Abandon: A Seaside Pictures Novella Page 2

  Real love.

  Not the kind where you say it just because you want to have sex with someone so badly, you’re willing to sell your soul to the devil. Twice.

  Real, honest to God love.

  Her name? Abigail.

  Her current status? Breaker of souls and spawn of Satan.

  I had been twenty-three to her twenty-one when we went on tour together. And, well, I fell in love with the way she strummed her guitar. About the same time, she fell in love with the way I banged on the drums like a complete idiot.

  We were together until our schedules got in the way. One day, she just told me she was through. That she couldn’t take it anymore.

  And then, she walked away.

  Of course, she had no way of knowing that I was gripping a diamond ring in my right hand, or that my left hand was sweating profusely and dying a slow death from the thorns in the single white rose I carried. She wouldn’t know because she never looked back.

  “Let’s go!” Trevor shouted behind me, completely ruining my stroll down memory lane, along with storytime. He massaged my shoulders then kicked me in the ass with his booted foot.

  It wasn’t like my story was that interesting anyway. Kind of depressing, if you asked me—or anyone else who’d had to witness my three-year drug-induced spiral.

  Something not worth mentioning, considering I was one hundred percent clean of all mind-altering drugs, except for random shots of whiskey. Just the smell of gin and tonic made me want to hurl.

  The point: I was dating two girls.

  And I had pretty damn good reasons for dating two.

  So I didn’t accidentally get too attached to one.

  Brilliant, right?

  The commercial break ended, and we were waved onstage. The screams grew even louder. I grinned as I went behind my drum set and started our countdown.

  “One, two. One, two, three, four.” I hit my sticks and filled the auditorium with my beat while Drew started crooning our newest breakup song into the microphone. Trevor played guitar in front of me, while Will flanked him on the right. Suddenly, everything felt perfect in my world again.

  Because of the music.

  The background dancers were supposed to move into focus once we hit the second verse, but for now, it was just us and the music.

  I closed my eyes as we hit the chorus, playing my heart out and singing harmony into the microphone.

  Three minutes.

  It was three minutes of perfection.

  When I opened my eyes as Drew sang the last part of the chorus, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

  Or should I say someones?

  The women I was dating. Both dancers were going at it when they should have been doing the choreographed routine.

  Well, shit.

  They were shouting at each other and pointing at me while I tried to keep up with the second verse and the chorus. One tripped the other as they stumbled towards me. And…double shit. Smile, just smile!

  Finish the song, finish the song, I thought while Drew seemed to sing forever.

  All it took was one slap and a punch, and one of the girls went sailing into my cymbals, causing them to topple over onto my half-naked body. The woman followed, and the other jumped on top of both of us, screaming. Thankfully, the music was too loud to hear all the horrible things she called both me and the other background dancer.

  I had been raised a gentleman, so I couldn’t exactly fight back, even if they railed on me. My grandma would murder me. God bless her soul.

  I waited, hoping they’d get distracted by the crowd of celebrities instead of focusing on the horror on my face.

  They didn’t.

  And suddenly, the whole a-woman-scorned-is-a-scary-thing saying entered my mind as two pairs of demonic eyes glared back at me.

  I was going to die today.

  Farewell, world.

  It’d been a fun ride, but—

  “Oomph. Son of—” They shoved me onto my back, my drumsticks flying, the drums falling on top of them as they slapped.

  All the slapping.

  My face.

  My naked torso.

  And yes, good friends, sadly my dick. It was persecuted in a way that should never be spoken of again. Ever. Ever again.

  “You lying son of a bitch!” girl one yelled.

  “I can’t believe I fell for it!” The roommate kneed me in the balls, likely rendering me unable to father offspring.

  The crowd went even wilder as security pulled both women off of me and took them backstage.

  I knew we were live.

  I knew people were staring.

  So I did what I always did when I had all eyes on me. Even though my dick had a pulse, I jumped into the air with both drumsticks and shouted, “Breakups suck!”

  The cheer was deafening.

  The looks on my bandmates’ faces, however, were damning.

  Well, fuck.

  Chapter Two

  Ty

  1 month later…

  “This town is where sadness goes to thrive, and happiness goes to die,” I mumbled under my breath as yet another rainstorm from hell pounded onto my already wet black beanie and long-sleeve shirt.

  I lived in Los Angeles for a reason.

  Sunshine.

  Seaside, Oregon, it seemed was allergic to all things sun-related. Oh, they tried to sell you on how nice the white sand beaches were or how cool the small-ass aquarium could be on a rainy day. But the truth about Seaside?

  It was only nice when it was nice outside, and it hadn’t been nice for thirty solid days. In fact, I was convinced that I was coming down with seasonal affective disorder from all the clouds.

  At this rate, I would have to take up tanning and vitamin D supplements to make sure I didn’t spiral.

  Darkness seemed to trigger me.

  And a triggered Ty Cuban was not a good thing.

  It made me feel like crawling out of my skin. I couldn’t even hike, longboard, or really do anything in these conditions—not with all the flash floods. And to make matters worse?

  Today was the first day of the Hollywood Music Camp. And no, before you ask, I did not come up with that ridiculous name. Slap Hollywood on something and people just shelled out a shit-ton of money, didn’t they?

  Hollywood Music Camp—or HMC as I’d decided to call it—was a sister camp to a famous drama camp in New York. With my band’s help, and that of my other friend’s group, AD2, and Zane “Saint” Andrews—the guy who never wore shirts or pants for that matter in public—we’d helped to fund a second location of the camp focused on music.

  At the time, I’d thought I was just writing a check and doing a sponsored post on Instagram.

  Wrong.

  Especially after that…ahem, minor incident at the Grammys, my bandmates had come up with a better plan.

  Teaching.

  Yeah, just call me Mr. Cuban and find me a sweater vest because who else did you want teaching your easily influenced middle-schoolers but a rock star who got attacked on national television?

  Right.

  The rain seemed to increase as I made my way toward the beach where the company had set up several tents with heaters under them. It was supposed to take place outside, just like the rain was supposed to let up days ago.

  I felt soggy and irritated as I made my way toward the different white tents. At least a hundred kids ranging from the ages of ten to eighteen scrambled around snack tables like piranhas.

  I’d be lucky if I got a Dorito crumb at this rate. Not that I was willing to fight the little man in the Wakanda Forever shirt for a taste. I figured he’d probably just scream “Wakanda” and throat-punch me. Not worth it.

  Even if it was the cool ranch Doritos—the only kind worth getting in a fight for.

  I looked to the right. There was a small stage set up with every single instrument you could imagine, and near the stage, a sign that said blankets with an arrow pointing down. Huh, at least we wouldn’t freeze to
death.

  The tents circled around a giant bonfire where a few members of AD2 were obviously trying to see how close they could get without getting singed. Either that, or Demetri Daniels was attempting to make the fire bigger and was in over his head.

  I made my way over just in time for Alec Daniels, the other member of the duo AD2, to look up and give me a shit-eating grin.

  I knew that expression.

  It was the exact same one every bandmate had given me when it was announced that I would be volunteering this summer instead of Trevor.

  Bastard was planning his wedding, so it only made sense that I would help instead. The best part? Trevor freaking lived here. I was the one who had to pack all my shit and move for a few months.

  At least he was letting me stay with him. That was my first thought when I arrived at his nice beach house.

  But within five seconds of greeting him, I’d been attacked by ice cream hands, had nearly chipped a tooth on a Lego, and witnessed the screams of a little girl who thought she was dying because she lost a tooth.

  I was single for a reason.

  “Hey, man.” Alec pulled me in for a hug. “Happy you made it.”

  “Yes,” I deadpanned. “Overjoyed.”

  He rolled his eyes. “They’re just kids.”

  “That’s like saying a bull is just a steak.”

  “Or a chicken is safe,” Demetri piped up from his spot near the fire. He had blond hair and light eyes, and the women basically swooned every time he opened his mouth. Alec was all dark tattoos, dark hair, and light eyes, which just made him look like the bad boy of the group when that title actually went to the one poking the fire with the stick.

  “Need some help building the fire, Dem?” I grinned and circled the pitiful thing. “Or do you have the situation handled?”

  “He has nothing handled,” Alec mumbled under his breath as a spark flew out and nearly rendered him dickless.

  At least I had friends with me and I wasn’t teaching on my own. A few other musicians were helping out. I’d toured with all of them at least once, which made it feel a lot less like summer camp.

  The rain finally started to let up as the sun pushed through the clouds. Huh, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

  Maybe this would be more vacation and less work.

  I opened my mouth to say something stupid to the universe like, “Wow, this isn’t so bad, after all,” only I was interrupted. By something familiar.

  Something that made my hair stand on end, and my testicles run for cover. A sperm may have even lost its life because of that voice.

  Abigail.

  Freaking Abigail Von.

  “No!” she yelled. “Nope! Not doing it. You’re all liars from the pit of hell. How could you?”

  I turned just in time to see Zane Andrews shoving her in my direction with a cocky grin on his face. No shirt, and pants that looked as if they’d been painted on his tatted-up body. His nose ring straight-up winked at me, while his smile grew as if he’d planned this deception all along.

  “Ah, Satan.” I crossed my arms and glared at her. “How’s hell these days? Still hot?”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “Searing. And far enough away from you and your whores that it’s almost like Christmas every single day!”

  “Aw, I’ll be sure to send a ham for the celebration.” I eyed her up and down. “Maybe more protein, less carbs. Yeah, Abs?”

  “Son of a—” She lunged at me, and Zane just barely pulled her back while I nearly stumbled into the minuscule fire that Demetri had likely strained a brain cell trying to build.

  “Everything okay over here?” Trevor, my bandmate, roommate, the one engaged to the nanny—long story, don’t ask—jogged over and looked between us. He paled. “Don’t you two have a restraining order?”

  “Only in my heart.” I patted my chest and blew her a kiss while she tried lunging at me again.

  “No offense, Abby”—Trevor held up his hands—“but I didn’t see you on the staff sheet.”

  “Oh, I added her last minute.” Zane finally spoke. “We were down one person.”

  “Who isn’t coming?” I asked as sweat started to trickle down my back.

  “Will.” Zane grinned. Our lead singer was supposed to at least make an appearance. “He’s sick.” Zane chose that moment to cough, as if proving Will’s sickness by example.

  “I call bullshit,” I said through clenched teeth. “He’s never sick!”

  “His wife’s pregnant.” Zane shrugged. “He’s her husband, so he’s having sympathy sickness. Look it up, it’s a thing.”

  “It actually is a thing,” Alec said, not so helpfully.

  I shot him a look. “Could you just not right now?”

  Zane shrugged. “Either way, it’s not like you guys have to breathe the same air or anything. You’ll be with students for six hours a day. Just try not to murder each other in front of any little kid who’s going to witness what happens and post to their Snapchat, and you should be fine!”

  “As always…” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. “So helpful.”

  “Oh, trust me”—Abby looked up at me with hatred—“I’ll stay far, far away.”

  Something in my chest cracked as I whispered, “She’s good at that. Staying far away then walking away altogether.” I turned around and left.

  Chapter Three

  Abigail

  How did one explain the complicated mess that was Ty Cuban? I hated how good he looked. All ripped in the right places in tight jeans and his ever-present white V-neck that showed off the tattoos I remembered running my hands over countless times.

  He was a menace to society.

  And I’d fought with him more than I cared to admit. The problem between us had always been our explosive tempers. Well, that and the fact that we were so ridiculously young when we first hooked up. We’d joked about doing a Google search on sexual positions that wouldn’t get a girl pregnant.

  Yeah, we were that stupid.

  He was my first everything.

  My first love.

  My first kiss.

  My first sexual experience.

  And, sadly, if I dug into the darkest crevice of my heart where I shoved every memory of Ty Cuban, he’d been my best friend.

  At least that’s how it had been before everything went down in fiery glory. Because Ty loved attention, and he loved being the center of it at all times. Which meant I had often been ignored and shoved out of the way when there were fans around. His rule was that our relationship was never allowed to come to the point where we isolated ourselves from the world or from our jobs. I had been a solo artist on my very first world tour, and he was a rock god who had websites dedicated to his smirk.

  Seriously, I’d been on the receiving end of that smirk more times than I’d like to admit. And several times, it felt like my clothes were just melting off my body. Either that, or it made me so hot I wished for a sudden firestorm so I could be naked.

  I watched him walk away and ignored the very real pain that sliced through my chest at seeing him again. At being set up and forced to work alongside someone who truly didn’t play well with others.

  When Zane called, I’d jumped at the chance to do this, only because I’d just gone through a horrible breakup with my boyfriend of three years. I’d dumped his clothes in the front yard of my Malibu beach house and set them on fire. Then again, I had warned him what would happen if I caught him cheating.

  Again.

  Lucky me, he was just stupid enough to do it in our house.

  Our bed, specifically. I had gotten home early from the studio, bottle of wine in hand, ready to celebrate finishing my fifth album when I heard giggling.

  I hated girls who giggled.

  Give me a good throaty laugh any day of the week. A giggle was just stupidity at its finest.

  Then again, Harrison liked that sort of thing. He’d always complained that I was too aggressive. Not soft enough.

  Well, the gigg
ler was soft all right. With giant boobs, hair, lips… And, yeah, maybe I had been a bit jealous that she was everything I wasn’t.

  Where I had a full sleeve of tattoos, she had perfect, tan skin. I had long, golden-brown hair that had a fade down the right side, multiple piercings in my ears, and a nose ring.

  She was…pure.

  Damn it.

  I kicked some sand and sat down in a huff, holding my knees to my chest, probably making a scene and really not caring.

  “You lied,” I said through clenched teeth when Zane plopped down next to me. We’d been friends for years—a decade at least. I’d toured with him twice, and he was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. But I’d never seen him as anything but that. A friend.

  And now that he was married, it just seemed weird talking to him about my past, my relationship problems. Everything.

  “I may have…omitted.” He shrugged. His friggin’ eight-pack flexed as he leaned back on his forearms and grinned up at me. “You know you still like him. That little flame you’ve been holding must be getting hot, hmm?”

  I flipped him off just in time for Drew, one of the final members of Ty’s band Adrenaline, to show up and sit on the other side of me. If Zane had an evil, just-as-hot—or maybe even hotter—twin, it would be Drew.

  “Ah, prodigal, you’re back.” I slugged him in the rock-hard shoulder, earning a little wink from him as he pulled out a guitar pick and started sucking on it like it was a cigarette.

  Out of all the guys, he was the one I worried about the most.

  He was the one Ty had always said he was afraid would go off the deep end.

  Part of me wondered if I was the reason Ty had turned into the manwhore of the century and had been caught with drugs twice.

  Then again, we’d both done things.

  The hurt was shared.

  And when comparing broken hearts, did it really matter how big the shards were? Broken was broken.

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

  “This have anything to do with the fact that Ty just cussed me out in front of a seven-year-old kid that told him he should wash his mouth out with soap?”