for last. Even
at age twenty-five, she still arranged the portions of food on her dinner
plate, saving what her taste buds loved most for the very end of the meal.
The headaches had worsened over the last few weeks though,
thankfully, today was a good day. When her overprotective father first
discovered she was sick almost twelve months ago, he’d assembled a team of
specialized surgeons and medical researchers, but none of his efforts did any
good. The countdown had already begun and, if the geniuses were correct, she
had another four weeks left to settle her affairs. She wanted Ricky to be the
last pleasurable memory she savored.
* * * * *
He’d been numb for two days. He’d gone through the motions
and played as well as ever—his sticks never missed a beat—but since his
father’s death almost all of his actions had been robotic, muscle memory,
nothing more. Jerico had been playing professionally for fifteen years and ten
of those had been in front of packed stadiums. He could play whatever set list
was thrown at him. Probably even in his sleep.
Max Bradshaw’s death had been a long time coming. Rick had
visualized his father’s demise many times since turning six years old, but now
that the moment was here, he didn’t feel the relief he’d always imagined.
Following tonight’s show, he’d spent a couple of hours
drinking with the boys—purely for appearances—to celebrate their latest
success. Jerico’s last single had remained at number one for eight consecutive
weeks, smashing their old record of six clean out of the ball park. Yet no
amount of prosperity, fame or even the huddle of groupies in short tight
dresses across the bar could erase his tarnished thoughts, the tainted memories
of his past.
His childhood was likely to blame. In many ways he was still
suffering the repercussions of that living hell. But the rotten bastard was
dead now. Shouldn’t he be happy…ecstatic even? Why was he so empty? There was
no love. No hate. There was only numb.
Jesse had tried to keep the conversation light. His years as
the band’s front man bestowed him the gift of the gab, though the others had
failed miserably at hiding the pity on their faces. For the first time since
Rick had met them, Jackson and Ronan seemed to have trouble looking him in the
eye.
And he made sure to steer clear of Drew. Their keys man was
just itching for another deep-and-meaningful and Rick really didn’t want to
hurt his friend’s feelings again by telling him to fuck off. Drew had always
been the peacekeeper of the group—politically-minded and the first to jump in
and try to fix everyone’s problems. He meant well, his heart was in the right
place, but Rick didn’t talk about personal shit with anyone, especially when it
concerned his father. Well…anyone except Jesse.
No. More of the band’s company wasn’t what he needed. The
empty hotel room would be his sanctuary for the next several hours until he was
required again for sound check.
The sporting highlights had played—for however long—on the
widescreen in front of him while he’d sunk back into the soft leather couch and
sipped his vodka straight. Even though he stared at the television, he wasn’t
really paying attention to what was on. His mind was too busy replaying his
childhood up until the time he went to live with Jesse and his family. If not
for Jesse’s mother, Rick was certain he would have been beaten to death before
reaching his eighteenth birthday, or rotting in jail somewhere for doing the
unthinkable. He’d locked the past inside his mental vault, but the memories were
pounding on the door and he could only pretend to not be home for so long. His
next therapy session couldn’t come soon enough.
He placed the empty glass on the coffee table and groaned as
he stood, switching off the TV. Stretching his arms above his head, he silently
padded to the bedroom. A few hours of nightmare-free sleep would do him good
before having to deal with his
at age twenty-five, she still arranged the portions of food on her dinner
plate, saving what her taste buds loved most for the very end of the meal.
The headaches had worsened over the last few weeks though,
thankfully, today was a good day. When her overprotective father first
discovered she was sick almost twelve months ago, he’d assembled a team of
specialized surgeons and medical researchers, but none of his efforts did any
good. The countdown had already begun and, if the geniuses were correct, she
had another four weeks left to settle her affairs. She wanted Ricky to be the
last pleasurable memory she savored.
* * * * *
He’d been numb for two days. He’d gone through the motions
and played as well as ever—his sticks never missed a beat—but since his
father’s death almost all of his actions had been robotic, muscle memory,
nothing more. Jerico had been playing professionally for fifteen years and ten
of those had been in front of packed stadiums. He could play whatever set list
was thrown at him. Probably even in his sleep.
Max Bradshaw’s death had been a long time coming. Rick had
visualized his father’s demise many times since turning six years old, but now
that the moment was here, he didn’t feel the relief he’d always imagined.
Following tonight’s show, he’d spent a couple of hours
drinking with the boys—purely for appearances—to celebrate their latest
success. Jerico’s last single had remained at number one for eight consecutive
weeks, smashing their old record of six clean out of the ball park. Yet no
amount of prosperity, fame or even the huddle of groupies in short tight
dresses across the bar could erase his tarnished thoughts, the tainted memories
of his past.
His childhood was likely to blame. In many ways he was still
suffering the repercussions of that living hell. But the rotten bastard was
dead now. Shouldn’t he be happy…ecstatic even? Why was he so empty? There was
no love. No hate. There was only numb.
Jesse had tried to keep the conversation light. His years as
the band’s front man bestowed him the gift of the gab, though the others had
failed miserably at hiding the pity on their faces. For the first time since
Rick had met them, Jackson and Ronan seemed to have trouble looking him in the
eye.
And he made sure to steer clear of Drew. Their keys man was
just itching for another deep-and-meaningful and Rick really didn’t want to
hurt his friend’s feelings again by telling him to fuck off. Drew had always
been the peacekeeper of the group—politically-minded and the first to jump in
and try to fix everyone’s problems. He meant well, his heart was in the right
place, but Rick didn’t talk about personal shit with anyone, especially when it
concerned his father. Well…anyone except Jesse.
No. More of the band’s company wasn’t what he needed. The
empty hotel room would be his sanctuary for the next several hours until he was
required again for sound check.
The sporting highlights had played—for however long—on the
widescreen in front of him while he’d sunk back into the soft leather couch and
sipped his vodka straight. Even though he stared at the television, he wasn’t
really paying attention to what was on. His mind was too busy replaying his
childhood up until the time he went to live with Jesse and his family. If not
for Jesse’s mother, Rick was certain he would have been beaten to death before
reaching his eighteenth birthday, or rotting in jail somewhere for doing the
unthinkable. He’d locked the past inside his mental vault, but the memories were
pounding on the door and he could only pretend to not be home for so long. His
next therapy session couldn’t come soon enough.
He placed the empty glass on the coffee table and groaned as
he stood, switching off the TV. Stretching his arms above his head, he silently
padded to the bedroom. A few hours of nightmare-free sleep would do him good
before having to deal with his
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