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The push rims were cold in my grip as I maneuvered my way to the bedroom. But the room hadn’t been intended for wheelchairs. The furniture was too close together, and one of the wheels bumped into the leg of an end table. Mitch hurried over to help—all he wanted to do was help—but I barked at him that I was fine.
I was always fine.
Except I wasn’t and hadn’t been in four years.
But I wasn’t about to tell any of them that.
***
“Here to present the award for Song of the Year, please welcome, actress Tarryn King and award-winning rock band Angels of the Silences!”
Tarryn’s arm was wound tightly around mine as I escorted her to the silver podium. But as stiff as I was, walking with the prosthetic I wouldn’t let myself get used to, it felt more like she was escorting me. The guys followed close behind—too close—and I knew I was holding us all up, just as I had earlier during rehearsal. It was embarrassing, feeling all those thousands of eyes on me from the audience as I hobbled my way to the podium.
Four years ago today, this wouldn’t have been a problem.
Four years ago, I would’ve sauntered up to the mic with more confidence than I knew what to do with. I would’ve commanded the audience with arrogance, found a couple of girls to mess around with afterward, and happily woken up to do it all over again the next morning.
Nothing like a car accident and a missing leg to fuck it all up though, right?
I sighed with too much relief when my hands met the podium. Leaning against it, I bent at the waist to bring my mouth closer to the little bulbous mic and recited, “It takes talent to write an excellent song, but it takes courage and perseverance to make an excellent career out of writing songs.”
Tarryn pressed her soft, full breasts against my arm as she dipped her mouth to the mic and said, “You, of all people, would know about that, right, Dylan?”
“I would,” I lied, the words leaving a sour taste on my tongue. “But I’m not here to talk about me. Let’s talk about these other talented musicians …”
CHAPTER TWO
Dylan
Islip, New York, wasn't far from here.
About an hour by car and even quicker if you caught an express train from Penn.
It was a little hole-in-the-wall town on Long Island with the quintessential main street and enough gossip to keep the townies talking endlessly in the groups on Facebook.
Some people loved that small-town life, but it was my personal hell, and as soon as I could leave at the ripe old age of eighteen, I had gotten my ass out of there and found an apartment in the city.
I was happy in the city.
I thrived in the city.
But Islip was home. It had been for the first eighteen years of my life and the last four, and right now, I couldn't wait to jump in a car and make my way back there. My parents and guitar were waiting for me, ready to shower me with comfort and love.
Reallove.
Not this bullshit some chick named Mindy—or is it Mandy?—was feeding me with a full glass of champagne in her hand, sloshing it onto my suede shoes. Glancing down at them, I was sure they were ruined. But just as quickly, I gave the thought a mental shrug. Sure, they had cost me a whopping two grand, and years ago, it would've made me sick to think about spending that much on a pair of fucking shoes.
Now though?
A couple thousand bucks was a drop in the bucket, and to replace them would be something to yawn at.
“What are you doing after this”—Mindy-slash-Mandy waved her hand in a circle above her head as she slowly blinked—”thing?”
She leaned heavily against my arm, smashing her breasts hard enough for them to start spilling out of her skintight, strapless dress. She was drunk enough to not care, but I wasn't enough of an asshole to let her give all these people an eyeful.
“Nothing with you,” I grumbled, gently pushing her back with a nudge of my arm.
Her brows lowered over her eyes, bleary and smudged from the night of partying. “Whooo says I wanted to go home with youuu?” she slurred, sounding like the stoned caterpillar fromAlice in Wonderland, while poking one pointed nail into my chest.
