Chapter 20: Bad Girls Trash Hotel Rooms, Too

WARNING:::Mac describes the assault she endured in this chapter. It's brief and not very graphic, but for anyone with violence triggers, please proceed with caution...you can private message me if you have any concerns about this chapter...

Okay, there's another brief performance described in this chapter...another cover...I imagine Leed and Mac sound alot lot Gavin and Gwen. Now that I think about it, Leed probably sounds ALOT like Gavin...Sigh. Anybody else miss the good ole days of Gavin and Gwen? Gwen is alot like Mac, I guess...she traded a lion for a country boy...

Mac

Adam sleeps so peacefully. I could watch him forever, even though in the last few nights, I've completely memorized him—the way his jaw eases in sleep and his sexy, strong lips part so slightly, and all care drains away from around his eyes. He looks so much younger in his sleep—like the boy he was five years ago, not the man he is now.

Although, I can't remember seeing him sleep in my dorm room.

Back then, I fell asleep first, and slept like the dead.

I've learned to cope with lack of sleep, in the last year.

I've learned to cope with so many things.

So many things I need to tell Adam. So many things we need to talk about.

I know that.

Just because I'm an avoider doesn't mean that I'm foolish, or ignorant. I know what a serious situation I am in. I know that more than he does.

I nearly lost it in the middle of the show last night. If Adam hadn't cut short those two songs, and sent us to Seven Minutes, and forced me out of the frenetic jambs and into singer mode, I might have...really lost it.

That makes me worry..that this is going to go from feeling right, to me being the girl his mother thinks I am—a girl he will waste his love on. It's selfish of me to put him through this.

But I can't think about that today. Today is so fucking busy, and there's no time for personal bullshit.

Today we run the band shit. We deal with whatever the situation is with the sub guitarist Thomas, and we show up at the show and no matter what, I know Adam will get us through, and somewhere in the music we will feel each other and I won't be worried, and after—when it's just the two of us, then I will tell him.

I have to. Tomorrow is the last day I could take my emergency contraception. We haven't even been using condoms at all since the condom broke, so we both kind of know...either I take it in the morning, or we are pretty much casting our fate into the wind.

I have things I have to tell him,  before we embrace the  maybe-baby.

He deserves to know what he's in for.

My phone is already in my hand at 7am, shutting off the alarm I set. I know Adam could sleep for hours more—and so should I. But I have to wake him. We had two days off before the New Orleans show, and now we pay for the pleasure with three shows in three days.

Adam is lying on his back like a dead man, and I'm on my side, propped up on my elbow. I stroke his cheek, then dance over those fascinating dips that are new in his shoulder—from throwing all those punches in the ring, I suppose. My feather touches don't wake him. I snuggle up against him and gnaw lightly on his shoulder, as I play staccato sixteenth notes down his forehead, nose, chin and throat.

He lets out an explosive, waking breath and smacks my hand away.

"Fuck!" His eyes look hostile for just the briefest millisecond, then completely soften as my laughter anchors him.

He takes another huge morning inhale and rolls toward me, pushing me onto my back as he buries his face into my neck. "Good Morning."

"So far," I agree.

His face is still buried in my neck, but his hand is roaming my from my hip to my knee and back up my inner thigh. . "Why do you always smell like a beach? Not a regular beach. One of those South Pacific ones."

"Must be the coconut water I drink," I giggle.

"Mmmmmm...we never get to go those places."

"Where they have coconuts?" I clarify.

"Right. We've been working for five solid years. As soon as this tour is over, we are going to Fiji and do nothing but fuck and dream and sing a little harmony in a hammock in one of those little stilt huts over the ocean. OK?"

"Can you actually fuck in a hammock?" I laugh.

"I'm damn sure going to try," he assures me, and I believe him.

"Sounds fucking good, Adam."

"Plan on it. Straight from the tour. Nine months from now."

Nine months.

The ease evaporates off both of us at the same time, and we are left still seeking each other, but stiff under each other's touch.

Adam sighs. "Mac. I know you know, but tomorrow is the last—"

"I know."

"We need to talk ab—"

"I know. Tonight."

He lifts his head, meets my gaze with those sapphire eyes. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"Okay." He squints at me. "You went to bed in panties and my Johnny Cash t-shirt. I can't help but notice that now you are naked. Is that a hint?"

"Well..."I scrape down his perfectly firm but real-man abs. "I'm always down for morning sex...unless you are sexed out?" We have had sex five times in the last thirty-six hours.

He laughs and pushes my hand down to his hard-on as proof of the ridiculousness of my question. He picks up my phone, and slaps it down automatically. "We have no time, Shortcake. We're supposed to be getting in the cars in twenty and we aren't even packed...gonna have to be a quickie...turn over. On your knees," he commands me, and I eagerly obey. In seconds,  he makes his way inside me and his fingers reach around to my sweet spot, expertly lighting me up.

Five minutes later our joint mission is accomplished, and we're both climbing out the right side of the bed.

Then we are running around like mad, jumping into clothes and throwing shit into bags. We're down the hallway, when I do an about face and swing back towards the room.

"What did you forget?" he calls after me.

"Your Johnny Cash t-shirt! In think he's in the bedsheets!"

"Jesus, woman! RUN!" he teases me.

I come out of the room wearing it. I don't care that it's a little wrinkled. It smells like Adam.

The day is off to a much better start than yesterday. I don't feel nearly as stressed, or like I want to cry all day. That's good. Maybe is was just...an off day.

Sometimes you have one of those epiphany moments, you know? I have one of those, when the plane takes off.

All of the experiences I have had with men have been...extreme, either sexually or romantically. I've had so much crazy sex with so many crazy guys. I've been out with every kind of celebrity there is to every kind of celebrity event there is. And the first couple of years we were in LA, when Adam and I were on our fuckbuddy breaks, we tried to outcompete each other with our extreme dating choices.I casually dated three very famous, hot, talented and completely impulsive, frenetic celebrities. One of them bought me a car and a fifty thousand dollar tennis bracelet after I fucked him on our first date. (I gave back the car, kept the jewelry.) One of them wrote a top 40 hit about me after a crazy drunken weekend in Ibiza and I turn it off every time it comes on the radio. The third guy bought  a house  and took me there to ask me to move in after we had only been dating two months. I haven't seen him since I laughed in his face and walked out the door.

None of the sex, none of the Hollywood glamor, none of the guys, none of the grand gestures, ever came close to this—me and Adam. We live hip deep in the Soundcrush shit, making music and making love and waking up together in the same suite, and rushing onto planes  and being exhausted and exhilarated by turns, and having the best and worst performances of our career back to back.

This life we have, I love it.

I feel...like the whole world is at our feet.

Adam presses my pointer finger to the plane window to call my attention to the city growing smaller beneath us. He says, "Never been so high as I was down there. I'll never forget loving you in New Orleans. Ever."

"Stop saying these wonderful things," I whisper to him. "You're giving me an identity crisis. I don't even feel like I want to give you a hard time anymore."

"I'm giving you the hard times from now on," his laugh is barky and his kiss is rougher than that, and I melt into the seat.

What the fuck is wrong with me, that I'm so deliriously happy to be claimed by this man?

We head straight to the venue in Tallahassee. The replacement guitarist—Thomas—is already there, as well as the crew...because they left last night and travel by bus and trailer to haul the equipment. From the first song we practice, it's obvious. Thomas is a talented guitarist that can improvise on the fly. We run the whole set just to make sure the sound is tight.

The show is about ten times better than last night, which I'm relieved about—but Thomas is still no replacement for Trace.

The show lacks the energy that Trace brings. I'm okay with that, in a weird way, because it just shows how important each of us to this band. It could never be the same, if one of us left.

The little interchange between Leed and Adam when he riffs are the best parts of the night. The way they are talking to each other and throwing glances my way makes me wonder what the hell they are laughing about. I find out near the end of the show—they stage the entire impromptu... "Hey let's make Mac do a song she hasn't practiced" thing again.

We don't do the same song from last night again. This time, they let me choose. They are expecting me to choose a piano version of an old alt song. I see roadies already prepping acoustics for them.

So I flip the shit on them.

I skip off my keys and consult with Thomas, the replacement guitarist. I ask him what classic alternative he knows, and he tells me he just layed down tracks for a cover of Bush's "Glycerine."

Perfect. I don't want Trace complaining about us doing too much soft sappy piano based shit anyway, and Glycerine is classic alternative. We used to cover that too. Best yet, it sounds just as good without any keys, so I opt for a mic stand instead of my synthesizers.

I front like a rock star for a change. Leed and I combo, of course, and it's so fucking fun to head bang with him and dance between him and Adam.

The best part—I get to give Adam shit on stage. He and Bodie are taking five, letting Thomas shine while Leed and I sing only accompanied by the guitar. Well...since Adam is just standing there grinning at me, with his arms draped over his bass...

I drop down suggestively in front of him on my knees while I take the second verse. I sing the lines, "Couldn't love you more/You've got a beautiful taste," as I simulate a little oral action with my microphone.

The crowd loves it; Adam shakes his head at me with a rueful grin, but this is performance, so he can't tell me to knock it off. He knows he has to finish what I started, so he plays with my hair,  rolling my head around a little, then pulling my face up so he can see me sing to him as I wrap free hand around the back of his thigh. When I slide it beneath his bass to cop a feel—he pulls me abruptly to my feet, shaking his head and shooting me an annoyed look. I just pat his cheek and whirl away to Leed. After the next chorus, Bodie and Adam kick it up and Leed and I belt out the end of the song face to face, fighting to outperform each other and both of us winning.

At the end of the song, Leed yells out, "Give it up for my amazing, talented sister, MacKenna Lawson!" As the crowd screams for me, Leed turns to Adam and winks as he deadpans into his mic, "Who is apparently also talented in ways I don't wanna know about."

Adam swaggers over—fucking swaggers, if Trace were here he'd be hard-pressed to top it—swings his bass around to the back,crushes me to him, pulls out my in-ear monitor, and rocks me in a hug as he yells in my ear, "You think you're cute, don't you?"

I yell back, "Oh I know I'm cute, Preacher!"

He slides his hand beneath mine, and curls my fingers over his as he takes a step backward from me, turning me toward the crowd, waving for me to take a bow. When I straighten, he presses his lips to my hand.

The moment he kisses my hand seems to last forever, while thirty thousand people ship us and scream Madam. Maybe it's bad to admit, but it's one of my proudest moments on stage.

Then I'm back on the keys for the encore. Leed kills on Little Sister. He sounds sad--really sad—when he sings it. I wonder if he's missing Tamara. Or maybe he's thinking of me—his actual little sister. Maybe Adam and I bother him more than he's letting on.

The green room after the show is the usual schmooze with Dawes, but I have a hard time not eye-fucking Adam, who is across the room in conversation with Thomas and some A&R guys I don't know.

Dawes is making his usual play—shopping me for features. I've already told Dawes, I'm not doing a feature on another artist's song unless I collaborate on the writing. I don't want to be loaned out just because my face looks good in a video. He keeps saying he hears me, but so far all he keeps bringing me are  hooks for rap songs that are already written and demo'ed just as well or better than I could sing. I would much rather write  duets to perform with Leed, if the guys felt good about the song style. Seven Minutes is the only duet I've written for us that Trace even halfway likes. He thinks my solo writing is a little too...conventional. I think a good song is a good song, and sometimes Trace can be a little bit of a genre snob.

Then again, he has good reason to be. He's crafted our sound so deliberately we define the genre.

I haven't told the guys about Dawes, but I know what he's doing...trying to push me out of the nest to see if I can fly solo. I wouldn't mind a good collaboration with another artist, but more than a feature here and there is not in my plans. Soundcrush is my family; I can't ever imagine breaking up the band.

Leed is giving me the circle in the air that means he's going to hotel it with a honey soon if we want to share a ride. Adam and I speak in silent, smiling communication across the room from each other.

Dawes breaks my line of sight with Adam by shoving a guy in front of me.

I know generally who he is—a British alt/rapper. I'm sure Dawes said his name, but I don't hear. I couldn't tell you what the guy looks like, except that his skin is pale and he has dyed black hair with blue tips that stand out at crazy angles. The only feature of his face I can focus on is the unusual pattern of lip piercings—two rings on each side of his lower lip that crossed each other, so that it looks like his lip is pierced with two "X's"

I've only ever seen that pattern of piercing one time. I can't stop staring at his lips. I drop the plastic cup of grapefruit juice between us and it splashes all over me and the guy. He jumps back and Dawes is saying something, but I'm struck dumb, just staring at the piercings.

"Shit, you never party foul...you ok?" Adam has crossed the room to me and his mild voice is at my ear. "Hey. Mac?"

I snap out of my trance. "Oh, I dropped my drink. Sorry,—" I can't remember the British guy's name, so I just smile at him. "Goddamn. Your shoes. Tamara," I call across the room. "See his shoes? I owe him a pair..." She squints, takes a snap with her phone.

British guy is pursing his lips and those piercings are bunching as he hocks a throaty, dismissive sound. "S'alright, love. What's a little fluid between friends? So...give us a call. About that collab," he worries the left piercing with his teeth as he gives me the chin tip. I return the chin tip, but I'm still staring at the piercings as he backs away slowly, looking me up and down. He winks; I frown. He turns away swiftly and his entourage envelops him.

Adam touches my back lightly. "You okay?"

I nod.

"Who was that?" he asks, sizing up the back of the guy.

I shrug, so Dawes answers. "DevBlu—he's having some success in the UK. He's got a Beatles/Oasis sound to his voice and a G-Easy vibe to his rap. He'll blow up huge stateside next year. Wants to write with our girl."

Adam bristles at the way Dawes calls me "our girl."

"I'm ready to go," I murmur into Adam's ear. "I'm going to the car." I move away, but he pinches my shoulder, close to my neck, casually holding me in place.

"If you'll hang just a second--I need to wrap something up—I'll walk out with you."

"Let go!" I snap, jerking away roughly, slapping his hand away with a wide sweep of my arm. "Goddammit, I said I'll wait in the car for you!"

Adam's bewildered look makes me instantly regret my outburst. I hate the way he touched me just then, but I know I overreacted. "I...I'm...going," I repeat lamely.

He gives me the raised calm-the-fuck-down-hands, which always pisses me off more, and a furrowed brow, but nods agreement. "John," he calls to my security guy, and nods towards the door. I turn on my heels and stalk out, trailing Lead and his balyaged, sundressed hippie-chic fangirl down the emptying back hall.

By the time Adam gets to the car, I've worked out the tension that came from nowhere.

He slides in, looking at me warily.

"Sorry," I say, patting his leg. "I'm just tired. I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

He takes my hand, and I fight the urge to pull away. "Long fucking day. Did you eat anything after the show?"

"I do not get hangry," I murmur.

He laughs. "Okay, if you say so."

We both ignore Leed and his fangirl making out in the back seat. Adam watches me for a minute, then turns on the tv and flips through the guide, choosing a random documentary. I watch it numbly, swallowing over and over.

My throat hurts—it feels dry and irritated. I've been singing more the last couple of nights, and all the stage smoke doesn't help. I reach for a water.

I keep trying to clear my throat with coughs and sips of water but it feels irritated, like when you swallow something that scrapes going down.

"You okay?" Adam asks me rubbing my back. "You think you strained your voice?"

"Yeah. I guess I should have warmed up with Leed." I slide over to the bar console and pour the smallest splash of vodka. Adam watches me as I drink it. I was hoping the alcohol would numb the irritated sensation, but I'm still coughing.

"Leed, Mac needs some of your herbal throat shit when we get back," Adam calls down the limo. Leed breaks away from the fangirl, looks at me quizzically.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," I assure him.

"Mac."

I exchange a long glance with him.

Not now, Leed. I'm fine.

"It's just from singing."

After a long moment, he nods.

"I'll bring you some tea."

I'm stripping the minute we get in the door of our suite—the fucking stage clothes feel like goddamn medieval armor sometimes—and I head straight to the shower, hoping the steam will help.

It doesn't, and I hate the shower in this suite. It's too small. What the fuck is up with that?

I get out, pulling a robe from the hook and as I continue to clear my throat. God, why is this bathroom so small? And hot.

The bedroom is no better. I pace around it, looking for thermostat. "Mac, are you ok?" Adam is asking me, but I'm too busy trying to lower the thermostat. I go to the vent and stand below it but's not helping fasting enough.

"Mac, talk to me..."

I brush past Adam and stalk to the bar looking for the champagne bucket filled with ice, planning to dump it over my head. Shit. We are in Adam's suite, not mine. No champagne rider.

"Goddammit, Adam, you are so fucking humble you can't ask for ice?" I throw the ice bucket across the room and it crashes into an unframed piece of original art on the wall, leaving the canvas puckered.

Adam stares at it, bewildered. "What the fuck was that for?"

His voice is calm, mine is not. I know what's happening now, I'm losing it. "Get out of here, Adam!" I follow up the ice bucket with a full bottle of whiskey, and a crystal glass. And some other stuff. Not at him--just in his general direction.

Adam is advancing on me, his eyes full of confusion and alarm, but I'm still backing away. "Jesus, Mac, what is wrong?"

"No!" I yell at him, putting my arms out, "Get the fuck away from me!"

My back hits the wall. His hands grip my shoulders.

"Stop!" I yell in a hoarse voice. "Get off!"

I can't breathe because the fucker is choking me. He's got me by the throat and he won't let go and I've never felt anything scarier in my whole life than screaming without making a sound.

I'm thrashing and gasping, trying to get a single thin breath of air, but I can't. I can't breathe and I can't scream, and now, I can't even move.

All the noise and all the light in this green room is fading away, because I'm fading away, but in the distance I hear pounding like a bass drum. Are we playing? Is that Bodie? Am I supposed to be on stage instead of dying in this green room? Or is that my heart?

The fucker releases me. I slide down the wall and my ass hits the floor. I still can't breath. I can't see. But I can still feel his hand, gripping my throat like a vise.

"MacKenna!" My father's voice breaks into the darkness. Shit, he's angry. Of course he is, I'm always trying to make him angry.

"MacKenna, open your goddamn eyes!" When my father roars like that, I can't help but obey. I open my eyes.

It's not my father's voice. It's Leed. Oh, Leed, my beautiful brother.

I grab onto him. To my surprise, I can choke one word, even though I can't breathe. "Can't." I grasp my throat, my hand shaking.

"Yes, you can. You're safe, you're not hurt. You can breathe." Leed says calmly, pulling my hand from my throat and putting it on my stomach. "Breathe. Don't think about your throat. Fill your nose, and fill your belly with air. You know you can. You're safe, I'm here, and you can breathe. Slow. In through the nose. Breathe, baby girl. One, two, three. Hold it-that's good—now push it out-slow, slow, slow. Good. Again. Breathe..."

I do what he tells me. Over and over again. Soon, I know where I am. There's no green room, there was no fucker choking me. There's only a slightly trashed hotel room, and Leed, still calmly making me breathe, and...

Adam.

Adam on his knees behind Leed,  pale and grim. I can't meet his eyes. I look at his hands. All ten fingers crooked with tension, planted on the floor, as he leans forward, watching me struggle to breathe.

I keep breathing. I could speak now, but I don't. I pull my knees up, push myself up on my feet. I feel better on my feet. I pat Leed, and he gives me space, backing up and holding out a bottle of water to me at the same time. I drink, and walk around a little.

"What was it?" Leed asks.

"A guy...after the show...with lip piercings," my voice sounds perfectly normal. I'm surprised. In my mind right now, my throat injuries are fresh, and my voice hoarse.

"That British fuck??He did something to you!?!?!  I'll fucking kill him!!!" That's Adam. His voice doesn't sound normal—it barely sounds human.

I turn to look at him. I make myself cross to him, and put my hand on his arm. "He didn't do anything. It was just the piercings. The guy—last year, in the green room—he had the exact same kind of piercings. It was just...a trigger." Adam is searching my face, trying to understand.

I sigh, weary. I have so much to explain to him.

Leed decides to help me out. "You haven't had a flashback this bad in six months. It's the goddamn tour, isn't it? Too much stress...every day is different..."

"It's not the tour," I say, avoiding his eyes, and Adam's.

It's more like...being excited and scared to death about me and Adam. And the maybe-baby.It's all a little...overwhelming.

Leed looks at Adam now. "She needs to sleep. You can't keep her up all night, you know...and she needs to exercise...and her meds, of course..." Leed looks at me suspiciously, and without a word, he stalks into the bathroom, leaving me and Adam alone.

"Meds?" Adam says to me. "What meds?"

I take a few more deep breaths. "Adam, I—we, need to talk. About a lot of things..." I murmur.

"Flashbacks?" Adam is struggling to piece it all together. "From the...incident? You mean...it's like...you have some kind of..."

"PTSD," I say. "It's not that bad. Usually."

"When you take your meds." Leed yells from the vicinity of the bathroom. He strides out, shaking the bottle at me, spilling them on the kitchen counter, counting them.

"Leed, Jesus, you're such a goddamn asshole...you are not my fucking keeper."

"Apparently I fucking should be," he snarls, holding out a hand to shut me up while he pulls the pills across the counter, two at a time.  He checks the date on the refill. "Goddammit, Mac. You've missed almost two weeks worth of meds."

He's right. We've been on tour almost a month now, and every day has been a different schedule. I'm off routine. And then, this last week, Adam and I have been together every night, every morning. Either I wasn't in my own suite where my meds were, or I didn't want Adam to see me take them. And then what my shrink said, about adjusting my meds if I'm pregnant—I guess maybe that made me not want to take them...

Leed is rounding on Adam. "You didn't think maybe she should be taking her fucking meds? You couldn't be bothered to make sure she did? You're not fucking new, man. You know how she hates to swallow pills...she avoids it at all costs." It's true. It's like I have some kind of mental block. It's just hard to choke them down...even harder after the choking incident.

"I didn't know," Adam says quietly. "I had no idea," The look Adam sends me is full of sadness and worry.

"Leed, he didn't," I confirm quietly. "And anyway, it's not on him. It's on me. I...I screwed up," I confess. "I'm a grown-ass woman. This isn't your job." I shoot Adam the briefest glance, but I can barely look at him "It's not Adam's either."

Leed softens then, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. "No, but families help each other. I'm your brother, and he's...well, I don't know what he is now, because he was family before. If you're really doing this with him...I guess, he's..." Leed looks at Adam, his anger fading into resignation, "he's the guy that needs to know you can't forget your meds, MacKenna."

"Yeah," I agree. "Leed, can you...I mean...I need to talk to Adam..."

All three of us exchange silent looks, as the balance of all things changes between us. Adam wets his lips, but finds no words. Leed snorts in disgust. I feel like crying.

I pick up the small box I just noticed on the floor. I walk over to Leed. "Thanks for the tea," I smile up at him. He reaches out his arms, waiting to see if I can bear to be touched yet. I walk into them easily. "I'm sorry. Really."

"For not taking your meds, or for loving that fucker more than me?" he mumbles into my hair.

"For not taking my meds," I mumble.

Leed kisses the top of my head and points a finger at Adam. "You heard her. She loves me more."

That's not what I meant, but since he's trying hard to lighten the moment,  I let Leed have that one. Adam tries to force a grin, but this whole scene has him too ripped up to smile easily.

Leed releases me and claps Adam on the back, as if I'm not even standing there...he says casually, "She'll be alright, man. Don't stress her out tonight—she's had all she can take. Can't believe I'm saying this...but maybe take her to bed and love her up, ya know? Don't make it weird for her right now, with a bunch of questions..."

Leed strides to the door, "Call your doctor in the morning, MacKenna! And take your fucking meds!"

Then the Lion is out, leaving me to stare at my lover, whose looking at me with wariness and even worse—I think I see pity there, making me feel exactly like the girl I don't want to be—the girl his mother thinks I am—the girl that selfishly has to worry about herself first in order to survive, that can't put him first like he deserves, much less the baby we maybe made.

The way he's looking at me—I feel like the girl he will waste his love on.

Hmmmm....did you see this coming? Mac's quickly shifting moods, the way she is easily irritated, her references to her psychiatrist and her meds....her PTSD is a result of the violence she endured in the backstory. How do you think Adam is going to react? What about her possible pregnancy? How  is this affecting / how will this impact Mac's health? Wow, the plot thickens...