Path of Destruction Page 3

  * * *

  1998

  "We're here, Mr. Hayes," the driver announced.

  I woke up from my slumber, grunted in acknowledgment, and got out of the car with my guitar case. Hungover as fuck, I yanked up my hood and adjusted my shades. Girls stood on the pavement outside the hotel entrance and wanted my attention. Jesus. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, and they were already dressed like whores.

  "Over here, Lincoln!" one hollered.

  I would be passing them anyway, and I wanted to try something. If it worked, I'd have my suspicions confirmed. Again. There weren't too many, but security had set up a fence to be safe. Or the hotel provided one because they cared about their most esteemed guests.

  The tour bus hadn't rolled up yet.

  "What's up?" I muttered.

  A blonde pulled down her tank top and held up a Sharpie. "Can I get your autograph?"

  Nice pair of tits, I'd give her that.

  "Sure." I shouldered the guitar and grabbed the marker, quickly scribbling my name above her breast. "Say I wanted head before I get on the road. Think you could give me your mouth?"

  "I'll do it." Another chick spoke up and licked her lips.

  I'd roll my eyes, but it would make my headache worse. I just raised a brow at Blondie.

  She smiled and blushed. "Oh my God, of course I would. Where?"

  Her answer disappointed me, though I wasn’t surprised. I put on the charm for a second and leaned close while I stuck the marker between her tits. "As long as you get to suck celebrity cock, it doesn’t fucking matter where, does it?"

  Pathetic bitch.

  She reeled back, and her face falling was the last thing I saw before I turned around and headed toward the entrance. A doorman held the door open for me, and I stepped inside to find Morgan—our manager's PA—talking to our driver, Marco. Morgan was probably on the next flight so he could get ahead.

  He spotted me and said the guys were having breakfast by the pool.

  I wasn’t hungry, but I changed direction. Seeing Marco jogged a memory, too. Last night—at the party. I invited some girl to join us. A beautiful little thing who didn’t make me wanna choke her the minute she spoke.

  "Marco," I called, and he looked my way. "Put, uh…" What the fuck was her name? Allison? No. It was less common. Something with Lynn or… Adeline. "Adeline. Her name goes on the list."

  He didn’t like that, and he muttered something in Spanish under his breath. "Fine," he sighed. "Is she at least legal?"

  "Yup." I turned again and walked to the pool area. Adeline… If she turned up, which I doubted, I'd give her a night or two. She didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

  "Look what the cat dragged in!" Mikey yelled.

  I winced at the volume, making my way between the tables to reach them.

  "Did you just wake up?" Tony asked.

  I shook my head and sat down in an empty chair. "I didn’t sleep here." After my twenty minutes with that tiny dancer last night, I left the party early and went to a buddy's studio. We got coked up, drunk, and spent the night jamming oldies.

  "Nice." Sam smirked, getting the wrong idea. "The bus here yet?"

  "No." I pulled out my chair a bit and leaned back and closed my eyes. "I'm guessing the crew's on the way already."

  "Yeah," Mikey answered. He'd know. His little brother was on the payroll now. "Madigan called me at four to bitch about getting up too early."

  I tuned out, not interested for shit.

  Chapter 4

  Adeline Ivey

  1998

  I was so nervous stepping onto that tour bus. It was huge and luxurious, complete with sleeping quarters in the back and booths on either side of the aisle near the front. There was a kitchenette and everything.

  "Just have a seat, mija." The driver gestured at the booths. He'd introduced himself as Marco, and I hoped he was friendly.

  "Thank you." While I took my seat and placed my backpack in my lap, three women who could be models followed, though they continued down the aisle toward the sleeping quarters.

  I bit my thumbnail, seeing fans outside the hotel. We were parked right before the valet area.

  It would be easy to bail. The butterflies in my stomach were strong enough for me to fly out of here. And then where would I be? Stuck in the city I now hated. A city that gave me nightmares. No, I was going through with this. I'd get away, and I'd spread my legs if it meant I could spend my days and nights in a haze.

  I was good at spreading my legs. My one purpose on this earth.

  If Lincoln didn’t find someone better along the way, maybe I'd make my way to Baltimore. I didn’t really care where I ended up.

  "Only half an hour late!" Marco exclaimed. "I'm impressed."

  Four men climbed the steps to get on the bus.

  The moment I saw Lincoln, everything became real. I was going on the road with a rock band. Ray-Bans on, hood up, and sipping coffee, he probably hadn't slept much. He slid a guitar case into the nook behind the booth I was sitting in, and then he slumped down next to me.

  "Mornin'." His voice was gruff and quiet, as if he'd emptied a whiskey bottle or two down his throat. Perhaps he had. "I see you made it."

  "You're very observant."

  He shook his head and leaned back, trying to get comfortable. "Too early for attitude."

  I laughed silently. "Rough night?"

  He nodded but didn’t elaborate.

  It wasn’t my business, so I didn’t ask. He'd probably had fun with groupies.

  "Do people often ask you for a ride?" I wondered with a smirk.

  He huffed a chuckle at the innuendo and drained the last of his coffee. "Not by your definition of ride. They usually want a hotel night."

  "But you let me tag along."

  "Yup."

  Frustrating. I wanted to know why. "Why?" I pressed.

  The corner of his mouth turned up, and he removed his shades to rub his eyes. It was the first time I saw them when it wasn’t dark out. And at the risk of sounding like a hopeless fangirl, they were gorgeous. Captivating. Gray mingled with blue near the center. I guess you could say I was star struck for a minute.

  His next words didn’t make it easier. "You're incredibly beautiful. How's that?" He leaned close and took a whiff of my hair. "And you smell nice." Crap. I squeaked in surprise, at which he grinned. The bastard made me blush. "Worst-case scenario, I'll have something pretty to look at that smells like breakfast."

  He stole my wit for a beat with those compliments.

  "Breakfast?" I scrunched my nose.

  He wore a tired smirk. "Pancakes and strawberries."

  "I had that for breakfast! With whipped cream." I'd splurged.

  "There you go."

  I flushed and faced forward again. Being flustered made no sense. I'd heard I was beautiful before, and it probably didn’t mean much coming from him. I was sure he told all girls that.

  *

  We were in the middle of the desert on our way to Las Vegas when the unmistakable sounds of fucking traveled down the aisle of the bus. Only Lincoln and I were in the seating area; the other band members and three women were in the sleeping quarters.

  "Orgy at nine in the morning. Nice." Was this going to be my life while I was here?

  "Is that your thing?" Lincoln asked in his sleepy voice.

  "Morning orgies? I prefer to wait until after dinner, believe it or not."

  "No, I meant that." He pointed at my face. "You wrinkle your nose."

  Mother of… I touched my nose self-consciously and threw back a lame, "Go to sleep."

  *

  I was admiring the nothingness of the desert when the last noises from the bunks faded. No one emerged, so my guess was they were napping. After fucking all morning, I couldn’t blame them.

  Lincoln was jotting stuff down on a notepad. He'd thrown off his hoodie, and he was sporting another beater that showed off all the ink on his arms. Up his shoulder on one side, teasing his neck. />
  Song lyrics danced with skulls, black roses, and an angel. All colors were dark, yet they stood out. An old-fashioned microphone shot up behind rolls of sheet music, as did a guitar and two drumsticks. The shadow work and the details were stunning. The year 1968 was written in cursive—the year he was born, I assumed—right where the muscles in his forearm flexed when he worked his pen.

  "Are you working on a song?" We were across from each other now, so it was difficult to see what he was writing.

  "Kinda." He lifted his gaze and asked if I could grab the guitar behind my side of the booth. I nodded and twisted my body to reach the guitar case, enough to realize this was easier said than done. It was too heavy in that position, so I had to get up on my knees to get it. "You have a perfect little ass, tiny dancer."

  Dammit. I was so not bringing my A-game if he threw me off guard that easily.

  At least this time, I had my wit. "For a twelve-year-old, right?"

  He smirked and opened the case. "Right." A beautiful acoustic guitar rested on a bed of crushed velvet, and he handled it with a sense of familiar care. "So what do you do when you're not hitching rides from musicians?"

  Nuh-uh. There was no way he'd get to know me. "Not much. Used to work at a Dairy Queen."

  His mouth did that little twist, and he was quiet while he tuned his guitar.

  "Will you play me something?" I asked, hopeful.

  "Hmm…" He wasn’t sold on the idea. "Maybe later. Everything fucks with my concentration when I write." He tapped the pen to his temple. "Dyslexic. Words aren't easy."

  I felt incredibly stupid for the tiny spark that ignited simply because he shared something personal. Keeping my smile to myself, I promised to be quiet.

  * * *

  2007

  "No—Colleen, you don’t understand. He's not—" I was cut off again, and this time, her angry ranting was drowned out by Abel stomping and screaming on the way down the stairs.

  "You'll never see me again!" he shouted.

  Clutching the phone in one hand, I raced out of the kitchen just as he ripped the door open and ran outside to the front yard. My stomach never failed to do that painful drop, no matter how often this happened.

  "Jesse!" I yelled.

  "On it." He was already jogging downstairs. "Abel, wait up!"

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose. No panic, no panic. I couldn’t panic. An incessant noise invaded my ears, and it took me a beat to remember it was Colleen on the phone.

  "I won't do it anymore, Adeline." She spoke rapidly, upset and fucking ignorant. "There's something wrong with that boy, and if you won't discipline him—no, no more. I'm done. You'll have to find someone else he can get a ride with after school if you can't do it yourself!"

  The line went dead before I could flip my lid and tell her to go fuck herself. Holy hell, I was shaking with how pissed I was. I hung up the phone quickly. I couldn’t afford to break another by smashing it into pieces after calls like these. They weren't rare.

  My chest seized, and I kicked into gear when Jesse returned with a thrashing Abel.

  "Let me go!" he screamed. "Let me go, let me go, let me go!"

  I pushed back the onslaught of emotions and reached them in the hallway. Jesse struggled against Abel without saying a word, jaw clenched and eyes glassy. I didn’t care about the violence, and I took an eleven-year-old fist to my shoulder as I bent down in front of Abel and tried to get him cool off.

  "Sweetie—sweetie, listen to me." I cupped his cheeks, pleading with him. Jesse managed to get them to sit on the floor, and I followed. Abel ended up in Jesse's lap, kicking and squirming to get free. "Abel. Can you listen to me?"

  "I wanna die!" he cried.

  "No, you don’t," I choked out. "You don't, honey. Please listen to me. Have you taken your medication?"

  "He has." Jesse nodded jerkily. "It's not helping."

  "Okay, give me a sec." I hurried down the hall to the bathroom where I kept Abel's Xanax. After filling a glass of water, I went back to their side and kneeled by Abel. "Take this."

  He smashed his lips together and shook his head repeatedly. His thrashing grew weaker as sadness took over, and he sobbed in Jesse's arms while saying over and over he didn’t want to live anymore.

  Each cry was a stab to my heart. I was failing him. I was failing both of them. Without insurance, I couldn’t give Abel the best care. I couldn’t protect him or make him happy.

  "Please, sweetie." I scooted closer and sat next to Jesse, accidentally spilling some water on my pencil skirt. I'd rushed home from the hotel I worked at the minute Jesse had called about what'd happened after school. "We'll fix this." More shifts. Another job… I needed one right fucking now. Maybe it was time to call Dr. Anderson. "I'll do better."

  Jesse was too upset to respond, not that there was much to say. Abel's med combination wasn’t working anymore, and we'd tried everything we could afford. I wanted him to try quetiapine—even if I had to sell my damn soul to the devil to get it.

  It took time, but eventually, we managed to get Abel to take the pill. He whimpered in defeat, one of the expressions of his that haunted me the most. I couldn’t imagine how desolate he felt. Kids at school bullied him, teachers had no patience for his ups and downs, and for every person who'd heard of bipolar disorder, there was a handful who scoffed and said it was a poor excuse for a shitty upbringing.

  *

  Jesse and I hunkered down on the couch under blankets and made an Abel sandwich. Getting lost in the latest Harry Potter movie tended to relax and distract him a bit, and being wedged between us after a meltdown soothed him. It soothed Jesse and me, too. Watching Abel go through this every few weeks was enough to keep us awake at night.

  "He's asleep," Jesse murmured.

  I brushed a kiss to Abel's forehead and took the bowl of popcorn he'd fallen asleep with. "I think I should see if the job at the clinic is still available."

  When Abel's psychologist encouraged me to apply for it, I couldn’t do it. I had a better position at the hotel then, which paid more, and it would've interfered with my schedule at the video store. Now they were cutting my hours in both places, not to mention there were rumors flying around that our Blockbuster was gonna close.

  Jesse made a face. "I thought it was shit pay?"

  "But it's full time." I could put in a request to work nights at the hotel and drop the Blockbuster job. I'd work a lot more and earn a bit more. Additionally, having a set schedule during the day would provide more stability for Abel. He needed it. "It's closer to Abel's school, too." He could do his homework at the clinic under my supervision, and then we'd go home together.

  "Will it be enough money?" Jesse asked uncertainly. "I thought you said you don't like the doc."

  Dr. Anderson was amazing. It was his colleague with whom he ran the clinic who made my skin crawl. I didn’t care when push came to shove, though. I chose to focus on the money.

  "It could be enough to get Abel on a ninety-day trial of quetiapine," I said.

  With Abel's annual appointment to check his lithium levels and blood work coming up, we needed that extra money more than ever. Jesse knew that, so he didn’t ask any other questions.

  It was my turn to ask. "What exactly happened today?" I'd only gotten the gist. Abel was friendly with one other boy in school—Kellan. So his mother and I helped each other out with picking up and dropping off. Today was Colleen's day, and probably her last. Abel had bitten Kellan or something on the way home. By the time I got here, Abel was turning his room into a war zone, and Colleen called me.

  "Same old…?" Jesse sat up a little straighter and scrubbed tiredly at his face. "He went from zero to a hundred in a second. One minute they're talking about homework, the next Abel's punching Kellan in the face and biting his arm."

  I sighed heavily. It wasn’t the first time something like this happened, and I had a feeling Colleen had reached her limit. On the one hand, I couldn’t blame her even a little. Abel was di
fficult. So, so, so damn difficult. On the other hand, people refused to open their fucking eyes—and minds—to the possibility that this was not his goddamn fault.

  I wouldn’t discipline him for something he had absolutely no control over.

  Chapter 5

  Lincoln Hayes

  2007

  "Hey."

  Four. "Hey," I grunted. Five.

  Kid sidestepped me and went straight for his bunk and a book he kept under the pillow. I finished my rep of push-ups, giving him the opportunity to tell me why he was in a mood. Seven. Eight. By fifteen, he was lost in a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I counted to thirty, only to start a new rep of fifteen.

  I groaned at the fire that tore through my limbs, but I couldn’t stop. Someway, somehow, I had to punch Ade out of my system.

  Stop thinking.

  "Tell me something," I panted through a growl. Nine. Ten. "Like what's wrong. Don't bullshit me—" I sucked in a breath.

  At least he didn’t pretend nothing was up. "I don't wanna talk about it."

  Fifteen. I jumped up and rolled my shoulders. "Did someone come at you?" Wiping sweat off my forehead, I walked over to the sink and drank from the weak stream.

  Kid shrugged. "I lived." It took a beat of silence, and then he shut the book and turned toward the wall. He traced a finger along a mark he'd made, and I wondered what they represented. He'd made several, as if he were counting the days he'd been here. That couldn’t be it, though. There weren't enough of them.

  Weeks, maybe?

  "Come on. I could use the distraction." I sat down on the floor across from the bed and leaned back against the wall. "Talk to me."

  He sighed and remained with his back to me. "What do you do when you don’t work, Lincoln?" Not what I expected him to ask. "You do your hours in laundry, you work out and read… You're never in the rec room, you're always so damn stoic—I don’t get it."

  My head hit the wall, and I looked up at the lamp in the ceiling. I was sick of fluorescent lights. "I count a lot, I guess." Call it a mantra, a way of life. A way to fill my brain.

  "Count what?" he wondered. Was his voice coming out thicker? Shit. If he was crying, I didn’t wanna comfort him.