Beat of Their Own Drum, page 1
Beat of Their Own Drum
Replay, 3
K.M. Neuhold
Copyright
Flash Me 2018 by K.M.Neuhold
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Blurb
Bennett’s firm hand is everything I need…except maybe Archer’s gentle touch.
I’m in a downward spiral…see what I did there? When the band manager, Archer, hires Bennett to keep me from screwing up while the band is on hiatus, I may have finally met someone who won’t take my attitude lying down. With the three of us cooped up together for weeks on end, I have a feeling things might get interesting.ArcherDownward Spiral is my baby. But it’s obvious I haven’t done a great job because they’re falling apart. There’s only one man I can think of who might be able to get Jude back on the right track, Bennett. Unfortunately, he’s also the man I let get away sixteen years ago and haven’t gotten over since. BennettControl is kind of my thing. Which is probably why I’m the best in the business when it comes to getting out of control celebrities back on track. When my ex calls and tells me he’s desperate for my help, I can’t turn him down. Between the infuriatingly sexy drummer with no idea what kind of trouble he’s asking for, and my ex looking better than ever, there’s no way this isn’t about to get messy.
* This is an MMM romance with mild D/s play and mild daddy kink (NO age play)
Contents
1. Track 1: Side A
2. Track 2: Side B
3. Track 3: Side A
4. Track 4: Side A
5. Track 5: Side B
6. Track 6: Side A
7. Track 7: Side B
8. Track 8: Side A
9. Track 9: Side B
10. Track 10: Side A
11. Track 11: Side B
12. Track 12: Side A
13. Track 13: Side A
14. Track 14: Side B
15. Track 15: Side A
16. Track 16: Side A
17. Track 17: Side A
18. Track 18: Side A
19. Track 19: Side B
20. Track 20: Side A
21. Track 21: Side A
22. Track 22: Side A
23. Track 23: Side A
24. Track 24: Side B
25. Track 25: Side A
26. Track 26: Side A
27. Track 27: Side A
28. Track 28: Side A
29. Track 29: Side A
30. Track 30: Side A
31. Track 31: Side A
32. Track 32: Side A
33. Track 33: Side A
34. Track 34: Side A
35. Track 35: Side A
36. Track 36: Side A
37. Track 37: Side A
38. Track 38: Side A
39. Track 39: Side A
40. Track 40: Side A
Message For My Readers
Also By
About the Author
Stalk Me
Track 1: Side A
Numb
Jude
My body is numb as I slide out from between the silky sheets of my king-sized bed. I can see the sweat beading on my skin, bruises blooming in the shape of fingerprints along my thighs, the used condom clinging to my dick, but I feel detached from it all. It’s almost as if I’m looking at someone else’s body rather than my own.
I pinch my thigh to check for any sensation and feel nothing. Huh.
“You want to go another round, stud?” A disembodied voice offers behind me. I turn around, and for a second I’m surprised to see a man in my bed, laying on his side, grinning at me lasciviously. Then I blink, and my reality comes into focus— I’m Jude fucking Katz, drummer for the biggest god damned rock band on the planet, and there’s a hooker in my bed waiting for his money…or more accurately, trying to earn more money.
“Nah,” I grunt, reaching into my bedside table and taking out a wad of hundreds. I peel a few off the top and toss them onto the bed. “I’m going to take a shower, don’t steal anything on your way out, my manager fucking hates it when I get robbed.”
“Excuse you,” he huffs. “I’m not a prostitute.”
I shrug, not able to summon even the slightest bit of interest in his protest. “Take the money, don’t take the money, I really couldn’t give a shit either way.”
If the man has anything else to say, I don’t hear it as I close the bathroom door behind me and turn on the shower. Tugging the condom off my dick and tossing it into the nearest trash can, I use my free hand to lock the bathroom door so the trick won’t get any ideas about hopping into the shower with me. I never understand why guys do that; we had our fun now take a hike. It’s not a difficult concept to grasp, especially once I’ve paid them for their time and told them to fuck off, typically in so many words.
While I wait for the water to warm up, I open the top drawer of the sink and reach for the little vial that contains my coke…or apparently contained my coke because it’s fucking empty now.
“Damn,” I mutter to myself before tossing the empty vial on the floor carelessly.
I glance at myself in the mirror and notice a smear of blood from my nose to my upper lip. I stick my hand into the shower to test the temperature and then use the water on my fingers to wipe away the drying blood.
When I finally step under the hot spray of the shower, I sag against the wall and close my eyes, concentrating so I can feel the scorching hot droplets of water as they hit me. I hate this feeling, the come down after the high. I should’ve planned ahead and had more coke on hand.
I open my eyes and cup my hands to catch some water and then splash it on my face before reaching for my loofa and scrubbing my skin until it’s red and raw.
I’m not sure how long I stay in the shower once I’m clean, but eventually I start to shiver, and after a few minutes, I realize it’s most likely because the water has run cold.
When I step out of the bathroom, trailing water on my fancy ass wood floors, I’m relieved to see that What’s-His-Name is gone and doesn’t appear to have taken anything. At least, nothing I’ll notice or miss.
The bills I tossed on the bed are gone, and I snort in amusement. Not a hooker, my ass.
I pull open my dresser drawer to double check the coke stash I keep in there and find that empty as well.
“Fucking hell,” I sigh, scratching absently at my arm where my skin is crawling.
After checking a few more stash spots and finding them empty, I settle for pouring myself a glass of whiskey and settling myself into my large chair that faces the window, welcoming the lights of the city to illuminate my living room and cast oddly shaped shadows.
My phone chimes, and a glance at it tells me this is the tenth missed call in the last hour. It can only mean one thing—Linc is at it again.
A heavy feeling settles in my chest. Before we signed the contract with Epic records a lifetime ago, Lincoln was my best friend in the world. That was before he went off the deep end…or maybe I did. More likely we’re both in over our heads, splashing around haphazardly and hoping someone will toss a life preserver in before we drown. Knowing the pair of us, we’d manage to fuck up a rescue attempt anyway.
The voicemail tone sounds from my phone, and I lift it to my ears, unsurprised to hear the band manager, Archer, on the other end, sounding drained.
“Jude, give me a call back. I really can’t handle you and Lincoln melting down at the same time. So, for the love of god, don’t get in any trouble tonight. I’m with Lincoln in the hospital; call me back if you care about the details.”
I erase the message and lift my glass of whiskey to my lips, draining it in one gulp and then throwing it against the nearest wall, satisfied by the sound of exploding glass as it rains down onto the floor. The destruction is gratifying but not enough. I want to rage through my overpriced apartment and turn everything in sight to rubble. If I could manage the energy, I would.
With my body coming down from the coke, I’m starting to feel too heavy to move. So instead of raging, I tilt my head back and wait for the rising sun to paint the skyline pink and orange. I used to feel like each new morning was a new opportunity—the chance to do things better…right for a change. What an idealistic douche I was back then. A new day doesn’t mean shit except for another chance to let everyone down.
I light a cigarette and take a deep inhale, the smoke burning my lungs and throat. I don’t bother with an ashtray, hanging my hand over the arm of the chair and letting the ashes fall in a small pile on the floor as I stare out the window.
I absently run my fingers along my numb lips and let my eyes fall closed, and I picture Archer’s smiling face the night he first approached us about submitting a demo to the record label. He was young and full of optimism about the future, just like we were. When we told him our band name he chuckled and said he hoped naming our band Downward Spiral would be like telling someone to break a leg before a performance or naming a dog Lucky. Something so ironic could on
My chest aches, and I wish like hell I wasn’t out of coke. I want to snort another line to chase this feeling away. As it is, I can’t do anything but sit here and try to figure out where my life went so wrong. I guess my dad was right about me; I was never destined to be anything but a fuck up.
Archer
I shove my phone back into my pocket and sigh as I sag against the nearest wall. A gurney rolls by, and for a moment, I can clearly picture Lincoln with a sheet being pulled up over his pale, lifeless face. The image hits too close to home, stealing my breath as I close my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to banish it.
I’m not sure what made me go to Lincoln’s place tonight, a feeling, I guess. Maybe it was an instinct born from a decade of trying to keep him from killing himself.
My hands tremble as I lift them to my face and then drag them through my hair, tugging gently and exhaling a long, slow breath. Everything is falling apart, and I can’t help but blame myself. I’m the band manager; these guys are literally my entire job. And on my watch Lincoln has tried to kill himself twice, not to mention his casual self-harm I’ve never been able to get him to stop. But, tonight was the worst he’s done in eight years. If I hadn’t shown up…
I shake my head again and try not to think about the blue-ish hue of Lincoln’s skin when I stepped onto his balcony tonight to find him passed out in the below freezing weather with whiskey on his breath. I’m not sure if he was trying to kill himself, but he sure as hell wasn’t working very hard at keeping himself alive.
Something has to change or instead of going on tour, the guys will be going to Lincoln’s funeral. Hell, maybe Jude will go ahead and snort too much coke again, and we can kill two birds with one stone.
The thought of something happening to Jude has my blood running cold and my hand unconsciously reaching for my phone again. I dial Jude’s number and hold my breath as it rings. Pick up, pick up, pick up.
After two rings, it goes to voicemail, and I clench my teeth. He ignored my call. I leave him a message about Lincoln being in the hospital, and he ignores my fucking call. Part of me wants to reach through the phone and do something about that fucking attitude of his. He needs someone to teach him some goddamn manners, but Christ knows that person won’t be me. I’m too indulgent, too soft with the band. Honestly, too soft for their own good. Maybe that’s why things are falling apart. If I was more like my ex, Bennett, I’m sure Lincoln and Jude would be firmly in hand.
The petulant part of me wants to dial him again, keep calling until he answers, and I know for sure he’s okay. I suppose if he has the faculties to ignore my call, he must be fine, but I’m not sure the knot in my stomach will believe it until I hear his voice.
“Mr. Schulman?” The doctor’s voice pulls my attention away from my phone.
“Yes,” I reply, jamming my phone into my pocket and facing him.
“We pumped Lincoln’s stomach and have him on some warming blankets now to get his body temperature back to normal. Luckily, it looks like you found him quickly so we don’t expect there to be any lasting damage. He’s resting now and should be able to go home in twenty-four hours or so.”
“Thank you.” I breathe a sigh of relief at the news. “No frostbite in his fingers or anything?”
“No, it looks like he’ll live to play guitar another day,” the doctor assures me with a smirk.
Maybe it seems selfish that Lincoln’s ability to play the guitar is at the top of my list of concerns, but I am the band manager. Most days, it seems like I might be the only one left who gives a shit about Downward Spiral. That’s not fair. Benji cares, and I think Lando cares as much as he can. This just isn’t what I pictured ten years ago when I took them on. I was twenty-eight, young and naive, and so sure I could accomplish anything with enough determination. I guess they showed me.
“Thank you again, doctor. When can I go in and see him?”
“I’d rather let him rest through the night. Go home and get some shut eye yourself, and come back in the morning,” he suggests.
“That’ll be fine, thank you.” I reach out and take his hand in a firm handshake before heading back down the hallway toward the elevator and out of the hospital.
My apartment is too quiet and dark when I step inside. It’s rare these days that I lament my single life, often reasoning that I’m far too busy to keep a partner happy anyway, but tonight it would’ve been really nice to have someone waiting for me to get home.
The weight on my shoulders feels heavier than usual as I slip out of my jeans and then my shirt, leaving me in only my briefs before I crawl between my cool bed sheets. For one crazy moment, I consider calling Bennett, and wouldn’t that just be pathetic. Bennett, the only man I’ve ever loved. If only things had worked out differently, if only…
Those thoughts are useless. Things worked out the way they worked out, and there’s no going back and changing them.
I shiver under my blankets, unable to get warm or quiet my thoughts. Memories and regrets blur together, tormenting me late into the night.
Track 2: Side B
The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives
Archer
The bar was small and dingy, but it was exactly what my mood called for that night. I was growing tired of the loud, crowded bars in the city and starting to think at twenty-eight I was already getting too old to have any hope of finding a new man in the club scene.
It had been six years since Bennett and I broke up. Six years of desperately searching for someone to fill the hole he left in my life. Six years of focusing on my career and feeling like I wasn’t getting anywhere. Six years…
“What can I get for you?” the pretty, young waitress asked. She gave me a flirty smile, and if I swung that way, I might have just been feeling down enough about being single to take her up on the unspoken offer.
“Scotch, neat,” I ordered, giving her a smile that I hoped was polite rather than encouraging.
“Coming right up.” Before she could walk away, I noticed a flurry of activity near the front of the bar. “I’m sorry, what’s going on tonight? Is there a band playing?”
“Oh yeah,” she answered with a new spark in her eyes. “Some local guys have a band, and they play here a few times a month. They’re amazing.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows went up, and I glanced back at the makeshift stage with interest.
I’d managed to land an internship with Epic Records fresh out of college, and over the past six years, I had worked my way up from unpaid intern, to poorly paid assistant studio engineer. I was on quite the rocket ship of success. I knew the only way I was ever going to work my way higher would be to discover a band to sign. I’d always dreamed of managing a band, maybe one day having my own record company. But I understood the need to start somewhere, pay my dues.
I didn’t know what it was, but something about the energy in the bar that night as all the regulars waited to hear this band play, I knew something big was about to happen in my life.
The waitress brought back my scotch, and the bar seemed to grow more crowded over the next several minutes, until finally, a male employee got up on stage, and everyone in the bar started to clap and cheer.
“It sounds like our boys don’t even need an introduction,” he laughed. “But for those of you who don’t know what all the fuss is about, prepare to have your world rocked. Please give a warm welcome to Downward Spiral.”
I found myself clapping and whistling along with everyone else as four young men took the stage. They were clearly too young to even be in a bar, but no one seemed to mind.
The front man, who I would later learn was Lincoln Miller, approached the microphone with a presence that had the entire bar holding its collective breath. The easy smile on his lips was betrayed by the slightly haunted look in his eyes. Later, I would look back and curse myself for not taking that warning sign for what it was. But that night, it captivated me, made me want to know more about Lincoln Miller and the men—boys really—who stood beside him, owning that stage like they were born to be there.
