Echoes of the Heart - Casey, L.A. (digital ebook reader .TXT) 📗

I kissed her before I let my head plonk back on the mattress. I was wiped. Or at least I thought I was, then Frankie sat back up and lifted her hands up to her head so she could finger comb her hair. I was still inside her body and as my eyes rolled over the porcelain white curves God gave her, I suddenly wasn’t as tired as I thought I was. My slowly hardening cock agreed with me. Frankie’s screeching laughter as I rolled her under me soon turned to moans and urgent demands as I loved her body with mine so thoroughly that I knew there was no way we would finish unpacking the rest of our things tonight.

Not a chance.

CHAPTER FOUR

RISK

“Risk, could you look any more miserable, boy?”

The sudden intrusion on my memory made my body tense. I turned my head in the direction of the voice that spoke and stared at May Acton, the first kid I had ever hung out with on the first day of reception at school. As I looked at him, I didn’t think he’d changed all that much. He still had the same shoulder-length hair he’d always had, only it was blood red now instead of its natural dark brown. His face wasn’t fat anymore since he’d lost over five stone of weight throughout the years, but he still looked like May and our success and fame definitely hadn’t changed him. He was still the same idiot from Cumberland Road who thought farting was funny.

I wondered if I was still the same Risk to him, because I sure as hell didn’t feel like I was. Instinctively, I lifted my hand to the coin on my necklace and thumbed it. Six months sober. The coin represented a lot to me, so did the others I had. I was hoping to switch it out for a new coin in a month’s time. It was something I was looking forward to because it was entirely for me and me alone. Making the decision to never take drugs or drink alcohol again had been the first time I saw light in a very dark tunnel. My use had started gradually over the years. A line of coke here and there, a weekend bender every so often, to snorting and drinking daily. It was insane how a vice could take hold of a person so quickly.

I’ve never blamed her, but in the beginning of my career, taking drugs and drinking till I blacked out was the only way I could forget about Frankie and how much it hurt to be without her. The first time I fucked a woman after we broke up was about eight months after I left Southwold, and the only way I could force myself to do it was to be high. The method continued because using was the only time I didn’t see Frankie’s face every time I looked at another woman. I had become addicted to the high that alcohol and drugs gave me. The only time I never had to take anything was when I was on stage because the high of performing live was unlike any other. I tried to replicate that feeling when I had downtime because otherwise I felt like I was sinking into a black hole of darkness that was just waiting to consume me.

An intervention seven months ago by my friends and management saved my life. I shot heroin for the first time because the coke and drink weren’t enough anymore and I almost accidentally killed myself. I overdosed, but I was one of the lucky few who lived to tell the tale. When I left hospital, I went straight into a ninety-day stint in rehab. I spoke with a therapist often and I wrote two dozen songs during my detox. I had clarity for the first time in years. I didn’t want to live the way I had been living anymore and it was a huge step because I wanted to live for me instead of someone else.

“I’m not miserable.” I shifted. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What?”

“None of your business, cocknose. That’s what.”

May snorted. “Do you think it’s weird being back here?”

“It is weird being back here.”

Hayes, who was seated behind me in the van, said, “Good weird?”

“Just weird,” I shrugged. “I’ve never had a reason to come back here.”

“My parents haven’t been back since they moved to France five years ago. Hayes’s parents moved to London not long after we moved to LA,” May pointed out. “They don’t need to be here for us to visit. This is where we grew up, this is where Blood Oath was born. We wrote and released our EP here. We wrote some of our first album here. This place is part of us.”

He was right, of course, but he still didn’t get it.

“I know all of that,” I began. “Being here is just weird—”

“Because your ex who dumped your sorry ass is still here.”

May and Hayes both cursed at the same time.

“What?” Angel questioned, unbothered by their outbursts. “Someone needed to say it since both of you tools are dancing around the subject. He isn’t a piece of glass, stop treating him like he’s going to shatter. He’s sober by his own choice; mentioning an ex isn’t going to have him rushing for a needle.”

Angel Reyes was not an original member of Blood Oath. Nine months after we moved to LA he joined the band after we had heard him play during a weekend gig in some bar. He was Mexican, he moved to the States when he was seven and bounced around from state to state before settling in LA with his mum and little sister when he was ten. Like the rest of us, he wasn’t tied down to one talent. He was solid on drums, viola, and keyboards. Drums, however, was where he performed his masterclasses.

He was hardwired