EPIC (Book 1 of the Soundcrush series)

Chapter 19: Rock Stars Trash Hotel Rooms

Trace

I'm lucky I don't get arrested on the way down 85 to the Benz. Somewhere after I hit the perimeter, the traffic starts to thicken, and only the idea that I might cause a crash that hurts other people causes me to slow down, but I'm still, jerking the lambo roughly to weave through the traffic.

I'm furious with myself. All that shit I spouted at Colin was very hypocritical considering I'm the one that started the altercation and sent Kat sprawling on her ass.

I know what I'm made of—what we are all made of, really. We are all just animals. There are only two real reactions to pressure—fight or flight. Some of us push forward in the face of conflict, some of us back away. My natural reaction is to come out swinging, but it's like I told Colin—I'm never going be that guy that hurts somebody I care about. I've spent a lot of time, retraining myself to walk away.

Or in this instance, speed away at a hundred-fifty miles per hour in a rented Lamborghini.

I couldn't stay there. There was no point, really. I'm not going to be able to convince Kat about Colin. You can't drag someone out of a situation before they are ready to go. You would think I would have learned this by now—with my mom, and with Ashlynn. Apparently I'm a slow learner.

Kat just doesn't see what I see in her boyfriend—the potential for abuse. Maybe I'm wrong about him. Maybe he'll never become violent. Maybe he'll outgrow some of those control issues he obviously leans towards. Maybe he'll self-correct. I do it, maybe so can he. I don't know. I just know, he's got issues.

Yeah, I know, because I got 'em, too.

Just now, Kat hurt me. She blind-sided me. She put my back against the wall, and there's no way I could stay there and have it out with her about my dad. Fight or flight. I had to choose flight.

Christ, how could she do that to me? Just spew that shit about my father across the room at me like that? I knew she knew. I thought she also knew, I can't deal with it, on that level. The verbal level. I have to deal with it through the music. It's always been that way. It's not just my career. It's my passion, my therapy, my outlet.

Music has always been my lifeline.

So let's go make some fucking music, yeah?

I roll up in the venue and security is all over the lambo. I take off my hat and sunglasses.

"I'm the talent," I say.

They look at my busted face skeptically and ask me for a pass, and for once, I act like a douche about it.

"I don't need a fucking pass, man! The whole goddamn world knows me. What the fuck? Your prep didn't include knowing who you are working for tonight?"

Suddenly somebody is running up with a picture of the band on their phone and apologies are being made. "Sorry, Mr. Gallant. They are glad to let me pass, so I'll stop yelling at them.

"Nah, fuck it. It's cool." I shoot back, aware that my response probably makes me look like an even bigger douche. Well, Leed can't always be the bad guy. I'm just wound so fucking tight. I need a guitar in my hands, before I yell at some other poor bastard whose just trying to do his job and absolutely doesn't deserve my dumb ass to redirect my anger onto them.

The crew's setting up, Mac and the guys aren't here yet. I find a bathroom, and do what I can to clean up. The stage is set up, all my guitars are prepped. Without a word to any of the crew, I walk out there, pick up one of the acoustics and start playing. There's a little scramble with the sound techs, because they aren't sure what they hell I'm doing, and they are wondering if I want them to adjust the mics on the acoustic, but I just wave them off, and pace the stage, losing myself in a series of songs, ignoring the fact that my knuckles are still bleeding. After a while, Mac and all the guys arrive, along with the various management and PA's.