Countless.
It’s the number of nights I wake up in a cold sweat, freezing my ass off and near tears, trying to shake nightmares.
Why?
I have these dreams now and they’re all centered around a sound. An ending. I don’t know exactly when they started, maybe days after Rhya’s suicide, maybe months, but they piss me off. Every single one of the goddamn things have to do with Rhya.
I hate her.
Remember when I said suicide is only selfish to the survivors?
It’s true. Selfishly I blame myself. I blame Jaime and Gage and her dad and uncle and sometimes I blame Reece. He stood back and didn’t do anything.
Mostly, I blame myself for the night I left, and I don’t want to. I shouldn’t.
Do you see me there in the bed? The naked one amongst tangled sheets, hungover and staring out the windows overlooking the city?
Do you notice the way my head is pounding?
You wouldn’t think I won last night, would you?
I did. Against Tiller of all people. I should feel good about that, shouldn’t I?
I don’t know why, but I don’t. Something inside me doesn’t. Hell, I don’t even remember much of last night but judging by the soreness in my face, I’d say someone hit me.
There are times when I wake up alone and think to myself, I didn’t go to bed like this, but I still can’t remember what happened, or who, for that matter.
The afternoon light pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The room’s bathed in a rich golden hue too bright for me.
My skin feels tight, my eyes are burning and dry. It’s also hot in here. Too hot, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m sweating now.
Groaning at even the slightest bit of movement, I drag myself off the bed, a booming headache pounding its way out of my temples.
I make my way into the living room in search of coffee. Usually when I stay at the Wellington Suites, room service has it ready for me in the kitchen.
I throw on my jeans from last night that are haphazardly tossed on the floor next to the bedroom door, along with my cell phone and sunglasses, but no shirt to be found. I must have stripped on my way to bed.
Not surprising.
I use the bathroom, find it just as messy, bloody towels on the floor with a bottle of tequila in the shower and then head into the living room.
Tiller’s on the couch eating a bowl of cereal and watching cartoons. “Fuck you,” is his greeting. “There’s a condom on the floor. I’m guessing you had a good night after you came back and locked me out.”
I remember leaving the bar and coming back to the suite, but I couldn’t tell you what happened once I was in here. “It’s probably yours,” I mumble back, reaching for the coffee on the coffee table his bare feet are propped up on. I motion toward the three cups of coffee. “Which one’s mine?”
“The one with pussy written on the side of it.” And then he scratches his head. “It’s not my condom. For one, I wasn’t in here because you fuckin’ locked the door on us. And two, I didn’t use one. She blew me in the hallway because again, you locked me the fuck out last night.”
“Well then, I guess the condom mystery is solved.” I don’t remember fucking anyone last night, but I wouldn’t say I didn’t. The truth is, since Rhya died, there’s been a string of women I don’t remember.
I turn the cups around looking for the word pussy on the side. All three of us like different coffee so Tiller usually takes it upon himself to write messages on the sides of the cups. Sure enough, there’s the word “pussy” written in Sharpie on the side of mine. Roan’s has “fucker” scribbled across it and Tiller’s, naturally has “king” written on it.
I take the cup and lean back, the sounds of Tiller sipping the milk from his bowl highly annoying. “Do you have to drink the milk?”
He throws me a confused look and pulls the bowl away from his mouth, milk dripping down his chin. “What’s your problem this morning? Still acting like a dick?” The spoon in his hand clanks against the glass when he sets it on the table. He glances around the room as if he’s looking for someone. “Where’s the chick you fucked? And what happened to your face?”
Oh, that’s right. I guess it’s mine then. Whatever.
Sighing, I take a drink of the coffee. “Who gives a shit.” I’m not even sure what question I’m replying to. Maybe both?
Am I being rude?
I probably am. You’re not surprised, are you?
I’m scrolling through my messages on my phone, most having to do with my reactions after the race last night and the reason for the tequila in the shower, I’m assuming.
Tiller’s checking his phone as well and chuckles at a replay of my run and tips his phone in my direction to show me a tweet from Red Bull. “I can’t believe you won.”
“I can.” I point to the double backflip I perfected with a flare of my own where I turned it into a nac nac at the end. “I’m the best.”
Roan approaches, his heavily thudded barefoot steps slapping against the marble floor of the suite. He knocks me upside the head when he approaches and reaches for the one remaining cup of coffee, twists it around and glares at Tiller. Then his daunting stare sweeps to mine. “Why’d you lock us out?”
“I don’t remember locking it.” I toss my phone on my lap, bringing my coffee to my lips as I shrug. “I don’t even remember what happened.”
“I know what happened. You’re pissed they mentioned Rhya in the interview.” Tiller groans, shoving my shoulder. “It’s been seven months. Get over it.”
I should, shouldn’t I? I should get over it and not think about her anymore. Should and actually doing it are completely different. I want to move on. I do. I don’t want to think about her any longer. She consumed my thoughts enough when she was alive, but now, even in death, her presence in my life is haunting.
“I didn’t realize there was a time frame on getting over your best friend blowing her brains out,” I snap back at Tiller, shoving him away from me. “But thanks for the advice.”
He shoves me right back, only harder and knocks me off the end of the couch.
As I’m picking myself up off the floor, I’m strangely focused on the fact I didn’t spill my coffee. Pretty sweet.
Roan rolls his head to the side, shooting Tiller a look that screams intimidation. “That’s enough.”
Do you see the way Tiller blows him off? You don’t know much about Roan yet, but you know about the scary motherfucker with the black hair and canyon-colored eyes, don’t you?
I’ll explain Roan later. Focus on Tiller for now.
Remember when I said Tiller’s mind is a scary place? We don’t poke the devil. It’s a rule with us.
Roan’s the exception. He can get away with putting Tiller in his place. Sometimes. There was a time when Tiller looked up to Roan. I think it was when he was like six years old and it lasted an hour. Long enough to get Tiller what he wanted, and then back to being a dirty fuck.
There’s always been competition between us.
We can turn anything into a competition. Hell, eating dinner is a competition. Most of our bets originate from things like, “I bet you can’t jump that.”
“I bet I can.”
“I bet I go higher than you.”
“I bet you I land it better. . . .”
You get the point. It never stops. Worst of all, we live together. All three of us with Ricky and whoever else seems to be crashing at our fifteen-acre playground in Pasadena.
Do you see the three of us sitting in the living room arguing? Get used to it. We do this shit all the time. And it’s more than arguing most of the time. It’s downright blood for blood, mutually destructive brotherhood at times.
Don’t believe me?
Just watch what happens next.
“No, it’s not,” Tiller defends, standing up and knocking the table in front of us over. He’s got a quick fuse, and when it’s lit, it’s a goddamn disaster. “He’s acting like an idiot. He doesn’t even remember what he did last night.” His psychotic stare cuts to mine. “You locked us out like a bitch.”
Do you think he’s pissed off I won in the head-to-head competition against him last night?
He is. Tiller despises losing.
“You’re the one acting like a bitch,” Roan taunts.
Yeah, piss him off more, Roan. It’s a ballsy move, too, but doesn’t even register with Tiller.
Me? I don’t focus on his temper tantrum. I focus on him being a fucking hypocrite now. He’s the motherfucking king of blacking out. When we were in Vegas one time for a show about a year ago, we lost him. Found him two days later in Salt Lake City and he had no idea how he got there. “Like you’ve never blacked out.”
Look at his face. He knows I’m bringing up Salt Lake City. And then my eyes drop to the scar on his bare shoulder when he had sixteen stitches from that night. Turns out, he got in a fight with a guy and then drank an entire bottle of black label and followed the guy for retribution for breaking his nose. No one has any clue what cut his shoulder wide open. He could have done it himself for all he knows, and we wouldn’t be surprised by it.
That’s not even the worse part of his blacked-out disappearance. He got sick as hell a week later with some kind of weird infection. Bedridden with a wicked fever for four days.
To this day I think he has a parasite controlling his brain now and is pretty much off-the-rails crazy.
“So is that what happened?” Roan asks Tiller, confusing the hell out of me as to what they’re talking about now. “You blacked out and fucked her?”
Now I’m really lost. Taking a sip of my coffee, I stare at them, silently wondering who’s going to win this fist fight, because it’s certainly heading that direction.
Tiller chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “Nope. I was completely sober.”
Apparently, that’s not what Roan wants to hear.
Just as Roan and Tiller are going at it, arguing and knocking shit over, Willa walks in, swollen belly sticking out and eating a donut.
“Roan. . . .” She stands between Tiller and him, hands on her hips with what looks to be a ticket in her hand. Do you see the way Roan’s eyes widen? He knows he’s in trouble. “Do you want to explain to me how you got a speeding ticket last night? You don’t have a car here. You rode back to the hotel with me. So what happened from me dropping you off, to this?” She shoves the ticket in his chest.
He smiles, attempting to use charm and pulls out a pair of keys dangling them in front of her. “I’m not sure, but do you know whose keys these are? I should probably return them today.”
Willa rips them from his hand. “You dick. Those are Mila’s keys. She said someone stole her car last night.”
“Nooooo,” he draws out, almost childlike and grinning like a fool. “She gave them to me.”
I think now would be a good time to tell you about Roan, or rather, explain him. He’s the oldest of us and was six years old when our dad died and, to date, has never once mentioned him since his death.
Angry at him? Probably. Though I can’t exactly see how dying of a brain aneurysm was Dad’s fault. It’s not like he, you know, shot himself in the head.
Tiller approaches, a T-shirt in hand, and wraps his arms around Willa’s neck from behind and kisses her cheek as she pockets Mila’s car keys Roan borrowed. “Do you really think you should be eating that?” He takes a bite of her donut. “You’re getting fat.”
Willa elbows him in the ribs, hard enough he hunches over in pain, then falls to his knees. “Get your fucking shit and get in the car. If you don’t, I’m going to twist off your dick and shove it up your own ass!”
Picking up his shirt he dropped, Tiller crawls toward the door. “Fair enough.”
You’re thinking, cool, they’re leaving, right?
Uh, look at Willa’s face. She’s looking at me now and doesn’t look pleased, does she?
“What?” I dare to ask, finishing the rest of my coffee. When it’s empty, I set it aside and reach for my phone again. She looks fucking pissed, and I might need my phone to call for help.
“You need to grow up. That shit you pulled last night at the stadium will not happen again. And a bar fight? Really, Shade? I expect this crap from Tiller, not from you.”
At least I know where the soreness in my face came from. “I won,” I point out, and immediately want to swallow the fucking words because though I don’t remember the night—thank you, tequila—I think I might have crossed a line. Or two.
“Yeah, you won, but then you proceeded to say “fuck you” to the announcer who interviewed you.”
“I don’t recall doing that. . . .” But that’s not to say it didn’t happen.
Willa jabs her finger into my chest. “Get your shit. We have a plane to catch.”
I do as she says because these days pissing Willa off isn’t as much fun as it used to be.
Was I being childish?
All right, let’s take a look at my behavior these last seven months, real quick. I’ll summarize. I only remember the flashes of my destruction. I also feel the need to point out I’m twenty-one, soon to be twenty-two. I’ve spent most of my life racing motocross and being paid to do it since I was ten. Ten-fucking-years-old and I was considered a professional motocross racer.
Like it or not, that fucks with you. And then there’s the whole “friend blowing her brains out” shit show I’ve been dealing with.
Knowing that, cut me some slack on what you’re about to be told before you throw me in the pile-of-shit category all together.
So let’s see, there was the time in Orlando I ran my bike up a landing ramp and just launched it into the air (without me on it, of course). All that ended up being was a showy act of destruction that gave the crowd a thrill and an act of defiance on my part for the tour manager inviting Jaime Neeley to join the X-Fighters.
There was a problem with that particular stunt or act of defiance on my part. Reece was on the track warming up. I had no idea. It’s not like I bothered to think about anyone other than myself that day.
So while my bike free-sailed without me on it, Reece had no idea what was happening, or coming at him. It ended up hitting him while he was airborne and knocked him to the ground. Everyone went crazy, in a good way, thinking we’d planned that as some kind of crazy stunt.
Somehow Reece wasn’t hurt and smiled at the applause he was given in return. He wasn’t even mad.
What else is there? Oh, there’s the time a couple months back when we were in Abu Dhabi for the X-Fighters and I took off after the race, on my bike through the city. Found a local bar where I proceeded to drink half a bottle of vodka and about twelve Jägerbombs with a guy named Taco before convincing a local to race me through downtown.
Do you think I ended up in jail?
Nope. Police thought it was some kind of stunt for the show and let me go. It’s a good fucking thing they didn’t do a breathalyzer on me.
If you ask me, and let’s face it—no one will at this point—I’m not nearly as bad as Tiller. Do you want to know how he reacts when he’s pissed off? I’m assuming you have your own theories here, but would you believe he can pretty much incite a riot at a carnival? This happened all because he was told he couldn’t go on a ride with no clothes on. He actually prefers to be naked. Or at least halfway there, given the off chance he’ll get some.
Anyway, at the carnival, he used a bat from one of the games to decapitate a scarecrow -type thing and then urged patrons to storm the Ferris wheel and attack. And they did. Dude can convince anyone to do anything.
He was drunk. Or maybe high. We don’t really know.
So you tell me. . . am I acting destructive or just being a twenty-one-year-old kid?