Tatum

“I don’t know what’s going on, but if Grim said he’d call Roman to help him, then he will.” Caroline scoots her chair closer to mine. Her hand is waving in front of my face to get my attention.

I pushed my way through the crowd a few minutes ago. Took my phone out of my purse and went into the bathroom to call Grim to tell him I spotted a very drunk Miles sitting in a corner booth at the nightclub we decided to hit up tonight. I refuse to take my eyes off him and the two women who are all over him until someone comes in here to get him. I’m shattered for him. Maybe even traumatized.

When I returned, Erica was still dancing. Caroline could tell by the tears falling down my face that something was wrong. I explained with as much as I could without giving too much away, and now I’m completely submerged in my devastated thoughts.

He’s not supposed to be here. Truthfully, he’s not supposed to be in California. Dean told me a few days ago that they all sat down with him and gave him a choice. Either rehab, or the band breaks up. He agreed after bitching up a storm. Brock flew him to Colorado to a rehab facility in the mountains. That’s all I knew until Miles startled me by saddling up beside me at the bar.

And now I don’t have any words but the ones running a stampede through my head.

“Dean’s a lucky son of a bitch to have you. Don’t fuck him over, or he may end up like me. Let me buy you a drink?” he slurred, managing to stay upright by leaning his back against the bar and holding on to the edge with his hands.

“I’m not much of a drinker. Thank you, though. Besides, I think you’ve had enough,” I said, took my water from the bartender, turned around to try and get Erica or Caroline’s attention without Miles becoming suspicious. I wanted my phone to call Grim. I refused to leave his side.

“Ah, Dean went and found himself a good girl,” he spoke, sighing loudly with a shake of his head. Tragic-stricken eyes searching out every detail on my face.

Something shifted and whirled in his gaze. His drunken brain spinning. Letting me know he was contemplating on whether to trust me with a story his sober mind might not want me to hear.

“For four months, she always met me at my locker before school started. We sat next to each other in homeroom. That’s how I met her. She was a good girl. Long blonde hair down to her waist. The biggest blue eyes. She never missed a day, played on the tennis team, and got straight A’s. She was a model student. I was, too, until one night we lost control and had sex. She got pregnant that night, and three days before Christmas, she and my six-month-old son were killed in a car accident. Fucking side swiped by someone driving down the wrong side of the road.” He paused, hands slipping from the bar. In a jerk reaction, I steadied him before he slumped to the floor right where my heart was now lying.

Sweet Lord. This man was suffering. That’s what I saw, what I heard as I watched his past flash across his expression. One recognizable in a different form. Pain is pain. It hurts, it shreds, and it slowly trickles the muddy confines of your mind until you drown. Right there, Miles was nothing but crushed bones just biding time to turn into ash.

“Miles, I’m so sorry.” The ache in my chest leaked throughout my body.

The heavy air he drew into his lungs was agonizingly slow as he tilted his head back down with a slight nod. The wants and needs to shed tears clouded over by the booze.

“Miles, let’s sit down. Grim is outside; he can take you home.” Anger contorted his features. Bitterness slunk in with his slurry words. I couldn’t help but die a little when his blurry eyes tore a hole through my chest as he looked at me with the worst pain I’ve seen on anyone's face.

“Home? My home is fucking dead. I had a kid, a woman I wanted to marry. My home is six feet under. You want me to go home, then you along with everyone else need to kill me. So, unless you’re prepared to pull the trigger, don’t you talk to me about going home. You're just like everyone else. You want to fix me, help me. Tell me I need to sober up because I have a reason to live. My reasons are fucking dead. Fuck that nonsense. They were my life. My flesh and blood. There is no home after that. None.”

“Sweetie. Do you want to talk about it?” Caroline’s question snaps me out of my heartbreaking reverie. The only person I want to talk to about it is Dean, but I refuse to interrupt his night with Leila. He needs this time with her. The man has been fretting over it all week.

“No. It’s not up to me to talk about it. I won’t betray anyone’s trust.” I’m not an expert on alcoholics. I know they, like any addict, have unpredictable moments. But Miles is not the same guy when he’s sober. I haven’t had the opportunity to be around him much. Regardless of his bad decisions or impulsive choices, he’s suffering in a way I can’t begin to comprehend, and God only knows what I or anyone would do if we walked in his shoes.

My chest aches when I think about all the years Miles has lived with this.

My mind races and races. There has to be a way I can help. A path of hope I can guide Miles down. The man is trapped in a well of suffering, discomfort, and loss. It’s no wonder these men have a hard time leaving him alone. He wants to die.

I need a diversion. Something to keep my mind occupied until those guys get here. “Change your mind about dating yet?” Much like Erica, Caroline is still successful and driven. Has so much more love around her than she’s had before in her life.

Her light green eyes full of loneliness yell out to me. They resemble how mine used to look before Dean. A silent plea for help. Familiar to the way Miles’ were when he spoke. Desolate. Empty. Wanting and wishing someone would come along and replace those hollow things with the kind of love and happiness we all deserve.

“No. Please don’t carry on about Grim. It’s never going to happen. Besides the obvious, the man is too busy protecting you and Joslyn to have a relationship.”

“That’s not true. No one is too busy for anyone. Not when it feels right,” I hint, shake my head at her, and tuck my thick hair behind my ear.

“You’re ridiculous, Tatum.” She shifts in her chair, takes a long sip of her wine, and avoids my eyes.

“Look at her. She’s having a great time. You should go out there and dance.” I tip my head in the direction of the dance floor. Erica is swinging her hips, hands above her head and laughing with a couple of her roommates from college. The urge to tell my sister everything consumes me while I watch her having the time of her life.

“I’ll wait with you, Tatum. Oh, shit,” Caroline sputters. The commotion behind us is drawing attention to not only us but everyone around this section of the bar. I glance out to the dance floor to see Erica walking toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms before whipping my head back to the chaos breaking out between Grim, Roman, and Miles.

My feet are moving before I give my mind time to tell me to stay where I am.

“Get your motherfucking hands off me and take your band and shove it up your perfect life’s ass, Roman.”

Confusion and panic begin to race through my mind and body. People have the three of them surrounded. Cameras are going off. Videos are being recorded. I take a deep breath, my mind in downright disarray. If I don’t do something, Miles could possibly say something that could go viral and cause him to sink into a hole full of quicksand he will never be able to get out of.

Except I can’t budge. My inner voice keeps me rooted to the spot.

Roman moves into Miles’ space. His shoulders straight and determination set on his profile to calm Miles down. He spews off words I can’t hear over the uproar of the crowd. Before I know what’s happening, Grim grabs hold of Miles' arm. Drags him through the bar and out the door.

“What the hell?” Caroline whispers in my ear, her arms circling my waist.

“I have to help. Get Erica and meet me by the car.” I rip her hands away, feet pounding hard on the floor and my arms insistent on shoving through the crowd.

Unease settles in my gut when the security guard I met earlier solemnly shakes his head, the gate to the VIP parking still open. “Are they safe from the press back here?” The guard snorts and looks at me as if I’m crazy.

“That’s why it’s called VIP, lady.” Ignoring his smart-ass remark, I work my way around the gate and the cars. Miles’ barely coherent words echo in my ears. He is outraged.

“You don’t know what the hell you are going on about. Shut your fucking mouth now. Get in the car. Every time you try to escape, I’ll hunt you fucking down. Get in the car.”

“Man, fuck you. I know what I’m talking about. You and your perfect family. Dean and Leila, and now he has Tatum. You guys have it all while I’ve lost everything. So, fuck you, man.” I’ve never seen a man fight against himself as hard as Roman is to not beat the shit out of Miles. His fists are clenched so tightly he has to be cutting the blood flow off to his fingers.

“We’ve heard all this before, Miles. I love you, brother. You are my family, but I won’t stand by any longer and watch you kill yourself. How many times have we told you that what happened was not your fault? Get the help you need, or you are done. I’ll find someone to take your place. Swear to fucking God, I will. You been sliding downhill for years. Brock has been taking care of you. Dean and I. Grim. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for you. But I can’t believe they would want you to end up like this. You aren’t the man I met all those years ago, and that was after they died. What made you snap, man?”

My heart leaps as I stand muted and watch in slow motion when Grim tries to shove Miles into the backseat. Miles rears his head back, face concealing his pain that’s now shrouded in his fury full of anger. Without saying a word, he raises his fist and lands a punch that knocks Roman to the ground.

Gloom trickles in like an overcast cloud. My entire body trembles, my pores leaking the band's pain across the dirty cement. A premonition settles in my core that this situation is going to rip this band of brothers apart.

“Miles, please. Is this really what you want? You can’t keep pushing people away. I know people. I might be able to help,” I blurt without thinking. I don’t know anyone who can help this man but himself.

“Tatum, my driver is sitting in the black SUV over there. Have him take you ladies home.” Roman hikes himself up, points to somewhere behind me, and wipes the blood dripping from his mouth before nodding at a troubled-looking Grim.

“You? Help? Woman, why in the fuck do you think I’m like this? There isn’t anything anyone can do to help. So, get gone. This is none of your business. Go back to Dean. Tell him I said to fuck off right along with the rest. Motherfuckers. All of you. Trying to trap me in some Goddamn place I don’t want to be. You all think you can help me. Fix me. My life doesn’t work that way. It’s fucked. I feel like I’m dying inside. Why won’t you just let me die?”

His grief strikes me in the chest. This man is dying inside. Scars slicing open every hour of the day. And his mind is not allowing him to comprehend a word we’re saying in his drunken state. But the more I study him, the more I don’t believe he’s as drunk as he was. Either that, or he’s finally come to his breaking point. If so, right, wrong, or he can hate me forever, I’m going to push him until he hits bottom.

“No. I don’t believe you mean that. Not for one second, Miles. You're torturing yourself more when what you need to be doing is trying to heal. None of us can understand the amount of turmoil building inside of you. I imagine it’s wrenching. Scratching and clawing until there isn’t any blood left. Can you imagine that same feeling constructing itself inside of those who love you? Do you really think Dean’s life is perfect? He lost his son, too, Miles, and he never gave up. Don’t give up now. Go get the help you need and come back the man you were meant to be.”

He frowns. Deep, tight lines form around his mouth. He’s deeply scarred. Scars people can’t see. Ones that will always be there. So much like Dean that it breaks my heart.

“You think you can stroll into our lives and tell me what to do, how to feel? You don’t know jack shit, Tatum. Don’t compare what happened to Dean to what happened to me. Being sober isn’t going to bring them back. I was sober for years. I tried to live without them. All I have are pictures. Her family blamed me for their deaths. Bet your sweet little ass didn’t know that, did you? Yeah, that’s right. I couldn’t even attend their funeral because they had guards standing outside the church. So, fuck you, lady. You don’t have a clue how I feel. They live inside of my heart. Haunt my thoughts. I can’t do it anymore. I have nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing. I’m empty in here.” He pauses, slams his fist against his chest, and slumps against the open door. “I’m suffocating, and I don’t know how to gasp for the breath to make me stop. I’m tired of breathing. So, you tell me, Tatum, any of you tell me why I can’t drink myself to death when I’m already dead inside.”

A nerve switches on a tick of muscles in Miles’ cheek, permitting me to see he’s clenching his teeth, rebelling against his drunken mind to keep himself from crying.

“You do it because that’s what they would want you to do. You do it to make them proud of the man you’ve become. And you do it because you are worth it, Miles. You say you loved them. Then prove it. Live for them. Live for them, because giving up and wanting to die doesn’t show them you loved them. It doesn’t show they live in your head or your heart. How can they when you’ve drunk the memory of them away?”

He narrows his eyes that look like they might pop out of his head at my question. Good, I hope I’m getting to him. I hope I’ve carved a new scar on his chest. One he’ll feel for a long, long time.

“What the fuck kind of gospel is that? Of course, I loved them. I drink because they are all I fucking see. My son had blond hair like his mother. His eyes were mine. Every time I look at their pictures, I feel as if they are trying to claw into my soul.”

Their names and faces have to plague his every waking moment. I feel awful for pushing him like this. I hope someday, he’ll forgive me. Whether he will or not, I can’t stop now. He’s crumbling. I can see it. One more push, and I’ll have him where he needs to be.

My heart squeezes all the air out of my lungs when he bends over. A gut-wrenching roar rips out of him that would wake a dead man. It’s the most excruciating cry for help I’ve heard.

“Miles, they say people cannot feel another's pain. I say they are wrong. Everyone who loves you feels what you do. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be fighting on your behalf. They wouldn’t have found you a place to get help. I don’t believe the man under all that pain is the real Miles. You need help. Do it for them, please. Do it for yourself.”

Miles straightens, slumping his body onto the seat. If ever there was a time for hope to push her way in, it would be now.

I exhale; my gaze drifts between the three of them. Tears are in all their eyes. It’s the worst heartbreak to see someone you love fall apart. This band has had more than their fair share of it. They’ve had enough.

Deafening silence rings in my ears before we all turn our heads when a voice I never wanted to hear again says my name.