Caisey Quinn: Last Second Chance

Sid pressed a button and Van’s bed angled upward.

“Can I get something for this headache? Like ten minutes ago?”

Sid nodded at a man in scrubs on his other side. Oh yeah. The asshole with all the questions. The man shook his head. Like hell.

“Can we have a minute?” Sid asked before Van could go apeshit on the scrub- wearing fucker. The man nodded and left the room.

Still squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, which someone had mercifully dimmed, he glared at his manager.

“Get me the hell out of here. I don’t have time for this. If I’ve been out for days, aren’t we supposed to be meeting with Epitaph about now?”

Sid raked a hand roughly over his face and stared at Van with bloodshot eyes. “I’m just going to give it to you straight because, frankly, I don’t have the energy for this anymore. The only epitaph you’re gonna land at this rate is an actual one. As in, you are killing yourself. And everyone’s pretty damned sick and tired of watching you self-destruct.”

“That was very moving. Harvard would be so proud. But seriously, can we go now?” Van sat up and yanked out all the needles and tubes attached to him. Alarms began sounding all over the damned place. And fuck, he was going to vomit. And maybe pass out.

Shitty day this was turning out to be.

When he came to again, a young blond woman in dark blue scrubs was leaning over him. Her breasts brushed against him and he groaned with satisfaction. Yes, this was much better than the first time.

“Morning, beautiful. Can I convince you to join me in this bed? It goes up and down.” He knew his breath probably smelled like hell but surely she’d be willing to blow him or something. He was Van fucking Ransom after all.

The girl’s fair skin turned a sexy shade of pink as she pulled back. “Um, I don’t get off until six,” she said barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you come by at six so we can both get off?”

Her responding giggle made his cock twitch. Yeah, she’d be back. Before he had time to lay any more game on her, Sid strolled into the room carrying a coffee cup.

“Good, you’re awake.” His manager jerked his head at the sexy nurse, and she shot Van a quick smile before leaving them alone.

Once she was out of the room, Van glared at the man. “Well, thank you very much for the cock block. Remind me to return the favor, asshole.”

Sid rolled his eyes and stepped closer. “Listen to me. You have much bigger problems than missing out on a blowjob.”

Van grinned. Damn, his manager knew him well. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Sid set his cup on the raised tray next to Van’s bed. “Like the fact that Epitaph has no intentions of signing someone who’s going to cost them more in damages than he’s going to sell in records. And they’ve placed a few stipulations on signing the band.” Sid checked his watch as if he had somewhere more important to be.

“What kind of stipulations ?” Van sat up straighter to brace himself for more corporate record label bullshit.

Sid cleared his throat before answering. “Either you successfully complete rehab in a facility of their choosing and agree to let a drug treatment counselor accompany you on all future tours or the deal is history. As in, don’t call them and they won’t call you.” His manager shrugged like this wasn’t the shittiest news since Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane went down.

Van raked a hand through his thick hair, which was in serious need of washing. “What is wrong with everybody? Can you people not get online and search lead singer in rock band and catch a goddamn clue? This is how it is. I’m not doing anything that all the other guys aren’t. You all treat me like I’m the antichrist for doing a little blow.” He huffed out a breath and considered throwing something. Nothing in reaching distance would make a satisfying enough noise, so he resisted the impulse. Barely.

Sid’s veins throbbed in his bald head—a sure sign that Van was pushing him past his limits as well. In a lot of ways his manager was the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. But he was on the payroll and needed to remember that.

“Don’t bullshit me, son. Do the other guys get messed up from time to time? I’m not an idiot. I know they do. No one’s debating that. But you go at it like an overachiever with a death wish.” Van opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sid held up his hand, signaling him to keep it shut. “A few lines every now and then is ‘a little blow.’ Ten lines or more after a handful of painkillers and a bottle of whatever the hell you were drinking, is a suicide attempt.”

Van tried not to let his fists clench by his sides, but he couldn’t stop them. The needle jammed into the top of his hand pinched hard. Sid didn’t know the details about what had happened with Val, so he couldn’t know how deep that word cut him. Van wanted to throttle him all the same.

And the man wasn’t done. “Tell me honestly. Do you want to die? Is this life so terrible for you? Millions of fans and a platinum album? ’Cause I gotta tell you, a lot of guys would kill to be in your shoes. And if you keep heading down this dark path at the rate you’re going, one of them will be. Soon.”

Pieces of the party came back to Van in flashes. The pills a roadie had slipped him. The eleven-hundred-dollar-bottle of Bourbon. A redhead sucking him off while he’d snorted coke off a glass coffee table in a room full of people. Val would be disgusted by him.

Hell, he was disgusted by him.

Every time this happened, remembering it was like watching a documentary about someone else’s screwed-up life. And he told himself he’d tone it down a notch next time. But in reality it was more like he was constantly trying to one-up himself every other night. Or maybe off himself like Sid suspected.

“We’ve tried the rehab thing. Shit doesn’t take,” he said quietly, still lost in the memories of parties past.

Sid let a hand rest on the rail of Van’s bed. “It might have, if you’d stayed the course. You can’t just bail because someone or something pisses you off or doesn’t go your way.”

Yeah, he was guilty of that. But the robotic drone doctors in rehab didn’t know shit about him yet they pretended to have the answers to all his problems. Who wouldn’t bail?

“So this is it then? No second chances? Epitaph is sending me to rehab and I have to fake my way into a whole new me or else I ruin it for the whole band? That’s some messed-up shit, Sid.”

Now it was the manager’s hand that fisted, clenching the rail tightly as he stared at Van in disbelief.

“You have got to be screwing with me, kid. You’ve had more second chances than any other person on the planet. And as much as I hate to say this to you, if you don’t complete the program this time and get your shit together, Epitaph won’t be the only one washing their hands of you. This is your last second chance, Van. Plain and simple.”

Whoever the sadistic bastard was that invented stilettos, Stella wanted to knee him in the balls. Hard. Maybe more than once.

An hour into her tour of the Second Chance Ranch, her feet were killing her. She’d worn the gingham shift dress she’d bought from White House Black Market with a smart blazer over it. She’d received her fair share of approving glances from the males on staff as Dr. Ramirez escorted her through the facility. Hellhole it wasn’t.

Stella didn’t even feel like they should be able to call the place a ranch. She’d grown up on a ranch, a nice one even. Ranches included mud and straw and the ever-present stench of horseshit. This place was immaculate with a mahogany welcome desk the size of Texas and flat screen televisions and hardwood floors that shone like glass. She’d seen the infinity pool, and beyond that, expansive pastures dotted with the occasional horse, at the beginning of the tour. The top of the steel stables was visible from behind the enormous mansion-style patient housing facility.