Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1) (15 page)

“Do I know you?”

“Pardon?”

“Cause you’re acting like we’re all friends and stuff and I’ve never heard your name before, much less think I owe you a favor.” Clearly cool did not work for Yolanda.

“Uh, no, we’ve actually never met. I’m working with a previous patient of Dr. Whitfield and didn’t receive all of the information in the file transfer. I was wondering if you could please help me.” I made sure to say please this time.

“Dr. W’s in a meeting and then he’s leaving for the day. I can take down your number and have him call you back,” she offered.

I tried not to sound disappointed. “Oh, uh, okay. I’m not sure he’ll be able to reach me.”

She let out a very dramatic sounding sigh. “Who’s the patient?”

“Grant Hardy.”

At the mention of Grant’s name her whole attitude changed. “Well why didn’t you say it was Grant? I just love that man and his music. Lordy me, I’m fanning myself as we speak. What do you need to know about Grant?”

“I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”

“Honey, I live for trouble. Now, c’mon, spit it out.”

I knew what I was about to do was extremely unprofessional. In fact, if it got out that I spoke with anyone other than a doctor or therapist about a patient I could get my license taken away. I considered hanging up, but my need to find answers overrode my sense of self-preservation. “According to Mr. Hardy’s therapist, Nancy Aldor, Mr. Hardy claimed on more than one occasion he was allergic to Oxycodone. I was hoping Miss Alder looked into this while Mr. Hardy was in her care. However, when I received the file your office sent over there was no note of it, nor was there a copy of Mr. Hardy’s medical records included in the file. I’m sure it was simply an oversight. Along with a copy of Mr. Hardy’s medical record, I would like to see notes covering the first forty-eight hours of treatment. As you know, the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours are vital to a patient’s recovery and they seem to be missing from Mr. Hardy’s file. I did find one hand written sentence at the bottom of the toxicology report stating that Mr. Hardy was asymptomatic, but without the proper documentation, I’m not really sure what this means. I would really appreciate some clarification on both matters if at all possible,” I explained.

“Hmmmm, let me see if I can pull his file. Please hold.” Yolanda had gone from hostile to downright friendly to stiffly polite and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The phone made a loud clunking noise as she set it down and I heard the sound of heels clacking across the floor. A few minutes later I heard her clacking back. She picked up the phone and said, “I’m gonna have to put you on hold.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Someone’s been messing with my files,” she hissed and, before I could respond the music was back. This time it was
Eternal Flame
. For the life of me I couldn’t remember who sang this song. By the time Yolanda came back I’d narrowed it down to either Belinda Carlisle or Debbie Gibson.

I’m sure Grant would know.
I thought about Hank’s warning. I should have stayed and talked with Grant instead of running like a scared little girl. I was scared, though, and the closer I got to Grant, the more scared I became.

The music cut off and Yolanda was back. “Honey, I’d like to help you but I can’t seem to locate his file.”

My heart sank. “Did you check with Dr. Whitfield?”

“He’s gone for the day, but I checked everywhere else and left a note on Nancy’s desk. Let me take down your number and I promise either Doctor W. or Nancy will call you back.”

I gave her my number and thanked her for going out of her way to help me.
Now what?
I wondered, as I ended the call. Before I closed the file for the day I pulled out a pen and a blank sheet of paper and wrote down everything I could think of, beginning with my observations of Grant.

-    Shows no signs of physical addiction. He’s not twitchy, secretive, paranoid or volatile. His moods are stable.

-    Need to get my hands on a copy of medical records dating back to the Oxy allergy. If he’s allergic to Oxycodone it will be documented somewhere.

-    Need confirmation on phase one of rehab. Was there a phase one? Was level of addiction noted? If not, why not?

-    Who wants to discredit me and why?

I sat there for another ten minutes with thoughts swirling through my head before finally giving up. For now this would have to do.

Right as I was packing up my computer Nash walked through the door.

“Ooooh, girl, you’re in trouuuuuuble,” he sang.

“Whatever.” I pretended to blow him off but his words made my stomach tense.

Chaz rolled in with a scowl on his face, followed by Luke and then Grant. Grant wouldn’t even look at me. I tried not to let it bother me, but when they all filed out the door for the stage and each of them said goodbye but Grant, I had to admit I felt it, and it stung.
I shouldn’t have left
. I was so sure Cat Stevens was dead, though. And because he’s alive, I now owed Grant answers to questions I’d rather not answer. I considered skipping practice altogether. It’s not as if I would be missed or anything. Plus, I had plenty to do. In the end, I couldn’t stay away. The knowledge that Grant was angry nagged at me. On my walk to the stage I analyzed my feelings. I didn’t want Grant to think less of me. I wanted him to get to know me before he learned about my past. I knew I was being silly. I didn’t care whether or not Mr. Eckleston knew about my past. Grant was my client and I was his counselor, end of story. Except it wasn’t the end of the story, was it? Marcel was standing at the bottom of the stage talking to one of the blue shirts. I waved at him as I passed by and he gave me a head nod. As I stepped onto the side of the stage I expected to see the usual flurry of activity. Instead everyone was eerily silent. Grant was perched on a red stool in the middle of the stage. Nash sat to his right on a matching stool, while both Luke and Chaz stood off to one side watching.

Grant began to play his guitar. Nash joined in and it took me a second to figure out what was different about the song. Both Grant and Nash were playing acoustic guitars instead of their normal electric. It made for a much softer sound. I’d never heard the song before and wondered if it was new. As the music drifted across the stage I closed my eyes and breathed it in. It was beautiful and at the same time so very sad. Knowing that Grant was angry with me made me feel both raw and exposed. I felt…vulnerable and vulnerable was not a pretty color on me. I tended to make mistakes when I felt this way, and right now I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. As Grant started to sing the hairs on my neck and arms stood on end.

You laughed while I cried.

Promised to be by my side.

You breathed while I exhaled.

Proving that promises fail.

Nash joined in and their words poured over me, through me, reaching deep where my skeletons were buried, where my pain and shame held hands in a sick and twisted marriage.

I gave all that I am.

I’ll never be that man again.

Stop trying to bring him back.

He’s never coming back.

Never coming back.

Not coming back.

Everybody has darkness and, sometimes when you least expect it, someone or something shines a light on those festering places in the deepest recesses and for a moment you think that maybe you’re not alone. Their voices, one deep and raspy, the other pure and melodic, floated across the stage as they finished the song,

I’m no longer to blame.

We’ll never be the same.

I let you go…

Now live.

I knew the truth. I knew it because I lived with it every single day. I was alone and always would be. When the tears rolled down my face I welcomed them.

The lights came back on Grant’s eyes found mine. I turned my back on him and quickly wiped my face. When I turned back around he was conferring with the guys about the song. I glanced around to make sure no one had seen me crying and spotted Blane heading my way. Good, maybe he could finally answer my questions. Right as he reached me my phone buzzed in my pocket. I held up my finger telling him to wait as I checked to see who was calling. When I discovered it was the rehab facility calling me back I hastily excused myself and raced down the stairs where I could better hear.

“Hello?”

“Miss Scott?” a woman asked.

“This is she.”

“Hi, this is Nancy Aldor. I work at The Meadows and helped to counsel Grant Hardy while he was here. Yolanda said you had some questions for me?”

Ignoring her rude tone, I said, “Thank you for calling me back. Yes, I do have a few questions.” I waited for her to respond. When she didn’t I launched straight in, “Is there a specific reason your notes start on day three of Mr. Hardy’s rehabilitation instead of day one?”

“Ummm, not that I can think of,” she vaguely replied.

“So Mr. Hardy didn’t go through a period of withdrawal?”

“You know, now that you mention it, not really. Grant is such a doll, isn’t he? I was so sad to see him go.” Her words struck me as odd, odd and unprofessional.

“On the bottom of the toxicology report someone wrote that Mr. Hardy was asymptomatic. Could you please explain what this means?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I was getting irritated. “These are your notes, correct?”

“Yes, but Dr. Whitfield could have written that.”

Deciding to let it go for the moment, I asked, “In your notes you wrote that Mr. Hardy made several references to an Oxycodone allergy. Did you check his medical records to see whether there was any truth to this?”

“I’m sure we did.” I was now convinced I was dealing with an unprofessional nitwit.

“But you don’t know for a fact?” I challenged.

She let out a huff of breath and snapped, “I said we did, didn’t I?” I made a mental note to investigate the facility the first chance I got.

“Oh, great, so you wouldn’t mind sending me a copy of his medicals records, then? They were accidentally left out of the file you sent over. I would also appreciate more precise documentation on the first forty-eight hours of Mr. Hardy’s rehabilitation. If there were no signs of withdrawal then this should have been properly documented.”

“Who did you say you were?” Her angry tone now held a touch of unease.

“My name is Mallory Scott. I work with Dr. CiCilia Woods at Woodway House in Dallas, Texas. I am Mr. Hardy’s current counselor.” I made sure to sound as official as possible. “As you know by law all phases of rehabilitation must be properly documented. Being that I received incomplete information from your facility, I would appreciate you taking the time to fill in the gaps for me.”

“Uh, okay, let me talk to Dr. Whitfield. I’ll have to call you back.” I could tell by her tone she was hedging. I also knew I wouldn’t be hearing from her again.

Up to this point I’d had my suspicions, but after the phone call with nutty Nancy I had zero doubt. Grant Hardy was no more an addict than I was a rock star.

No Sugar Tonight

Grant

M
allory welching on
our bet was irritating but I wasn’t that worried about it. She’d eventually pay up. Until then I looked forward to making her squirm. I glanced around the bus and my eyes landed on Nash. We’d been tiptoeing around each other ever since I’d returned from rehab last week. At first I was okay with it. Actually, no I wasn’t. What happened to me was utter and complete bullshit. Anger and bitterness were monkeys on my back that I couldn’t seem to shake. I wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d carved out a pretty damn good life for myself and the thought that someone wanted to destroy that was so wrong it wasn’t even funny. So what if I smoked weed every now and again? Who fucking cares if I drink a fifth of bourbon after I pour everything I have onto the stage night after night? I’d paid my dues. I’d spent years playing every backwoods dive bar in Texas. I’d slept on friends sofas and ate tasteless Ramen for weeks on end just to make ends meet. I was about as far away from an addict as it gets. Hell, Nash, Luke and I all three watched Dale slip down that rabbit’s hole. We busted our asses trying to save him over and over again. I’d experienced the devastation up close and personal. After that fiasco there’s no way in hell I would ever go back there. I swore the exact same words as Luke and Nash and I meant every last one. Nash should have fucking believed me.

“Nash!” I called out. Nash looked up from his plate of eggs and I could tell by his expression he knew what was coming. Chaz and Luke were busy playing Xbox, which meant we wouldn’t have an audience. Nash brushed by me as he headed down the stairs and out the bus door.

“Everything okay?” Charlie our bus driver asked over his paper.

“Yep,” I answered as I followed Nash out the door. The second my feet landed on the pavement I got a fist to the face.

“What the fuck?” I shouted.

“Why in the hell didn’t you make me listen?” Nash shouted. “Why did you let me believe that those pills were yours?”

Motherfucker that hurt.
I wiggled my jaw back and forth to make sure it wasn’t broken. When I was pretty sure it was okay, I answered. “You wouldn’t listen. None of you would. I told you the pills weren’t mine. I pleaded with you to listen to me. Hell, I even told you to look into my medical records.”