Page 5

CHAPTER 5

Geo

My alarm goes off like a screeching siren, rousing me from the depths of hell.

I groan, shoving my face into my pillow.

My head is splitting, my mouth is dry, and I need to piss like a damn racehorse.

I let out an aggravated sigh, knowing that no matter how badly I want to hibernate in my warm bed, the alarm isn’t going to shut itself off.

Rolling over, I grab my phone, silencing the ringer.

I grab my glasses off the nightstand, putting them on and checking my messages.

I see a couple missed calls.

One from Hailee, one from Jinger, three from Kevin, and.

.

.

My body tenses when I see the call I made.

Zeb.

I suck in a breath, realizing I fucked up.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

.

.

I rack my brain, trying to remember last night, but I only wince at the pain beckoning in my skull.

That’s what you get for downing a whole bottle of champagne, idiot.

I groan in agony.

My dick doesn’t seem to care that I drunk-dialed my former bandmate and ex-best friend last night, and as such, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get my ass moving to the damn bathroom.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I mumble as I make my way into the bathroom.

I brace one arm out against the wall and hang my head in shame.

Ten years.

It’s been ten years since I have spoken to Zeb, not that I haven’t thought about calling him.

After I left for Hollywood, I wanted to call him.

A lot.

Every talk show booked, every live performance, every sold out show, I wanted to call him.

I wanted to share my success with him.

But Zeb and I viewed “success” very differently.

I didn’t want to make music without him, but he was just nineteen, and hadn’t really performed on his own, and he didn’t want to sell out.

He didn’t understand that it wasn’t selling out.

Not to me.

I’d worked my whole life for that record deal, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of what I wanted more than anything.

So, I told him fine.

I told him I didn’t need him.

I didn’t need anyone.

I’d make it on my own.

And I thought about that day, thought about him often, because it’s the one thing I regret about choosing this life.

That I fucked over the one person who mattered more than anyone else in the grand scheme of things.

My best friend, my music partner.

I finish up with my hour long piss, washing my hands anxiously.

What the fuck did I say to him?

I don’t even remember.

One look back at my phone shows me that our conversation lasted thirty-five minutes.

What the fuck were we talking about for thirty-five minutes at two in the morning?

I run a hand through my hair, biting my lip as Kevin texts me.

Saw your photos from last night.

Gotta say, Geo, hitting up Saint move on with my life because it was a mistake.

Unintentional.

People drunk dial their exes and stuff all the time.

Right?

I mean, he’s not my ex in the typical sense.

Ex-best friend, maybe.

But not like.

.

.

an ex ex, like Tiffany.

God, I should just call him, right?

That way I’ll know.

If I said something stupid, at least I can apologize, and if I didn’t, well, maybe at least he can fill in the blanks.

Hopefully, I didn’t spill anything he can leak to the press.

Not that I think Zeb would ever do something like that, but I did kind of fuck him over, so who knows.

My finger hovers over the number and I consider pressing it.

Ten years.

Thirty-five minutes.

It’s just a fucking phone call, for God’s sake!

I hit the button, immediately panicking.

Anxiety swells in my chest as it rings, and I think maybe I should just hang up and.

.

.

“Hey.” Zeb’s voice brings everything back.

Fucking everything.

My cheeks flush, my blood heats, and my cock stiffens and I have to resist the urge to curse.

“Hey,” I reply, gripping the phone a little tighter.

“Rough night?” Zeb asks, and I can hear the humor in his voice.

His voice is deeper, smoother.

Like hot fudge.

He also sounds less.

.

.

sleepy.

“Something like that,” I say, noting the time on my alarm clock.

It’s eleven thirty.

Fuck!

I’m usually in the studio by ten!

I need to get the fuck moving.

“Fuck!” I curse, immediately realizing my error.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just... my head is fucking killing me, and I’m like an hour and a half late for the studio.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, the sarcasm evident in his tone.

“Did you at least have fun?”

I sigh, hopping into a fresh pair of blue jeans.

I let out a nervous laugh.

“Um, I don’t remember.”

It’s not a lie.

I don’t remember much, except.

.

.

My gaze travels to the bathroom, the mirror staring back at me like a suspicious Bond villain.

I force the thoughts of my fantasies away.

No, I will not go down that road.

It was a one time thing.

Because of the alcohol.

Because clearly, I was fucked up and my brain wasn’t working right.

Right?

“Listen, uh, whatever I said last night, I?—”

“I know,” Zeb says, his tone shifting from humorous and sarcastic to bitter.

“Know what?” I ask, feeling on the spot.

I put him on speaker as I reach for a clean shirt and pull it on.

“You didn’t mean to call me,” he grunts.

I don’t miss the venom behind his voice, and I think whatever it was I said must have been pretty bad.

Regret floods me.

“Yeah. I was just, uh?—”

“Drunk. Yeah, I know. It happens.” I can hear him moving around.

A door opens and shuts, the whir of what sounds like a coffee pot is ambient noise.

He sighs, his tone shifting just the slightest.

“I’m sorry, too.”

I pull on my watch, glancing at the phone, at his name.

A part of me feels like he’s here, but he’s not.

And he’ll never be here.

Here isn’t where he belongs; he made that more than clear ten years ago.

“For what?” I ask, my heart in my throat.

Am I such a glutton for punishment?

“For what it’s worth, it sounded like you had fun.” His tone is softer, but it’s still smooth and comforting.

Still masculine and strong.

It’s not all that different when he sings.

Or when he used to sing, when it was just the two of us.

I was always trying to get him to perform more.

Technically, he was hired to be my guitarist for my band, but after a night cosmic bowling with some friends at the time, I knew more people needed to hear him sing.

His voice is amazing.

It’s like Sleep Token, but sexier.

If that’s even possible.

“I really am sorry. I mean, it was like two-thirty in the morning.”

Zeb lets out a dark chuckle.

“Look at you staying out past your bedtime,” he teases me.

My heart thuds like a drum in my chest.

I miss this.

I miss him.

Us.

I miss my best friend.

“Yeah, well, don’t get excited. I don’t plan on a repeat anytime soon.” I slide my boots on, run my hands through my hair with a quick spritz of product, and take a look at myself in the mirror.

One look and I immediately make for my makeup bag and dig for my concealer.

My eyes look fucking wrecked.

“Drink some coffee, take some ibuprofen, and eat some bacon, you’ll be just fine.”

“Seriously, who in their right mind does this shit more than once?” I reach for my contacts, omitting my thick tortoise-shell glasses.

I pat the concealer under my eyes.

I learned early on that if I just viewed all of this as a costume, or a uniform, it was easier.

Being Gravedigger is a job like anything else.

It’s not that different from the image I used to have to portray when I was just Geo Graves.

It just feels different because I’m famous now and I go by Gravedigger instead, and traded in my polos and khakis for abs, ripped jeans, and leather jackets.

I cock my head to the side, taking in my appearance once more.

Better.

“Really? You the leading consultant on hangovers now, Z?” I put my makeup and products back in their bag and give one last tousle of my dark hair.

I don’t miss the way his name rolls off my tongue.

Familiar.

Even though I haven’t said it out loud in years.

“I might know a thing or two,” he says, his voice apathetic.

“Right. I, uh... got to head out to studio, but, uh...”

I swallow, my heart again in my throat because I know I should hang up, but I don’t want to.

“Can I call you? Later, I mean? Catch up, maybe?”

For a moment, I think we have disconnected because there is nothing but silence.

Then I hear him let out a long, deep breath.

“Yeah. I guess,” he says, but his voice seems different.

Guarded.

“Cool,” I say, nodding as I bound down the steps, toward my garage.

“Cool,” he says.

I grab my keys to my Lexus, and the sound of the locks whirring echoes in the room.

He doesn’t hang up.

I take a deep breath and hit end call, if only because I do need to head out, and I know if I don’t.

.

.

Fuck, I might just forget that I’m a complete and total asshole where Zeb Ingram is concerned.

Shit, I might forget that we’re not even friends anymore.

And what’s more dangerous than that?