Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1)
By RB Hilliard
Copyright © RB Hilliard, 2016
Kindle Edition
Edited by RC Brose and Petra Gleason
Cover designed by Tania Marinaro
Formatted by BB eBooks
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Warning: This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarities to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is for Christian, my plotting partner for life. I Love you beyond words.
4. I’m Really Not That Important
9. Don’t You Dare Quit Your Day Job
17. Who Says Counseling Can’t Be Fun?
Links to other Books by RB Hilliard
Alive and Kicking
Grant
A
drenaline pulsed through
my veins as I slowly made my way across the crowded dressing room toward the door. Words of luck and praise floated after me and I raised my hand in silent acknowledgement before stepping out into the packed hallway. The large gathering of hall dwellers greeted us with outstretched hands and, for the millionth time, I wondered why Blane insisted on such a production. If it was up to me no one would be allowed backstage before the show.
“Move it people!” Hank shouted. Like magic the crowd dispersed and I wondered if this was what Moses felt like when he parted The Red Sea. Was he high on fame and fortune or was he scared shitless?
I bet he was pissing his fucking pants.
All eyes zeroed in on us as we began our march down the hall. The boys handed out high-fives and handshakes as we passed by. Not me. I was locked, loaded and focused. Catcalls and cheers were drowned out by the staccato beat of my boots as they hit the concrete floor beneath me.
Clomp.
Clomp.
Clomp.
One by one Nash, Luke and Chaz disappeared up the steps and I counted silently in my head. One, two, three, four…and there it was. With a smile on my face I closed my eyes and listened to the crowd going berserk. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down my back and pooled between my shoulder blades. My vision blurred and I grabbed the banister to steady myself.
Nash was right. I shouldn’t have had that third drink.
“Melt-down! Melt-down! Melt-down!” thousands of voices rang out in perfect accord as they paid homage to me and my brothers.
Taking a deep breath I held the air in my lungs and absorbed the electrically charged atmosphere until the burn became too much. Then I slowly let it out. I may not deserve to be here but one thing was for sure, I was going to ride this crazy-as-hell wave for as long as it lasted. Before I got too deep in my head I was off. In three strides I hurdled the stairs in front of me, rushed the stage and raised both hands high in the air. The crowd exploded. Bathed in the light of a million flashes I turned to my best friend and lead guitarist, Nash, and smiled. He returned the smile with his usual cocky grin and nodded his head. He was ready to go. I glanced back at my drummer, Chaz, and waited for his nod.
Earlier today at practice Chaz threw the mother of all fits. As a band, we each have our place. No one questions it, except for Chaz. The position of lead singer-songwriter and front man allows me the most pull, which isn’t necessarily a good thing as I’m the one always stuck dealing with management’s bullshit. My best friend Nash is my second in command. Nash also writes songs but his real strength lies in his guitar playing. I’m good with the strings but Nash is truly gifted. He’s also funny as shit and incredibly easy going. I refer to him as Meltdown’s voice of reason. Luke is brilliant on the keys and arguably funnier than Nash. Too bad he’s a total hot head. If there’s a fight to be had, Luke is in the middle of it. Chaz is the newest addition to the band. Because he’s new and we’d like to keep him, we’ve cut him a lot of slack. I’m beginning to regret that decision. I don’t play drums for a reason. I can’t. The same goes for the rest of the band. We all have our sweet spots and the only one who doesn’t seem to comprehend this is Chaz. Two weeks ago he came to us and asked to play a song he’d written. We’d already been down this road twice before with him, the last of which resulted in us almost losing another drummer. None of us were excited to go there again. Finally, after three days of dealing with Chaz’s passive aggressive bullshit we agreed to play the song in practice. Like his two previous songs, it was okay. Not great, not good, but okay. In a three to one vote, the band agreed it wasn’t good enough to play in concert. Chaz, of course, disagreed with our assessment. In fact he was downright shitty about it. We tried to reason with him but he kept accusing us of holding him back from his true potential. Nash, Luke and I knew the score. If the audience didn’t like the song, our ratings would drop. If our ratings dropped Chaz would mope for the next decade. Mopey Chaz on a tour bus was not something we looked forward to. So, when he threw his tantrum at practice today, I said “Fuck it,” and slotted it in as the first song of the night.
After a second of messing with his drum kit, Chaz looked up and gave me the go ahead. I raised my brow at Luke and, with a nod of his head, he began to play. I caught Nash’s eye and he winked.
Here goes nothing.
Verse one went smoothly. Being that it was a new song I was slower to find my groove than usual. At least the audience seemed moderately receptive to the new song. By receptive I mean they weren’t booing us off the stage, yet. I was in tune but was sweating like crazy, which wasn’t normal. At first I thought it was nerves. By the end of verse one I knew it was something else. My chest felt tight and the lights on the stage were blindingly bright and hot as balls. Halfway through verse two my vision blurred again. This time it was accompanied by a serious case of dry mouth. When we got to the chorus and I couldn’t remember a word of it, I started to panic. My heart beat triple time in my chest, which now felt like a vice around my ribcage. Realizing something was wrong Nash took over the vocals for me. In the back of my mind I knew I was supposed to be singing but when I opened my mouth the words wouldn’t come out. I could feel them jammed in the bottom of my throat and cutting off my air. A razor sharp pain rocketed through my stomach and I began to gag.
What the hell?
Slamming my fist on my chest I attempted to slow down my racing heart. If anything, it only made it beat faster. When the pain began traveling from my stomach to my chest I knew I was in deep shit. Tiny red dots danced across my eyes as the pain suddenly lurched into my throat and triggered my gag reflex for a second time. Not stopping there, it continued up to my left eye, where it proceeded to dance a rhythmic jig under my eyelid. Pressing my fingers against my eye I scrambled to recall the words to the next verse. Something brushed against my shoulder and I turned to see what it was but everything was one giant blur.
“Hey man, you okay?” Nash asked under his breath.
I turned to tell him, “No,” and was engulfed by a wave of nausea. I was going to vomit. My sense of self-preservation kicked in and I took off for the side of the stage. The stairs loomed before me and all I could think was
do not vomit on the stage, Grant. Don’t you dare fucking do it.
The next thing I knew I was flying through the air. I felt my right ankle give and then unbelievable pain ripped through my head. I opened my mouth to scream and vomit spewed out all over the floor. My world began spinning and then darkness took me down.
At some point I thought I heard a beeping noise and strained to open my eyes but couldn’t. Finally I gave up and drifted back into darkness.
The next time I surfaced, I heard someone singing, “Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to fuck you once again.”
“Shut up, Chaz. This has nothing to do with you or your damn song,” Nash hissed. Nash sounded angry. Nash rarely ever got angry.
“His eyelids are fluttering. Does that mean he’s regaining consciousness?” Luke asked. I could hear the worry in his voice and wanted to tell him I was okay but couldn’t.
Why won’t my eyes open?
“Do I look like a doctor? Hang on, I’ll go get him,” Blane snapped.
The second I heard Blane’s voice, it all came rushing back.
The concert tonight. What the hell happened?
“Mr. Hardy,” a voice called out. Something cold brushed against my arm and my eyes sprang open. “There we go,” the voice said. After a few blinks a large man in a doctor’s coat popped into view. “Welcome back. You gave us all quite a scare this evening. I’m Dr. Mann and you are in my private facility right outside of Houston. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.” He held my wrist in his hand and it took me a second to realize he was checking my pulse. He nodded to the nurse and then focused back on me. “Do you recall what happened on stage tonight?” I thought about it for a second and shook my head, no. Pain shot through my skull and I groaned. “Steady,” the doctor said, as he lifted my eyelids and ran his hand over my throat. “Hmmmm, do you think you can speak?” I opened my mouth to tell him, yes, but my voice faltered. My eyes widened in panic and he gave me a gentle pat on the arm. “Why don’t we get you a sip of water,” he suggested. A cup with a straw appeared in his hand and he held it up to my lips. “Nice and easy now,” he coaxed. The ice cold water felt like heaven to my irritated throat. I fought to remember why my throat hurt so badly but couldn’t. Dr. Mann pulled the cup away and said, “Now, let’s try again.”
