teetered sideways on my heels and a pair of hands reached out to steady me. “Sorry,” Blane murmured. The overwhelming smell of booze and cigarettes wafted from his mouth and I tried to pull away, only to have him tighten his grip on my arm. “My intention was to more or less lay down rules, not to ambush. I can see how it might have been misconstrued.” I didn’t want to hear his lame attempt at explaining away what happened earlier. I wanted to watch the practice, but this was my boss and I couldn’t lose sight of why I was here. Blane Hamilton was a slippery fellow and if I didn’t watch myself I would end up out of a job. Slowly I pulled away from his grasp and turned to face him with a smile on my face. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Hamilton.”
He returned my smile with one of his own and I couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were. Up close his face looked more orange than tan and I noticed he’d missed a few spots when applying the self-tanner. “Please, call me Blane,” he said. Blane Hamilton was plenty attractive if you liked pretty boys who spent way too much time caring about their looks. His problem was that he was insincere, and that alone made him quite repugnant.
Not wanting to be overheard, I leaned in and said, “I would have liked to have been introduced in a less hostile environment.”
“You’re right. Again, I’m sorry,” he repeated, “How can I make it up to you?” A loud bang from the stage interrupted the conversation and we both turned to see what caused it. Amber eyes glared at us from across the stage.
“Not to interrupt or anything but could you two fraternize somewhere else?” Grant asked. It took me a second to realize he was talking to us.
Behind me Blane let out a disgusted huff. I knew I should look away but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth to apologize, but clamped it shut when Grant lifted his guitar and began playing the opening chords to Petty Little Princess . This was probably my least favorite Meltdown song, and with good reason. The lyrics were harsh and mean. Just because I disliked the lyrics, however, didn’t mean I disliked the music. Nor did it mean I was immune to the man standing in front of me singing the song. Never had ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt looked so good. From the television set and tabloids Grant Hardy seemed shorter, smaller…less intimidating. I was surprised at how much bigger he was in person. Then again, compared to my five foot three inch frame, everyone seemed big. Still, my dad was five ten and, from the looks of it, Grant had at least three inches on him. His height wasn’t the only surprising thing, though. Most addicts were lean and some even emaciated. The man on that stage was far from emaciated. I watched the cords of muscle dance across his arms as he played his guitar. If you asked me Grant Hardy looked down right fit as a fiddle. My eyes lifted from his muscles to his face and my pulse leapt into my throat when I caught him staring straight at me. His gaze seared through me as he sang the chorus,
You think you have me wrapped.
You think I won’t split.
You think you fucking know me but
You don’t know shit…
“How about we step off the stage so we can hear each other better,” Blane suggested. I’d been so lost in the song I’d forgotten Blane was standing there.
“Oh, uh, sure,” I said. I took one more glance back at Grant before following Blane off the stage and down the stairs. Blane led me back down the hall and into a large and very comfortable looking dressing room. He settled into a chair and motioned for me to sit across from him. Once seated, I addressed one of my many concerns.
“You may not know this but rehabilitation takes trust. Trust has to be earned. The last thing I need is to be seen as the enemy. Today you made me public enemy number one.”
“And I repeat that was not my intention. Today’s meeting didn’t go quite as I’d planned. I think, however, the
He returned my smile with one of his own and I couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were. Up close his face looked more orange than tan and I noticed he’d missed a few spots when applying the self-tanner. “Please, call me Blane,” he said. Blane Hamilton was plenty attractive if you liked pretty boys who spent way too much time caring about their looks. His problem was that he was insincere, and that alone made him quite repugnant.
Not wanting to be overheard, I leaned in and said, “I would have liked to have been introduced in a less hostile environment.”
“You’re right. Again, I’m sorry,” he repeated, “How can I make it up to you?” A loud bang from the stage interrupted the conversation and we both turned to see what caused it. Amber eyes glared at us from across the stage.
“Not to interrupt or anything but could you two fraternize somewhere else?” Grant asked. It took me a second to realize he was talking to us.
Behind me Blane let out a disgusted huff. I knew I should look away but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth to apologize, but clamped it shut when Grant lifted his guitar and began playing the opening chords to Petty Little Princess . This was probably my least favorite Meltdown song, and with good reason. The lyrics were harsh and mean. Just because I disliked the lyrics, however, didn’t mean I disliked the music. Nor did it mean I was immune to the man standing in front of me singing the song. Never had ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt looked so good. From the television set and tabloids Grant Hardy seemed shorter, smaller…less intimidating. I was surprised at how much bigger he was in person. Then again, compared to my five foot three inch frame, everyone seemed big. Still, my dad was five ten and, from the looks of it, Grant had at least three inches on him. His height wasn’t the only surprising thing, though. Most addicts were lean and some even emaciated. The man on that stage was far from emaciated. I watched the cords of muscle dance across his arms as he played his guitar. If you asked me Grant Hardy looked down right fit as a fiddle. My eyes lifted from his muscles to his face and my pulse leapt into my throat when I caught him staring straight at me. His gaze seared through me as he sang the chorus,
You think you have me wrapped.
You think I won’t split.
You think you fucking know me but
You don’t know shit…
“How about we step off the stage so we can hear each other better,” Blane suggested. I’d been so lost in the song I’d forgotten Blane was standing there.
“Oh, uh, sure,” I said. I took one more glance back at Grant before following Blane off the stage and down the stairs. Blane led me back down the hall and into a large and very comfortable looking dressing room. He settled into a chair and motioned for me to sit across from him. Once seated, I addressed one of my many concerns.
“You may not know this but rehabilitation takes trust. Trust has to be earned. The last thing I need is to be seen as the enemy. Today you made me public enemy number one.”
“And I repeat that was not my intention. Today’s meeting didn’t go quite as I’d planned. I think, however, the
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