, and another round of yells and screams float up and around Madison Square Garden. God, being back on home ground feels good. “Thank you, and goodnight.” We wave, and quickly make our way off stage, sweaty and on a high.
“Shit,” Benji, our back-up guitarist, sighs, shaking out his mane of black hair. “That was insane!”
“Best show on the tour, man,” Fletch, our drummer, replies, still bouncing on his feet. He’s the first to whip off his shirt, and hell if I’m not tempted to do the same. I’m hot as fuck after being under those damn lights for so long, but it was worth it. Every single second.
“Totally killed it.” This comes from our bass guitarist, Carson. He pulls his fingers through his blonde hair, and high-fives Fletch. “That crowd was intense.”
“Guys.” Our manager, Alex, approaches, a broad grin on his face. “You made your last show your best one to-date.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Fletch teases, bumping fists with Alex. He might look like a stiff in his Armani suit, but he’s a good friend, and a fucking brilliant manager. Strict when he needs to be, but he’s never done anything but look out for us, even when we’ve disagreed with him. “You guys going to party tonight? I need to know if I must get extra security for the rooms.”
“Fuck yeah!” Benji yells. “I need to get me some hot pussy!”
I shake my head, and laugh. “You’re an ass.”
“He’s right though,” Carson says. “I need to get laid before I fucking explode.”
You’d never think we are in our mid-twenties with the way we behave after a show. It’s more like a bunch of high school gnats who always have sex on the brain. Not that I can judge. I’ve had my fair share of groupies, but for the last few years, I’ve hung back, and chilled out more. The guys, on the other hand, behave like heathens.
“Right, gents,” Fletch rubs his hands together, all the while bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I say we grab some willing ladies, and head to my room to par-taaaaaaay!”
Another round of high-fives, and hoots, and we’re all heading towards Fletch and Benji’s suite, a whole bunch of groupies in tow. Nothing new, but for whatever reason, I’m glad the tour is over. I’m keen as fuck to head home, and see my brother, maybe even stay there until his kid arrives. Under normal circumstances, I’d just head to one of my places, either in New York or London, until the guys and I get ready to regroup, but something about my big brother having a kid has me wanting to go to Texas. I haven’t spoken to the bugger for weeks, and I miss him somethin’ fierce. The last few weeks have just been so intense, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. But for tonight, I’m going to enjoy myself and revel in the glorious afterglow of another successful tour for Eighteendust. We’ve worked our asses off, gone platinum with three of our four albums—we’ll know later in a few weeks if the fourth also went platinum—I think we deserve to go out with a bang.
I have a beer in one hand, and two luscious brunettes curled up on each side of me. One is nibbling my earlobe, and the other is rubbing my thigh, sliding her hands higher and higher up my jeans. At this rate, they’ll be stripping me naked in front of the entire suite full of people. Wouldn’t be the first time, either. My band has seen me naked more times than I care to count, but we have an unspoken rule: what happens on tour, stays on tour. Unless a groupie leaks some info, in which case we get reamed out by Alex for our ‘outragious shenanigans’. We try remain low-key, but sometimes the after-parties get rowdy, and shit starts going down. Clothes come off, and on more than one occasion, the guys and I end up in our rooms with at least two women. It comes with the territory, and we tend to take full advantage. Fletch is chilling at the bar with some friends, a blonde latched onto his arm, and Benji is perched on the opposite sofa whispering shit to a redhead. Everyone else is dancing around, moving to the heavy thump of the bass blasting though the speakers. Fuck knows where Carson is, he’s probably banging someone in the bathroom already. On any other night I’d probably beat him to it, but I’m tonight I’m just not feeling it. Call it intuition, but something feels off, and in spite of the gorgeous women lavishing me with their attention, and wandering hands, my dick seems to agree. He’s not interested in playing. I shift my arms, and tell the girls I have to take a leak. They pout, but stand up, and make their way to the bar. I open the suite door with the intention of using my own bathroom, on the off chance that Carson is in fact using the other one, when I see Alex, and our assistant, Penelope, arguing in the hallway. His brows are furrowed, his stance rigid, and she’s glaring at him as if he just kicked her puppy. Granted, they almost never see eye-to-eye, Penelope has authority issues, and Alex can be real hard-ass, but something in the way they’re looking at each other has me hesitating.
“Hey.”
Their gazes whip to mine, and I frown. They both look pissed.
“You need to tell him,” Penelope hisses, turning her murderous gaze back to Alex. “I’m sick of dealing with this bullshit, Alex. I shouldn’t be fielding calls from fucking groupies on our private line.”
“What is she talking about?”
We have a private number that only family has, and if it’s been given out, Alex will shit his pants. By the looks of it though, it might have already been leaked.
Alex sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose before walking the short distance to me. “A woman called Penelope ten times while you were on stage, asking to speak specifically to you.”
My frown deepens. The only woman who has the number is my mom, but she hardly uses it because I’m the one who calls her. My schedule has been insane, but whenever I have a chance, she’s the second person I call, the first being Ryan.
“Was it my mom?” I ask Penelope.
“No,” she snaps, brushing her red hair over her shoulder. “Some bimbo named Reese Pie, and she literally called me ten times—”
I freeze. “What did you just say?”
Penelope rolls her eyes and throws her hands in the air. “For God’s sake, I said someone named Reese Pie called me and just wouldn’t let up, even after I told her we don’t allow fans to speak directly to band members on the private line. I don’t even know how she got the fucking number. Honestly,” she huffs, “I’m the assistant, not the groupie manager.”
“Thorin.” Alex touches my arm. “Are you okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You said Reese Pie?” I almost choke on the words. I haven’t uttered or heard that name in years, and very few people know who the nickname belongs to. “You must be mistaken,” I tell Penelope. “It couldn’t have been—”
“It was, damnit! Fuck, Thorin, you’re spending too much time standing next to the speakers during soundcheck, you’re going deaf.”
I take a shuddering breath. “Thorin? What’s going on?” Worry creases Alex’s forehead, and something in my gut sinks.
“So, if she kept calling, you didn’t think you should mention it to me the minute I got off stage, Pen?”
“As I said, it was probably a fan or a groupie—”
“She’s not a fucking groupie!” I shout, my voice booming down the hallway. Penelope straightens, and her blue eyes go wide. I’ve never, ever, raised my voice at Pen, or any other woman for that matter. If I lose my shit, it’s with or around the band, and on the odd occasion, Alex. “Can you pull up the number she called from?”
She stares at me.
“Now, Penelope, goddamnit!”
Alex takes the phone from her, and ushers her away before approaching me with careful steps, stopping a foot away. He pulls up the number, and shows it to me. I recognize the area code immediately, and it pisses me off that Penelope didn’t. She knows Ryan is in Texas, and she knows damn well to tell me if a call comes through with that area code.
“Thorin, you’re freaking me out here.”
“Just hang on.” I stare at the number, and wonder why in the hell Reese would be calling. The last time I saw her I was eighteen, and she wanted nothing to do with me. It makes no sense, but if she used the old nickname I gave her instead of just her name then it can only be her. Fuck. I check the time. It’s past eleven in New York, and Texas is an hour behind. I only have to contemplate it for a second before I hit call, and head to my room for some quiet, with Alex hot on my heels. The phone rings, and rings and rings. No answer.
“Fuck,” I mutter. My hands shake, and I redial. It rings twice.
“Hello?”
God, her voice. It’s still as raspy, and throaty as I remember it, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a kick to the gut. I’ve thought about looking her up and calling her a thousand times over the years, but chickened out last minute. Our history isn’t exactly easy. Or pretty.
I clear my throat. “Reese, it’s me.”
The line goes quiet. So quiet I almost think she’s hung up. “Reese, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry, I just…I wasn’t expecting…” She’s rambling, but there’s a tremor in her voice.
“I’m sorry about our assistant, she should have told me you called.”
Reese lets out another breath. “Yeah, she should have, but…” she hesitates again, “she really should have.” She’s sniffling now, and the sound has me pacing the carpet like a mad man. “Reese, what’s going on?”
“Thorin,” she sniffles again, “It’s Ryan, and Melissa.”
At that, my heart stops, and my world tilts.
Nonononono.
“Uh,” Reese swallows, “you need to come home. I don’t where you—”
“Tell me what happened,” I demand, my voice low and hard. Reese lets out a whimper, and it grates my insides, my skin, but I give her a moment.
“They’re dead, Thorin.”
It’s my turn to go quiet, and I feel the blood draining from my face. I fall onto the sofa by the window, and drop my head into my hands. I’m going to be sick, and I’ve only had one fucking beer.
“Your mom is already here,” Reese continues, “and I made all the arrangements for a memorial service. I held off until I could reach you.”
“When?” It comes out as whisper.
“A week ago.”
“A week ago?” I explode. “And you’re only calling me now?”
“I’ve been trying all week, Thorin, but your assistant, or whoever she is, refused to tell you because she assumed I’m a fan.” Reese keeps her composure, but I’m about ready to wring Penelope’s neck.
“FUCK!” I yell, rising to my feet so fast I feel dizzy. “This can’t be happening.”
I turn around, and suddenly find that I’m not alone. Alex, along with the rest of the band, are all in my room, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern.
“I want to tell you what happened, but please don’t make me do it over the phone.”
I swallow the bile clawing its way up my throat, and Reese adds, “The service is in two days, that’s the longest I could get them to stall it. I needed to talk to you, but this was the only number Ryan had.”
I take a deep breath, but it’s difficult. My chest aches, my lungs refuse to expand, and it feels as though the walls are closing in on me. And then it hits me.
“The baby? What about the baby?”
Another snivel from Reese. “He’s fine.”
“It’s a boy?” I choke out. “They have a son? I have a nephew?”
“Yeah, and they didn’t even get to meet him, Thorin.” Reese openly starts sobbing on the phone and then I feel my own tears running down my face. The last time I cried was at my dad’s funeral three years ago, and the time before that was when I found Reese—I shake my head. If I go down that road right now, there will be no coming back. I need to get it together, the way Ryan would expect me to.
Shit.
Even thinking about him hurts like a motherfucker. What was the last conversation we had? Did I tell him I love him?
“Okay,” I clench my knuckles and bite my fist to stop the onslaught of emotion threatening to break free. “I’ll see you in two days.”
Before Reese can respond, I end the call and throw the phone across the room until it’s shattered into pieces. I let out a scream, and start punching every fucking thing I can find, repeatedly hitting the wall until my right hand is completely busted and covered in blood. The wall has a hole in it, but I don’t care. The guys scramble, and Fletch, being the size of a linebacker and the only one as big as I am, wraps his arms around me until I’m calmer. I rear back, and we fall to the floor with a thud.
“Thorin.” He’s talking to me, but it’s hard to hear because my pulse is a loud thump-thump thump-thump in my ears.
“My brother and his wife are dead.” The words spill from my mouth as if they’re being strangled out of me, tasting like cardboard. They’re a noose around my neck. “I have to go home.”
Alex pulls his hands through his hair, huffs loudly, and Carson and Benji both drop down to the floor beside me. When I look up, their eyes are red, and they’re crying.
Because fuck, Ryan was more than just my brother.
He was theirs by extension too.