Chapter 9: (Nights When) Drummer Boys Are Thugs, Not Rock Stars

This is an intense chapter. If you have triggers, please be aware there is blood and violence and  discussion of sexual abuse.

Song for this chapter: Numb/Encore mash-up. I love this one for this chapter, because it bridges Bodie's worlds, and he will be caught in the undertow of this chapter's events for a long, long time. This is the beginning of his numbness.  "All I want to do is be more like me and less like you."...and yet he's going to have such a hard time making that happen from here on out.

Bodie, present day

I'm barely off stage before Leed is pressing a celebratory shot in my hand.

"Three more shows, brother. Three more shows and this tour is done. Then we can take a fucking beat and chill," he grins, raking through his sweat-soaked hair.

"Yeah, I'm with ya—down to have this bitch in the bag."

We clink and drink.

Touring is always hard work, but this time it's been grueling.

Like Leed says, alot of unfun.

All Trace's drama with Kat and Ash early on, then Mac's pregnancy and her leaving the tour, and Arabella and Mac's personal issues. Not to mention the trouble we had with our opening act, and now the constant hell-raising of the Strut girls, who are definitely embracing the YOLO concept every night and every day.

Of course, none of that comes close to the personal disaster I'm in with Bells. Except nobody really knows that. Yeah, I know the drugs aren't helping, but I feel so fucking crazy, worrying about her mood swings and her sleep-talking and her secrets she won't tell me about. I feel like I'm gonna lose my mind.

Like right now, I watch her flirting with Andy our sound tech and shooting me daggers from across the green room. She wraps her arms around him and he gives me uncomfortable shrugs and facial pleas.

She's only doing this to start another fight with me. So she has an excuse to be angry. A reason to lash out. I know the real reason she's angry—her dreams last night.

She's livin' that nightmare even when she wakes.

I feel trapped in it, too.

Every damn day.

Trapped by a nineteen year old girl that needs way the fuck more help than I'm qualified to give her.

But maybe the one thing I can give Arabella is what Marley said—distance from her father.

Except I guess the guy that keeps calling her is not her actual father.

I've done some digging today—in her phone and on the Internet. I've made some casual inquiries to Adam about what he knows of her family through her uncle Randall. I've pieced together that Arabella's actual father—Mitchell Burns— died in car accident when she was real little, and the man she calls Daddy is the man her mother Deanna took up with shortly after the tragedy.

His name is Cain Priestly. Some no-count that her momma met when she was drowning her grief over her dead husband at a dive-bar in Nashville.

From what I can gather, it sounds like they were together from the time Arabella was six or seven until about five years ago, when Arabella's star started to rise. From what Arabella has told me, she spent alot of that time, living with her uncle Randall's family—her actual father's brother.

Cain was apparently some kind of low-rent country musician/DJ/karaoke guy and Deanna spent most of her time traveling around with him to bar shows, pushing away her grief and her daughter. But when Randall helped Arabella get her ticket punched to the Disney Channel money train, Deanna's priorities changed. She moved out to LA with Arabella to tape her show, and she and Cain split and eventually divorced.

Reading between the lines of what Arabella has said, I think after that...Cain got on bad drugs. Lost his voice, lost his looks, lost his small-time gig. Now, he's a desparate, broken man.

Leed interrupts my thoughts by elbowing me.

"Jesus, Bodes. I think you better go rescue Andy before he has a stroke," Leed says as he pours me another shot.

"She's still pissed from our drama last night. I'll just make it worse." I toast Andy, and that only makes Arabella more furious. She shoves him away and stalks back to the hospitality table for a drink.

Andy strolls over with hands raised, "I fucking swear, Bodie, I didn't start that shit. She's like a damn lamprey—she just...latched on."

Leed crows and slings an arm over Andy. "That's the best description I've heard yet. A lamprey. It's true...Bells is that fucking scary." Leed opens his big fucking dumb mouth and gnashes his teeth out at me. He looks pretty scary himself. Then he knocks his second shot back. "You better watch that dick, Bodes. No way would I let a lamprey near mine."

Andy starts to laugh, but I shove Leed lightly. "Shut the fuck up, man. I don't talk about your girl like that."

He's startled by my shove, but he gives me a quizzical look and tries to laugh it off. "Yeah, but I ain't gotta girl."

"You right. I guess you can't call Ashlynn your girl when she's really more like...a professional, ain't she? Tell me...now that she don't take payment in drugs, what is her going rate?"

Leed slaps the tequila bottle into Andy's chest and lets go before Andy can grab it. It shatters on the floor, spraying us all with tequila as Leed shoves me much harder than I shoved him.

"Watch your mouth, brother, because that wasn't funny," he snarls. I meet him, toe to toe.

"Exactly. It ain't funny when people hate on your girl—casually. Expecting you to go along with it just because she's got some—sketch behaviors. Ain't nobody here perfect." I glare at Leed. "Not me. Not you. Not Arabella. Not Trace's ex-wife. Not your sister, who is just as big of a bitch on wheels as Bells could ever hope to be—"

That's all it takes. Leed throws the punch I just suddenly decided to extract from him. A fight with Leed makes the sudden exit I'm planning easier. I can just walk off in a huff, no questions asked.

I roll to the left with Leed's blow. It hardly hurts. His heart ain't in breaking my face.

Suddenly Adam and Trace are between us.

"What the fuck?" Trace yells, pushing Leed back hard.

Leed's face is pale. "What the fuck is right. What the fuck, Bodie?"

Adam's got his hands on my shoulders. His gaze is penetrating. "What's going on, man?"

I break his hold on me a little violently. I know what he's thinking.

"Fucking A, Preacher. I'm not coked up. Your brother-in-law is an asshole and said some rude shit about Bells, that's what's going on." I strafe the room, looking for her, but she's disappeared. I sigh. That probably means she's moved on from SCIC to look for line of something to snort with strangers.

"Oh," Adam says, like it's nothing. He lets me go. "Shit. Sorry she's causing more drama, man. You'd think she'd give you a night off every now and again." He looks between me and Leed. "What did she do now? Want me to talk to her?"

That's when I shove Adam, and now Trace and Leed are both pulling me off him. "That's the kind of shit I'm talking about, Adam! Y'all are all so fucking down on her all the goddamn time!"

"What.In.The.Fuck.Is.Going.On.Here!?!?!?" Mac yells, waddling over. It was her night off so she was chilling back in the dressing area, but someone must have made her aware of the ruckus.

"Nothing," I say at once, giving her a smile. "Absolutely fucking nothing. Just...talking shit, and it got out of hand." Adam nods at once and Leed quickly follows suit, because none of us want to upset her now that she's got this borderline high blood pressure problem going on with her pregnancy. Only Trace remains tense, his jaw popping as he gives me a cool assessment.

"Don't worry about it, Macaroni," Leed says calmly, putting an arm around her shoulders. "It's all good. Right brother?" He holds out a hand. "Sorry, man. Really. I was out of bounds."

"I'm sorry, too Bodie. I shouldn't have said that about Ms. Burns," Andy says quietly.

"Shit," Trace grumbles looking exasperated at Andy. Andy is SCIC and been on every tour with us, but right now he looks scared, like he's just some day roadie that we might fire without a second thought. It ain't like that of course, but we ain't ever had drama with the crew. Not until Bells came on tour. Now it's wardrobe box problems and missing music Bibles and Mac accusing Bells of it and Bell denying it, and Trace asking the crew about it all the time, trying to get to the truth.

"It's all good." I clap it out with Andy, then more slowly with Leed.

"I am sorry, brother," Leed's eyes are vivid green. He means it, but I'm still sick of this shit. Of all of it—the way Bells acts and their constant disapproval.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too." Sorry it's like this now. "Imma walk it off," I say, gesturing for the PA to retrieve my phone and wallet—the shit we don't carry on stage.

"Bodie!" Trace calls after me, with arms raised in disbelief, "You going back to the hotel? Now? We got an interview backstage here in half an hour..."

"Naw man, I got a thing. Riley knows," I say and turn my back on him. On my way out, Riley swings to my side, handing me my commercial flight ticket.

"What's in Nashville, Bodie? Are you taking side work as a studio musician?"

"Naw, just visiting a friend," I lie. "Have somebody watch out for Bells tonight, okay? She doesn't know I'm leaving. She's gonna be super pissed."

"That could lead to a frightening scenario," he says dryly.

"I know. But look...don't tell her where I went, Riley."

"Ah. This friend...is more than a friend?"

I don't confirm or deny. If Riley thinks I'm hot for some chic in Nashville that probably works better for me than him knowing I'm about to go threaten Arabella's stepdad with some bangers for back-up.

"It wouldn't perhaps be Marley Watkins, would it?"

I stop short. "No, but why the fuck would Marley be in Nashville?" I nearly growl. I whip around in front of him, stopping his stride. "What the fuck do you know, Riley? Is she seeing that damn doctor?"

Riley smirks. "I have no idea, Bodie. But since you seem to be so interested in Marley and Kade, would you like me to find out?"

I grip my fist and growl at him. This is how Riley gets half his info. Hunches that he plays, little verbal bluffing traps he springs. He thinks he's so fucking smart, but I know his tricks.

I knew a guy just as devious once. He put a gun in my mouth and threatened to blow my brains out.

"No. If I wanted to know, I can ask her myself. She and I go way back. OG shit," I offer, just to bait him.

His eyes widen. I turn and push open the double doors at the back of the arena.

"Didn't see that one coming. But it does explain the rather intense beach chat you two had back at Labor Day."

The driver of the waiting dark sedan opens my door.

"Yeah, we were catching up," I say as I drop into the car. "Riley...I'm asking you for real, man. Watch out for Arabella tonight. Watch out for her like if I were Trace and she were Ashlynn, okay?"

Riley's face is expressionless for a second. Then he blinks and nods. "Of course, Mate. She'll be fine here with us."

"Thanks."

——————

The two homies waiting for me at the Nashville airport are people I never expected to see again. One of them is Malik, the punk that grew up across the street from me. The other is one of his friends...I don't remember until he reminds me. Jalen, he says.

Malik is a helluva lot taller than I remember but with the same undercut. Jalen has improved himself with face tats.

We clap it out and I take shotty in the Escalade.

"Preciate y'all riding up," I tell them as we roll out .

"We go where the man tells us," Malik says as he passes me a joint. I almost wave it off—in fact I'm irritated that they are stoned when we are about to do a thing, but the truth is, I'm agitated as fuck, so maybe a couple of tokes will actually make this whole confrontation smoother.

After I exhale. "How is Daemon, anyway?"

"Meaner than ever," Jalen grins. "Prison was good to him. He got ripped and he got sharp."

"That sounds...about right," I say. I look at these two. "You been on the inside yet?"

They both nod. Jalen says juvi, like me, and Malik says eighteen months real jail on a weapons charge.

They ask me about the rock star life, and I tell them a couple of stories about fangirls and bar fights, not so much about the fame and outrageous fortune. I ask about TJ and they tell me they hardly see him, that's he's mostly legit.

"He sells us rides sometimes on the DL, though. He don't like it much...has to work too hard to cook his books. But he sells plenty of legit shit to rappers and developers and even them Hollywood types that are always around now."

I nod. Music and movies and money is booming in Atlanta these day, so I'm not surprised to hear that TJ has a found a niche in high end vehicle sales. Like Daemon, he was always entrepreneurial.

"The shit he sells bangers on the low—it's legal shit, but just for cash? Or are those rides stolen?" I ask, more out of curiosity than anything else. I hate to think TJ has a dark side to his legitimate business.

Malik and Jalen exchange a look. "Why you askin' so many questions, man? I thought this was just a one time favor Sixmob was doin' for you in honor of old ties. Why you care about TJ's business?"

I shake my head and look out the window. "Really, I don't give a fuck. Just making conversation."

I change the subject. We run down the plan, just to make sure we are all on the same page. Cain Priestly gets a few good blows and a promise that we'll be back with more if he ever calls Arabella again.

The truth is he might get a serious beating if he says some shit that really pisses me off. I swear to god, if he starts mouthing off about Bells or what he's done to her, I might lose my shit.

Priestly's land is about an hour north of Nashville. Malik bitches about the remoteness but I tell them, "Naw, dawg. This is good. He lives up here like a survivalist, Bells said. We won't have to worry about an audience."

When the GPS leads us to a rusted, chained gate, the guys look at me and say, "What you wanna do?"

I hop out, rattle the gate for a minute, stare into the blowing trees that line the dirt path ahead of us. Thick forest like this dampens sound. I groan at the realization of the quickest and easiest way to break this lock.

I walk back to the car. "You gotta gun?" I ask. I already know the answer.

Malik reaches down beneath the seat and holds it out to me. I roll my eyes at him. "You do it," I say. No fucking way do I want my prints on this fool's piece.

"What's the matter? You too good to do you own dirty work, Rock Star?" Jalen laughs.

Malik nods and tags Jalen in the shoulder. "You know that's right. The only work this man does himself is whipping his dick out to put it in some shorty's mouth."

"Naw, I gotta guy that does that for me, too," I pop back, rummaging around in the side of the door. I find what I'm looking for—a pair of driving gloves. After I pull them on, I hold out my hand for the gun. "You have a silencer?"

They snicker. "Who are you, James Bond?"

"Don't fuck with me. I know you got one for a piece like this," I say.

Malik rolls his eyes. "In the glove box, Dawg."

I screw it to the piece, make sure the safety is on, shove the piece in my pants and look real good in every direction before I hop out.

It's been a while since I held a handgun. Not since my Sixmob days. I've shot rifles at the Heartley farm a few times, but I never picked up a handgun. I never shot nobody, but I've been shot at, and I've fired back, and I don't like to be reminded.

More than that, I...I just don't like the way a gun feels in my hand. Reminds me of the time I came closest to dying—with Daemon's nine shoved in my mouth.

The only thing dying today, however, is the lock on a potential child molester's gate. It goes down with a fight.

When we roll up to the run-down trailer, it looks worse than deserted—it looks like someone is just hanging onto life, living there.

The windows are completely thick with grime and there is a large blue tarp over half the roof, but there's also a camping chair beside the door with an ashtray in the holder—even from the car I can see the thin line of smoke rising.

"Look's like the bastard is home," I say grimly. The boys try to arm up but I grab Malik's gun and shove it back under the seat. "What the fuck is wrong with you? This is an intimidation visit only."

"Guns intimidate, Dawg," Jalen says, like I fucking forgot or something.

"Leave the goddamn guns in the truck," I growl as I hop out.

Before our feet even hit the ground, the door of the trailer swings open and a dude with shaggy hair and dirty clothes cocks a double barrel shot gun at us.

"Y'all boys are trespassing. Get the fuck on out of here before I call the cops."

Goddamn. Rednecks and their right to bear arms. I shoulda known.

"Naw, you ain't gonna call the cops," I say to him, putting my hands in the air as I get out of the car. Slowly I take my sunglasses off and I pull the hat off my head so he can see my dreads.

"Put that gun down. Ain't no need for that. You know me?" I say. I gesture to Malik and Jalen to stay by the truck, but I walk forward slowly.

Cain spits tobacco juice on the ground as he swings heavy-footed down the rickety trailer steps, shotgun pointed firmly at me. "I know you," he says in a calm, low voice. "You're the nigger all over the Internet with my Arabella."

I nod slowly. From the lack of reaction behind me, I guess Malik and Jalen can't hear our conversation. "Yeah, that's me. But you might want to rethink your hate speech in present company." I say mildly and tilt my head behind me, toward my crew. "See, my skin is pretty thick...coated in Hollywood diamonds, you know what I'm sayin'? I ain't gonna get upset over what some redneck in a trailer says about me. But my boys over there...they might take offense way more easily than me."

"Get the fuck out of here," he growls, hoisting the gun toward my chest.

"Yo, Dawg, let's just fucking go," Malik calls. "The man don't want the help he asked for."

"Help? What help? I ain't ask for no help from the likes of you."

I pull a thick envelope from my back pocket. There's nothing in the envelope but paper, because I'm not giving this fucker a dime, but he does not need to know that right now. "Arabella sent me. With the money you want. But for some reason, I'm no longer in a helpful mood."

He reaches out a hand. "Hand it over."

"No. Not until you put down the gun."

"Give me the goddamn cash. That's Arabella's, and she's giving it to me. What you trying to do? Steal from her? Keep it for yourself?"

This.Mother.Fucker.

He knows I'm famous and affluent, but all this guy sees is the hint of color in my skin and thinks I'm scum. When he's the biggest piece of filth I've ever met face to face.

"No, but if you don't want to put down the gun, we're done here."

It takes a lot to turn your back on somebody with a gun. A guy like this would much more easily fire on my back, so he didn't have to meet me in the eyes when he pulled the trigger. But somehow, I manage to make an about face, and I walk away.

"Wait," he growls. I look over my shoulder and see him set gun against the trailer. He calls out louder, where we can all hear, because I'm still walking back to the truck. "Look, I'm sorry. We got off to a bad start, you see. You are trespassing and three fellas like you...you can see why you make me nervous."

I laugh. "You hear that, dawgs? He's the one with the gun, but we make him nervous."

"Fucking asshole," Jalen mutters.

Cain is wagging his hand at me. "Look, just give me the money and go, and we don't have to fool with each other anymore."

"Okay," I say very evenly. My hand extends the envelope but my feet stay firm.

"Well, bring it, boy," he says impatiently from his place two steps from the gun.

"Sorry, I guess in my line of work, I'm used to having people come to me," I tell him.

He curses under his breath as he hurries toward me.

I hand him the envelope. He's so busy trying to tear it open, he never sees the my right hook coming. The dude is wasted and frail from meth, my one good lick lays him out cold. He falls backward and lands with his legs trapped beneath him.

"Damn Dawg. Did you kill him?" Malik asks, and he sounds like he hopes I did. I guess it would be a good story to tell at the stash house tonight.

"Fuck," I swear and climb on top of the filth, slapping him a little roughly.

"Wake up, motherfucker," I hiss. He groans. I slap him a little harder.

"Need some help?" Jalen asks. "We could probably find some meth inside. Jack him up on that to wake him up."

"Naw, he's coming around." He groans and I grab his shirt and lean over him, the stench of him nearly making me want to vomit. "Hey! Hey!" I give him one hard, open handed blow and his eyes focus on me.

"Listen to me, you piece of trash. I know what you did to Arabella."

Immediately, he begins to tremble like a chihuahua. "What did she tell you? Because whatever she said, it's not true. She makes up lies. Always has. She's had a brain like a devil's since she was eleven years old. The girl is...evil. A...a witch maybe. I dunno. She's got that Native American blood from her daddy's side. She's some kind of red witch, I tell you...she would call to me in the middle of the night. She would pretend to whimper and cry in her sleep to wake me up, but it wasn't bad dreams she was having. It was some kind of...spell she was casting on me. I would lay there listening and there was some kind of...lure in it. She called to me. I couldn't help it. I swear to god. Every time—she called to me. "

For the briefest second, my body goes slack with shock. I can't comprehend the crazy he's spewing. Then the reality of the details he's confessing hits me.

Eleven years old. Every time.

Oh god. Arabella. Jesus, my powerless baby girl.

And maybe the worst part—I see it in his eyes now. This man is crazy. Like, certifiable. He's just traded the meds he should be on for meth.

Goddammit. This is bad.

There's no scaring sense into a crazy man. The inside of his head is far more terrifying than I could ever be.

Still, I have to do something. I can't not do...something.

I put a hand to his mouth to stop any more words from coming. He struggles a little but he's no match for my strength, and I'm not letting him say another goddamn word. If he does, I might fucking choke him to death.

So I just sit there on top of him, my hand clamped over his mouth, trying to think of what the fuck to do. The crazy fucker is only half-heartedly trying to resist me, because he's high and crazy, and he doesn't understand how bad I want to kill him right now. Or maybe it's just the thirty pounds of muscle I have on him and my visceral rage keeping him well contained.

"Fuck, man," Malik says. "This is some fucked up shit. This wasn't ever about money, was it?"

"Only in his fucked up mind," I say hoarsely.

He squats down as I struggle to keep Cain subdued.

"Were you hearing what I was hearing? That fucker raped his daughter? Your girl? When she was eleven years old?"

At that, Cain's eyes go wide and his head starts to thrash, like he's trying to deny Malik's accusations. After he just practically admitted them.

He breaks free. "No! That's not true! No! Who told you that?"

I punch him hard in the face again, stunning him and clamping my hand back over his crazy fucking mouth. Malik moves back toward the truck.

I know where Malik is going, what he's coming back with. A part of me is down for what Malik is about to bring to this situation. But this bastard is really crazy. How do I sift the truth in his ravings? Arabella won't tell me what he did to her, and I can't trust in a word this lunatic says. I have the insane urge to call Marley and ask her what to do.

When Malik comes back, Jalen comes with him. Malik's hand is behind his back. He gives me a hard cold look. "You ready for this?"

I can't ask Marley. I can only go with my instinct.

"No. It's not our place to do this. He's fucking crazy. He should be put away."

"No. Psych ward can't make something like that right. This ain't about justice. This is about vengeance—if you do it," he says and holds out his gun to me.

At the sight of the gun, Cain starts to struggle wildly. He bites the inside of my hand, ripping at it like an animal, taking a chunk of meat out between my thumb and index finger. Blood spurts as Cain spits out flesh. My first thought is to clamp my other hand over the fount of red.

"Son of a bitch!!!" I yell.

I'm not gonna lie. It's not a life threatening thing and I'm no pussy about a little blood, but at this moment everything seems gray around me except for the bright blood pouring between my fingers. I feel like I might faint.

I can barely feel my thumb and I can't make a grip.

Everything fades except for trying to make a fist.

My hand is the only thing in my mind.

My hand and whether or not it can still hold a drumstick.

Jesus Christ, he ripped a fucking hole in my hand.

My fucking hand.

My fucking career.

Suddenly, Cain is throwing me off him. I'm falling on my ass as he's scrambling backwards, and at the same time, he's bending double in an awkward way, like he can't decide whether he wants to flee like a crab or lean forward to touch his toes.

I realize too late why he's reaching for his ankle. He' got the gun that's strapped there free in less than a second. He fires wildly towards me while I sit on my ass, still holding my oozing hand. I hear the bullet split the air somewhere near my left ear.

The fucker nearly blew my brains out.

His shot is still ringing in my ear, but the bullets Malik puts in Cain's chest are eerily quiet. Cain falls back, four bright circles spreading quickly on his filthy t shirt. His chest is still heaving. His lips are spilling blood but moving.

Then they stop. The breathing, the pleading.

It all stops.

Everything is silent, except the ringing in my left ear.

"Let's go," Jalen says abruptly, trying to haul me to my feet. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"No..." I say.

"Yes," Malik says, jerking me roughly the rest of way on my feet. "He was gonna kill you, but there ain't no proof he fired first. With my record? Shit. I ain't going down for this sick fuck's murder, when I just did the world a goddamn favor, ridding it of him. Let's. Fucking. Go."

"We can't just leave him like this," I mutter, still staring at Cain's corpse. It's been a long damn time since I saw a dead body. Especially one riddled with bullet holes. I can't feel anything. It's like the holes exist in me, too.

"We've got to go! You've gone fucking soft, man! Get in the goddamn truck, now!" Malik's voice is furious and loud, but I can still hear the chink of his gun raising to my face.

I turn to stare at him. Unbelievable. This fucking punk is actually threatening me. "I said, no."

"I fucking mean it, man," he whines. "Get in the ride or I will drop you, too. Two bodies, murder solved. You killed each other. Your fucking girl can tell the cops why."

That's when my gray disconnect breaks. I slap his gun from my face and shove Malik—who will always be the little fucking punk across the street to me, even if he is pointing a Glock at me.

"No, you aren't fucking hearing me. You did the fucker before he could do me...for that I got thanks for you, brother. But I ain't leaving his corpse here to get eaten by coyotes and have my girl find out her stepdad went out like that. Obviously he was a fucking lunatic, but I can't get any sense out of her, about how he hurt her. I don't know if he touched her or raped her or just scared the shit out of her, raving to her in the middle of the night like he just raved to us—about devils and witches and shit. But no matter what he did..." I glance at him again, "even if he did horrible shit to her, this right here?" I gesture at his murder, "This doesn't make it better. It makes it worse. And even if you don't give a shit about saving my girl grief and giving the man a burial, well news flash, dumbshit...without a dead body, this dude is just...off the grid. Like he lives anyway. And my guess is, nobody—least of all my girl—is gonna be troubled by not hearing from him anymore. So let's pull the tarp off his piece of shit roof and get this psycho wrapped up and in the fucking truck."

Jalen is suddenly to our left, wedging in between, walking off his boy. "Yeah, Mal. What Bodie says...that sounds right. Smart. If we bury him up here in the backwoods, nobody will ever find him. Anybody that bothers to look for him will just think he split or wandered off a cliff or some shit."

Malik glares at Jalen, then at me. "Yeah, yeah. Okay."

Hours.

It takes hours to put the dead man to rest. It takes me a long time to decide on where to dig, but finally, after looking at GPS and figuring out the terrain of these woods, I choose a very hard place to get to by any means other than a very powerful truck—about twenty miles away. Fortunately, there is a shed full of tools behind his trailer to help. We dig in shifts-one resting, two digging.

I feel the stab of pain in my hand with every shovel of earth I excavate. The pain becomes a focal point to keep me digging.

I welcome it, because the pain is pushing out all the other shit I do not want to feel right now.

It's mid-afternoon when we finish. I sit numbly in the truck, watching Jalen scatter leaves and branches, making the grave undetectable, and all I can think is...I'm gonna miss my flight. I might not make the show.

Jesus Christ. A man is dead, and I'm mostly responsible, and I'm worried about my fucking gig? What the fuck is wrong with me? I feel just as crazy as that fucker in the grave, because I honestly can't tell which one of my worlds is real right now.

My rock star life that seemed so large and important yesterday, feels like a delusion right now. Blood and guns and pain and sweat and the smell of fear...that has sunk down into me so deep it feels like all I know.

All I've ever known.

I'm so fucked up, I don't even realize we aren't headed for the airport until we are well south of Nashville.

"What the fuck? You gotta take me to the airport, Dawg," I lean forward, gripping Malik's shoulder.

"What you gonna do? Hop the flight in grave-digger's attire, with a bloody rag on your hand? Naw. You gotta get cleaned up, patched up. Most important, you gotta see Daemon. We gotta answer for this, and so do you."

"You don't understand. I gotta goddamn gig in four hours."

"Naw, you don't. We'll just be rolling into Atlanta, right about then."

"Naw—"

"Yeah. Tonight, you a thug, not a rock star," Jalen chuckles.

I flex my hand and a hardness settles in my stomach as I accept that at least for tonight, I couldn't play anyway.

I unwind the rag I got from Cain's and snap a picture of my mangled hand. I label it with the text:

Guess who is a dumbshit that tried to make friends with a doberman...

It's only a creative metaphor for the truth. Cain's brain was as eaten up as a rabid dog's, for sure.

I send it out to the guys, and Riley.

Riley calls me immediately.

"Bloody fucking hell, Bodie!"

"I know, man. I know. I'm so fucking sorry. You're gonna have to get Chili to sit my stool tonight."

"That's not a problem, but your hand...you need to see a specialist, right away."

"Naw it's okay, it's worse than it looks...I was scared for a minute, but I can feel it, and move it fine now. It just needs to be cleaned out real good, maybe a few stitches."

I pause because the guys texts are flooding in. All of them very concerned. There's no joking around when it comes to a drummer's hands.

"Let me call Kade and see who he recommends in Nashville."

"Naw, Riley, I'm actually halfway to Atlanta. I'll get it seen about there. I have a friend, his fiancee is a nurse, she'll know what to do..."

"Atlanta? Bodie, what the fuck is going on with you right now?"

"I'll explain everything tomorrow, okay? Will you please have Penelope get me a flight from Atlanta to meet you guys in..."

Fuck, I don't even know where our next gig is.

"Omaha."

"Right. Omaha."

"Bodie, let me find a specialist in Atlanta. See if I can get you in first thing in the morning before your flight out. You can't be too careful with your hands."

"I know. Okay."

I must have fallen asleep after that, because the next thing I know, I'm dreaming of the dying words on Cain Priestly's lips and the slow thick gurgle of his lungs filling up with blood.

I jolt awake, either from the dream or because the truck has come to a bouncy turn into what looks like an auto repair shop. Some guys wearing Sixmob colors are closing the gate behind us. Malik steers the vehicle into a bay of the large building, that could easily hold half a dozen cars at once.

"Fuck, here we go," I mutter as my attention is drawn out the window at three figures—two large and one small.

Two I haven't seen in a long long time. Daemon and TJ Turner.

And one, I saw three weeks ago. Marley Watkins.

Even though the windows are tinted, it's like she meets my gaze through the glass. She looks worried as hell and furious as hell and all that raw emotion punctures me. Suddenly the disconnect I've felt ever since Cain started running his mouth crumbles in on itself. Looking at Marley through the dark glass I'm filled with horror, regret, and dread.

She shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here.

But here we are.

Uhhhh, yeah. Bodie's in it now. You guys are all smart, you can probably see some rather immediate implications of what has happened in this chapter. It affects Bodie deeply, but it also affects his relationship with the band...and with Sixmob. Thoughts on what happens next?