Chapter 38
Three days ago …
“What are you saying?” Colt was confused.
He waited while Tony fidgeted, sensing that something big was going down, and it wasn’t good. The others were not meeting his eye.
“We quit the band,” Tony said.
He always knew this day was coming, and he couldn’t blame them. In that instance, there were a few emotions pricking at him; anger, grief, relief, and pain. He grounded his teeth together, thinking about his options. If the band broke up, he would be free to do whatever he liked.
“Okay,” he replied after a few minutes.
Andrew didn’t look completely with it. Colt observed that he was staring at a spot behind Colt’s head and not actively participating in the conversation. He didn’t say anything, but Colt sensed his reservation.
“You’re all in agreement with this?” he asked, looking directly at Andrew.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want the band dismantled—he would certainly make it on his own. He had enough money to live on without selling another CD or singing at another concert. He could live a few lifetimes on his bank account only. He’d basically made more than five billion dollars in endorsement deals, the stocks he’d traded and the baseball team he’d secretly bought. Still, parting with the band felt strange.
The guys were not bad off either. Their share of the tours and royalty from the music was a nice cut. Nevertheless, they would need to make a name for themselves without him, and he wasn’t sure they could start fresh without his influence. They would forever be known as The Purple Crush, a name that was copyrighted to him, in the event the band broke.
“We’re all in agreement,” Mike replied. “We all talked about it and decided it was best.”
“Alright, I’ll have my lawyer look over the contract to make sure everything is good.”
“Okay, we’ll move out of the suite. We’re thinking of getting an apartment in LA,” Mike informed him.
He nodded and walked to his room. Andrew’s silence concerned him, but he pushed it aside as he closed his door. There was a lot of shuffling coming through the bedroom wall. He suspected that they were getting their things. After some time, the main door opened and then slammed. He was alone.
Two days ago …
Colt opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness around him. For a moment, he blinked, confused. Then he remembered he was alone in the world. Chelsea left. Reid walked, and now the band was dismantled. He should be feeling free. There was no manager to yell at him to tell him he was fucking up. He should be happy … right? That’s what he always wanted … to be left alone.
He flicked on the lamp and looked at the watch on the bedside table. It was near 6 a.m.
“What the hell?” he sat up. “This can’t be right.”
He swung his feet off the bed and walked to the door. There was a clock in the common area; it must have the actual time. 5:47 on the clock. Peering through the window confirmed that it was indeed morning. He knew the California dawn well.
For a few seconds, he expected to see Reid standing by the window making his calls or yelling at some incompetent person for making a mistake. Chelsea would be just about coming through the door. She would order breakfast and look at him with her shy sweet smile.
There was no one coming. He had no friends he cared to call. Colt hadn’t quite figured out his next move yet, and he didn’t care to. He walked to the kitchenette area and pulled open the small refrigerator. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but it wasn’t the juice and water he saw in there. With a little more effort than necessary, he slammed the door shut and yanked one of the tiny cupboards open. A half a bottle of Scotch and a couple of cans of beer stared at him. He picked the Scotch.
He went back to the living room and dropped himself onto the sofa, picking up the TV remote. Someone knocked at the door, and he was about to answer when the person said, “Room service.” He did not order anything, so he ignored it. After a few minutes, the person walked away.
One day ago
Two empty Scotch bottles, two empty beer cans decorated the coffee table. Colt pushed the front door and entered with another bottle of Scotch he’d picked up at the drugstore down the street. His eyes drooped, but he could walk fine. There was a dull ache in his chest that he needed the alcohol to numb. It seemed, no matter how much he drank, it had no effect. He’d fallen asleep after finishing the first bottle and the beers. He then asked the hotel to send up a bottle. After gulping half down, he’d passed out again. The other half he downed that morning, and the pain was still there.
As he reached his foot to kick the door shut, another foot wedged it. Annoyed, he yanked the door wide open and stared into a familiar face. The man grabbed the paper bag with the Scotch and shoved him into the room, slamming the door behind him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the man asked. “Get your shit together, Colt.”
“Why have you come back?” he asked, his voice thick.
“I didn’t want to leave. We can start a new band.”
Andrew opened the Scotch, walked to the tiny kitchen area and dumped the contents into the sink. Colt watched the golden liquid disappear down the drain.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, that was good Scotch!” he bellowed. “Now get the fuck out and go join your disloyal buddies, you fucking …” he stepped towards Andrew, stumbling on the way.
The anger he’d tried to suppress now flared into rage. He made a step toward the band member and staggered, cursing under his breath. He tried to right himself but fell against the wall. He tried to stand but found he was staggering.
“What the fuck?” He couldn’t stand straight, and the room began to spin; Andrew began to spin. “Keep still, you f …” His words were cut off as he tumbled to the floor.