PROLOGUE
To fall off stage once is comedic. Twice I can label as performance art: very dramatic, attention-seeking, would recommend. Three times, however, veers on tragic.
But four?
I sprawl on the cold concrete floor. Not because I can’t get up, but because, for the first time in forever, the spinning in my head fades, dulled by the pain of the fall. Tangled in amongst the dusty cables, the foot pedals, the discarded fag packets, I feel at peace.
“Shit. Are you okay, Neil?” A rough voice, belonging to Jacko, our drummer.
Hah!Okay?These last few months? I’ve never been less okay. And somehow this still isn’t rock bottom.
“Never better, Jacky boy,” declares the Neil everyone expects me to be. “Never fucking better.”
“You sure?” A tinge of doubt. “People are starting to suspect you have a problem, mate.”
I swallow down a sick feeling which has nothing to do with the pain lancing through my hip bone, the rattling of my teeth in my skull, and zero to do with my bust lip either.
Houston? We have a fucking problem.
CHAPTER 1
LUKE
Saturday night finds me at Earth bar. Neil’s on stage, doing his thing. Along with Ezra, he’s the co-owner. Once a month, his band, Pretty Vacant, performs a set of Ezra’s songs with a few edgy covers thrown in. Sipping my bottled beer, I watch as Neil, all beauty and grace, shout-sings, wiggles his narrow hips, and flashes his wannabee rockstar smile. Punters throw themselves around the dancefloor at his feet. In a couple of hours’ time, one or more of them will be in his bed. Plus ça change.
I’m describing Neil as if I know him. I don’t. I won’t have even registered on his radar. He fills a room, whereas, utterly unremarkable, I just occupy space. He’d give you the best sex of your life, but also a broken heart. And maybe an STD. I’m not bitter or envious of people like Neil, handpicked by the gods for main character material. Neither do I care that under this hoodie my hair hangs onto my head in fragile clumps. It’s been doing that for years.
But I care enough for strangers and hot guys like Neil not to see it.
I frequent Earth because I live nearby, within walking distance. Coming here occupies my evenings, and it’s a safe space. My friends—Ezra, Isaac, Alaric, and Gerald—hang out here and Neil is their friend, too. I’ve watched his set enough times now to know the thrashy, sweary Rage Against the Machine cover usually signifies the DJ is preparing to take over. Sure enough, he’s at the decks, fiddling. If I want another drink, now’s the sensible time to go to the bar, before the scrum. But I don’t. I never do. Something about Neil prowling the stage keeps me, along with everyone else, hooked right until the last note.
He tumbled from it last month, high or drunk or something. One second, he was grinding his hips along the edge at the far side, as if gravity didn’t apply to him. The next he disappeared, smacking his arse down hard in amongst the lighting booms and sharp-cornered amps. I felt the jolt deep in my own bones. Scrambling back up, he treated it as a big joke, provocatively rubbing his sore rump and playing to the crowd. He invited his groupies—numerous and of both sexes—to kiss it better. I bet plenty took up the offer.
Fabricated from smoke and broken glass, Neil’s voice attacks the crude lyrics for the final time tonight. Perfect for a Saturday crowd drowning in cheap booze and even worse decisions. I cast my gaze over the amorphous throbbing mass of limbs, sweat, and strobe. Earlier, Alaric and Gerald were in there somewhere, though given the way Alaric was humping Gerald’s leg, they might already be on their way home by now. Isaac’s working at the hospital tonight, but I can still make out Ezra, dark head bent, surveying his domain from the other end of the bar.
Neil’s winding things up. The lead guitarist twangs strings as if he’s got a never-ending supply of them, and the drumming must be shaking floors three streets away. Neil owns this small stage as if he built it with his bare hands.
Maybe he should have done. If he had, he’d know precisely where it starts and ends in a six-foot drop off. One misstep, maybe too much of his poison du jour, and with a stutter andboom—downhe goes. Again. No scream, no poise, just a jarring clatter of spilled instruments, drumsticks, microphone feedback, and discordant guitars.
In a collectivewhat the fuck,the crowd pulls back. Time slows as the band members catch on. The drummer leaps from behind his gear, skidding over to the dark recesses where strobes don’t reach. A second later, the lights go up and phones come out. Ezra hollers, executes a swift, piercing whistle between two fingers, and points towards the DJ. Quick as a flash, the lights go down again. Bass pumps through the sound system, and the massive security guy from out front appears, ushering dancers back to the dance floor.
Show over. The DJ’s musical choices are solid, but he lacks Neil’s good looks. I’ll finish my pint, then leave.
“Hi, hi, excuse me. Are you Luke?” Reaching over the bar, one of the servers shakes my shoulder. “Luke?” she repeats. If I recall, her name is Jess.
“Um…yes?”
She seems relieved. “Ezra says can you go out back? Neil’s banged his head.”
“What?”
“He said to grab the guy in the green hoodie. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? He wants you to have a look at Neil. You know, the singer who just fell off stage? My other boss?”
“Yeah, I saw that. Is he okay?”
“We don’t know.” She opens up a flap in the bar. “But Ez told me to get you. So are you coming?”
My pulse ratchets up. I skulk in the shadows for good reasons. But what sort of doctor would I be, if I stood by?
