MUSES AND MELODIES CHAPTER 1

Chapter One

Nixon

I didn’t just want a drink. I wanted a dozen. Whiskey. Tequila. Vodka. Anything that would take the edge off was fine by me.

Wanted wasn’t even close to the right word, but after forty-five days in a rehab center that cost more than my penthouse, I knew I didn’t need a drink to survive—I wanted one.

Since that wasn’t going to happen, I settled for another orange soda as the limo wound through the streets of Seattle. I’d devoured cases of this shit in the last six weeks, which may have amped up my sugar addiction, but at least it wasn’t booze or pills, right? I cracked open the top of the ice-cold can, and every set of eyes in the back of the car looked my way. Not that they hadn’t been staring since the moment I’d landed at the airport—now they were just blatant about it.

“I made sure you had plenty of that stocked,” Ethan, our tour manager, said with a smile and nod that hit an eleven on the awkward scale.

Jonas nodded, watching me like I was a grenade that had already lost its pin. “And we had your apartment cleaned out too.”

As one of my closest friends and the lead singer of our band, Hush Note, he knew all too well what happened when I went kaboom. He’d been the one to haul me off the tour bus floor after I’d taken some unmarked pills with a groupie like a dumbass, then sat by my side in the hospital, waiting to see if I’d live through my stupidity.

That had been my come-to-Jesus moment. I had become a liability, not just to the band but to my best friends’ personal lives as well…and they didn’t even know the why of it.

“We figured it might help with…you know…temptations and staying clean and all that,” he added, when I didn’t respond.

Now they were both nodding.

“Right. Thanks.” One of the reasons I kept this trip to rehab a secret was because people never knew what to say or how to act after I got out. Before I went, they were all too eager to tell me exactly what they thought, but afterwards, I got the nuclear bomb treatment. Kid gloves, forced smiles, and a lot of fucking nodding—like they thought I might go off at any second if they made a false move.

Since this was my fifth trip, and the only one I hadn’t walked out on, I knew they were annoyingly proud yet terrified it wouldn’t stick.

At least we were all on the same page there. I was a Class-A fuckup, whose sins were excused because I had a symmetrical face, lean body, and magic hands when it came to a guitar.

But my sins had long ago outnumbered my excuses, not that I could tell by the supportive, forced smiles on Jonas and Ethan’s faces. My first sin? I was an alcoholic who dabbled in drugs with the clichéd justification of numbing the pain. Go figure, that apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

“You really do look great,” Ethan blurted.

“Yeah. Your eyes are clear and everything,” Jonas added.

More nodding. They’d turned into a pair of bobbleheads.

Quinn, our drummer and the third musketeer in our band’s trio, scoffed. “Seriously, guys. Could you make this any weirder for him?” She shook her head beside me. “Relax. He’s still Nixon.”

Still Nixon, just nuclear-bomb edition.

 “You guys didn’t have to come,” I said for the fifth time since they’d shown up at the airport. Sin number two: my friends were way better people than me—I didn’t deserve them. The minute they’d found out where I was and when I was coming home, they’d interrupted their happy little sitcom lives and shown up.

“We wanted you to feel supported,” Jonas repeated the same answer he’d given the first three times. None of them had known about attempt number four.

“Mission accomplished. I’m supported.” I raised my soda in a mock salute, then chugged half of it.

Quinn rolled her eyes, but she was used to me acting like a dick, so I didn’t worry too much. These three had seen me at both my best and worst since we started the band eight years ago. From the bar stage to sold-out stadiums, we’d had one another’s backs. We never aired band laundry in the press or stepped out for solo projects. We were dysfunctional as hell, but we were a family.

We turned the corner, and my building came into view.

Jonas swore, which voiced my thoughts perfectly.

A thick crowd of fans blocked the door and were currently going nuts over the sight of our limo.

“I told you we should have taken an unmarked SUV,” Quinn muttered, flipping through her phone.

“How did they know?” Ethan asked.

There were always fans outside my building—Quinn’s and Jonas’s too—but this was ridiculous. Was that seriously a giant poster board of a missing person flyer with my picture on it?

“It’s been six weeks, not six months,” I grumbled.

“They had someone camped out at the airport.” Quinn turned her phone so we could see the photo on a popular gossip site. It was of our hug on the tarmac just after I’d come off the private jet.

The driver rolled the partition down. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take us through the garage.” Smiling for the camera wasn’t on my agenda for today.

We bypassed the horde of fans and took the private entrance down into the garage. There was a reason I paid so much money to live in this building. Not that I minded fans. I loved fans. Especially the female ones—even if they were off the menu for the foreseeable future. But there was something to be said for drawing a line between my public life and my private one.

Once we were parked, I hauled my duffel bag out of the trunk and slung it over my shoulder. We all filed into the elevator, and I punched in my code for the penthouse. The buttons lit up as we passed the other floors, the silence filled by a piano acoustic of “My Heart Will Go On.”

“You know, I wouldn’t have stopped at the bar on my way home or anything,” I said.

“What?”

“We didn’t think that.”

“That’s not why we’re here.”

They all spoke at the same time.

“Right. Bunch of babysitters.” I laughed and shook my head.

“We’re not babysitting you,” Quinn snapped, then narrowed her eyes at me. “We’re loving you. Deal with it.”

“And honestly, we both feel like shit since we’re the ones who’ve up and moved on you in the last year.” Jonas pulled his hair back into a low ponytail with enough frustration to snap that little hair tie of his.

“I don’t feel like crap,” Ethan mumbled. “I still live here.”

The elevator dinged our arrival, and the doors opened to the opulent marble floor of my entry. Sin number three: I made ungodly amounts of money and spent it on ridiculous things because I liked nice shit.

“Look, I fully supported you moving to Boston to be with Kira,” I said to Jonas as I pulled my key from my front pocket, then turned to Quinn. “And the last time I checked, I’m the one who told you to move back to Bozeman for Graham. You both deserve to be happy.” They did, and now that they’d both fallen in love and into ready-made families, I wasn’t going to be the one waving the “it’s not fair” flag, like some whiny prick.

“What about you?” Quinn asked as I turned the key and opened my front door.

“Oh, you know me. I’m delirious.” I flashed her a quick smile and walked into my apartment.

It was definitely cleaner than how I’d left it. The blinds were open, and light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Seattle skyline and Puget Sound, illuminating every polished surface from the entry, through the massive kitchen, and into the living room, where I dropped my bag. Smelled nice too. Like lemons and cleaning supplies instead of pot and general funk.

It was also quiet for a change. I’d bypassed more than a few passed-out people when I walked out six weeks ago.

“I can’t remember the last time your place was this clean.” Quinn flopped onto the couch and kicked off her Vans.

“The day he bought it,” Jonas answered, sinking into the massive armchair.

“It’s not like I don’t have housekeepers,” I retorted.

“Oh, those women are saints.” Quinn laughed. “You just never give them a party-free week so they can do their jobs. I would have run screaming by now, if I were them.”

“I heard Ben paid them double.” Ethan gestured to the apartment and took the spot next to Quinn.

“Ben.” We all groaned collectively. Our business manager did exactly what he was paid to do: brokered our contracts, handled our schedule and promotion, and shoved staff in our general direction when we needed them. He was a hardass, but he’d been one of the major reasons we’d skyrocketed. He’d also been the reason we were all on the verge of burnout from constant writing and touring.

Jonas and Quinn had both agreed to slow it down after this next album…the album I was holding up because my lame-ass brain couldn’t write anything decent, which only fed into excuse number three billion and two to reach for a bottle: I’d never written a song sober, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I could.

Add that to my inability to sleep and I was two for two.

“I’m going to take a shower. How long are you guys planning to supervise me?” I questioned.

“We’re not supervising you.” Quinn folded her arms across her chest. “And we’ll be here as long as you want us to be.”

Hell. No.

“Great, so you guys have flights scheduled for tonight?” I lifted my eyebrows and picked up my bag.

They all averted my gaze.

I sighed hard. “Guys. Go home to your families.”

“We will,” Jonas assured me. “Once we know you’re okay. Now go take your shower. We’ll order up dinner. What are you in the mood for? Thai? Burgers?”

News flash! I’m never going to be okay.

“You guys pick, and don’t get comfortable. You’re leaving tonight.” I left them discussing food and headed up the stairs to the second floor of my apartment, pausing at the picture framed in the hallway.

We were young then—eighteen and nineteen, respectfully—with our arms around one another, smiling for the camera after our first show at the bar. Eight years later, Jonas was still the broody poet, Quinn, the blonde with the sharp tongue and the golden sticks, and me? I was just as fucked up as I was back then. Maybe even more so.

Funny thing about money? It only amplified who you were on the inside—it didn’t fix you. It patched the cracks on the surface but generally greased the mechanics underneath so you destroyed yourself faster. I was past the point of fixing anyway. I’d only gone to rehab to keep from dragging the band down with me.

I walked into my bedroom and froze. There was a very round, very nice ass peeking out from under my bed. It wasn’t the first time a fan had found her way into my bedroom, but it was the first time it had happened since moving into this building three years ago.

“Son of a bitch, how big is this thing?” she swore, rocking her ass back and forth, obviously trying to tug something free. “Bigger. Is. Not. Always. Better!”

Well, that was definitely a first.

“I’d have to disagree with you on that.” I dropped my bag and slid my phone out of my back pocket to call security. Usually, I’d be down for a little anonymous hookup, but my rehab therapist had lectured me against using sex to fill the alcohol void, so Little Miss Nice Ass had to go.

“Oh!” There was a distinct thud followed by a muted swear as the woman wiggled her way out from under my bed. She was a tiny thing and had some killer legs under that black skirt. A cloud of long, auburn hair appeared as she shuffled back on her knees, dragging a laughably giant bottle with her.

Then I was the one cursing as she scrambled to her feet.

Giant green eyes and plump lips appeared behind that curtain of hair as she tucked it behind her ears. “Hi.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I bellowed at Ben’s gorgeous, pain in the very nice ass assistant. Over the last few years, I’d had more than my fair share of fantasies involving my bed and that little redhead, but she’d always been in it…not under it.

Sin number four: I always wanted what I couldn’t have, and Shannon was definitely on the “couldn’t have” list, for more reasons than I could count.

“What? I got it all out before you got back! Well, all but this one.” She fisted her hands on deliciously curved hips. “Every bottle. Every can. How was I supposed to know you had the world’s largest vat of champagne under your bed? What were you going to do with that thing?” She motioned toward the novelty bottle that stood nearly as tall as she was.

“Drink it with a really big straw. Now what the hell are you doing in my bedroom, Shannon?” But wasn’t it obvious? I groaned at the realization. “You’re the one Ben sent to handle everything.”

“Welcome home.” She sang the sarcastic little tune. “It’s nice to see you too.”

“Everything okay in here?” a linebacker asked from the doorway. How many people were in my fucking house? “Mr. Winters,” he addressed me with a nod.

“It’s all great, Trevor. Could you please help me with this?” She motioned toward the bottle.

“Absolutely.” He crossed the floor in front of me.

“That’s a seventy-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne!”

“Oh, did you want us to return it for a refund instead?” Sarcasm dripped from those pretty pink lips.

My blood pressure spiked. God, the woman simultaneously turned me on and annoyed the shit out of me. Always had. She might have a body like a Sunday drive—all lush curves that demanded two hands—but she had a mouth like a Monday morning alarm clock. She was a color-coded, alphabetized checklist with no sense of humor, and I had half a mind to tell her to drink the damned thing herself if it would help dislodge the stick from her incredible ass.

But I didn’t want that bottle anywhere near me. Even the thought of it made my mouth water. I could already taste the sweet oblivion on my tongue.

“Get rid of it.” It had been a gift anyway and wasn’t worth messing up my entire recovery for.

“Thank you.” Her shoulders dipped slightly in relief as Trevor hefted the bottle and carried it out.

“I’ll get it dumped, Ms. Shannon,” he promised as he hauled it away.

“A little formal there with the Ms., isn’t he?”

Her brow puckered. “He called you Mr. Winters.”

I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this conversation. “Right, but that’s my last name. I thought we lost the whole title-before-the-first when we became adults, but I know how much you love your protocol, so hey, whatever floats your boat, Ms. Shannon. Now, is Ben coming too, or are you his emissary?”

How many people needed to be here?

“You are…” She shook her head. “If I’m stuck here with you, then at least tell me you know that Shannon isn’t my first name, right?” She tilted her head and folded her arms under her breasts. I couldn’t say if she had a nice set or not, considering she was always buttoned up to her throat like a librarian. Not that it mattered—I didn’t sleep with girls on staff.

Wait…her name wasn’t Shannon?

“It isn’t?” I narrowed my eyes. I’d been calling her that for the last four years.

“No!” She shook her head, all indignant, like I was the one rifling through her bedroom. “And yes, Ben sent me to make sure all the…contraband was out before you got back. He’s on his way over.”

“Well, I guess you failed that one.” I snorted. “But you wiggled it free so at least you’re not stuck here anymore. And I don’t really care if you stay or not, but I’m getting in the shower, so if you don’t want an eyeful, I’d get out.” I pulled my shirt off and headed for the bathroom.

Her gaze widened and flickered toward my torso, but she marched out.

By the time I finished my shower and got back downstairs, Ben stood in my living room, the dark skin of his forehead wrinkling with concern as he thumbed through his phone, Ms. Shannon at his side. She even looked small next to Ben, who wasn’t a huge guy. She didn’t come up to my collarbone, even in heels.

“So, if we cancel San Francisco,” he began.

“We’re not canceling San Francisco,” I cut him off.

Chaos erupted.

“We have to cancel every show this fall.”

“You won’t be ready.”

“We’re not putting you through this.”

I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled, which had the desired effect of shutting everyone up. “Okay, this is the point where you all stop making decisions for me.” I stared down my well-meaning bandmates. “That’s never been how we’ve operated, and we’re not starting now.”

Jonas rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We’re just worried about you, Nix. We want to give you the best shot at staying clean. Canceling four shows is nothing in the scheme of things. We’ll reschedule. You’re more important.”

“We’re not canceling,” I reiterated. “I did a six-week program instead of the full twelve because I wanted to make sure that I could handle myself in the real world before the fall dates. Did you honestly think I would dump myself into rehab and not think about what we had coming up?” I was a selfish prick, but I wasn’t that selfish.

“We weren’t sure exactly what went through your head.” Quinn leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “You didn’t fill us in. And no, don’t look at me like that—we’re thrilled you went. We’re just trying to figure out how to best support you.”

My jaw locked. My reasons for going to rehab were mine and mine alone, just like the reasons I drank. “I should have told you, but I’d already walked out of rehab the week before, and I didn’t want to disappoint you if I did it again.”

They all sagged, like I’d just deflated their balloons—like I’d already failed.

“Look,” I said softly. “This sucks. I’m not going to lie. I haven’t been six weeks sober since I was eighteen. But next week, I’ll be at seven weeks, and the week after that, I’ll be at eight. I chose to go. No one forced me. I didn’t need an intervention. I made the decision myself. That should tell you how serious I am, and quite frankly, you’re all starting to really piss me off by assuming you know what’s best for me. If you want to parent someone, then go home to your kids.”

They stared at me with open mouths.

“So, that means you don’t want to cancel the shows?” Ben asked, still holding his phone.

“No. I don’t. It’s bad for business and would lead to a massive PR issue. I’m assuming you kept the rehab quiet?” If he hadn’t, I was going to fire his ass, right here and now.

“Of course. Publicity stepped in and posted from quite a few beaches around the world on your social media, with bullshit captions like ‘living my best life’ and ‘water soothes the soul.’”

I would never say cheesy shit like that, but I let it slide.

“Right. Then I’m not going to cancel dates. End of story.” I shoved my hands in the front pockets of my jeans.

Ben studied me for a few moments, then turned to Shannon. “You have everything you need?”

“Yep. My stuff’s in the guest room, and the doorman knows not to let anyone up without an escort.” She glanced my way, then quickly found some lint on her sweater to brush away.

“I’m sorry, what?” My eyes narrowed. Why the hell would she have her stuff in my guest room? Stuck here.

“Shannon will be with you for the remainder of the fall dates,” Ben stated. “I have too much going on to handle you personally, and well, she’s the only one on my team who can handle your bullshit without wanting to sleep with you.”

“Absolutely not.” My eyebrows hit the roof. What was more insulting? That she wasn’t attracted to me? Or that she thought she was actually capable of handling me?

“This isn’t up for debate, Nixon.” Ben turned to face me directly. “If you want to cancel the dates now, I’ll support that decision. We’re here to make sure you stay clean. But if you want me to keep those dates on the books, then Shannon is staying by your side to make sure you don’t go off the rails. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” The asshole wasn’t kidding.

I turned a glare on Quinn and Jonas. “Oh, I get it now. You two don’t have to babysit me because you’re having her do it.” I pointed at Shannon, or whatever her name was.

“She is a lawyer, not a babysitter,” Shannon snapped.

“Even better.”

“Nix.” Jonas stood. “I’m in Boston and Quinn’s in Montana. It’s killing us that we’re not here for you, and if you want us to, we’ll stay.”

Quinn stood and slid her sticks into her back pocket. “We’ll stay as long as you need us,” she promised. “But please don’t ask us to abandon you, because we won’t.”

I ripped my hands over my hair and fought the urge to break something. There was no way I was pulling Jonas and Quinn away from their families, and if I threw Shannon—whatever her name was—out, those two would stay.

I glanced at Shannon.

Four years and I really didn’t know her first name?

“Fine,” I barked and strode to the Jeff Frost photo hanging on the wall. The hinges were soundless as I swung it open like a door, revealing the small safe behind it. I punched in the code, opened the door, and took out the small bottle of pills I’d stashed there three months ago. The bottle felt heavy in my hand, even though I knew it weighed next to nothing.

Everyone watched as I took it to Shannon and pressed it into her hand. “There you go. That’s the last contraband in the house, and I just freely gave it to you. Now what is your damn name?” My tone quieted as I struggled to keep a cap on my anger.

Her eyes flared, and my stomach pitched as we locked gazes. Those eyes weren’t just green, they were emerald green and brighter than any jewel I’d ever seen. I blinked and stepped back as her fingers closed around the bottle.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Zoe. My name is Zoe Shannon.”

Zoe.

“Well, Zoe, I’m assuming you know where the spare towels are, seeing as you’ve searched my entire apartment.” I turned to my friends. “Now, the rest of you can get the fuck out. I love you, but I don’t really like you at the moment.” I grabbed a box of whatever takeout was on the coffee table and left them all sitting in my living room as I climbed the stairs.

Ironic. They were all so concerned for my sobriety, yet they’d just saddled me with the one woman who could drive me to drink.

My lips lifted slightly. At least they’d given me something to do between shows. It was going to be a shit ton of fun to see just what it would take to get under her skin.

MUSES AND MELODIES Releases 10/6!

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