Page 35 of Mic Drop (Passionate Beats #3)

Bennett

I n the basement, I punch the bag. Hard. Harder. Again and again. How can this be happening to me?

Sweat rolls off my body when I stop and rip the boxing gloves off my hands with my teeth. I walk over to the bar and grab a bottle of water. In two gulps, it’s gone. I take a third.

Jenna didn’t answer any of my texts. Or pleading voicemails. All she did is ask where to serve me with divorce papers. Divorce papers ! I know grief can do crazy things to people, but make newlyweds separate? That has to be a record.

The phone rings and I jump to see if Jenna’s mind is working straight and she’s finally calling me. Luke’s name is on FaceTime.

Fuck.

On the third ring, I answer the call, bottle of water against my temple.

“I would ask how you’re doing, B, but a picture is worth a thousand words.”

I bring the water to my lips. “What do you want?”

“I need to find out how my lead singer is doing.”

“Always protecting the band,” I snark. “I’m alive.”

“How’s Jenna doing?”

Boom.

His question hangs out in the air for a few moments. What should I tell him? That I’m a miserable failure—again—and she left me? I shrug. “She left.”

“Oh. That’s good right? She’s getting out there.”

My head shakes. “No. You misunderstand. She left.” I inhale. “Me.”

His eyes double in size. “What do you mean, she left you? You’re not making any sense.”

None of this does. Ever since her mother passed away, none of Jenna’s actions add up.

“What I mean is her last text asked whether I’ll accept service of the divorce papers at Secluded Rest.” I put the phone on a table so Luke can’t see me crumple to the floor, holding onto the gym mats like they were a lifeline.

“Divorce?”

“Yeah.” I get myself under control, manage to stand, and return to the screen. I’m sure my tears will combine with the sweat and not make me look like a total pussy.

“B, this can’t be right. She loves you.”

I let out a miserable chuckle. “Not enough.” Or at all.

Then he does the unexpected. Seems to be going around. “Why don’t you join me in New Hampshire. It’s quiet. No one will bother you here.”

I’m about to blow him off when a thought occurs. If Jenna ignores my text and tries to serve the papers here, she could succeed. But not if I’m actually not here. “You know what? Sounds like a good idea.”

“Great. I’ll send the jet to the Hamptons to pick you up shortly. I’ll make dinner.” He pauses. “Everything will work out, B.” Then he disappears from my screen.

All I can think of is Jenna’s text to me.

Divorce papers? No fucking way. I run up the stairs, only stopping at the top when I realize I’m not in any pain.

The groin pull’s been bothering me less and less, and now it seems to have disappeared.

Much like my physical therapist wife. And every other woman in my life who I told I loved.

With this thought, I enter the bedroom and start throwing random things into my luggage.

No way am I giving in to Jenna’s unreasonable demands.

She’s my wife, for fuck’s sake. Her mother died happy knowing we were together.

She even told me she was thrilled that I’m her son.

It’s my first maternal score ever. Jenna can’t mean this.

I chew over this question the entire flight to Luke’s. Never come up with an answer. I barely offer a wave to Ashley, the flight attendant, as I exit the jet.

Closing yet another black SUV’s door, I sling my bag over my shoulder and take in the house before me.

I’ve been to New Hampshire on tour, but I never saw the rural towns.

This place is large, with at least five or six bedrooms. It has a wraparound porch that spans the entire first floor.

Two dormers punctuate the roofline. A swing is attached to a massive tree in the front yard.

Looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

As I walk up the path, the front door opens. Luke, relaxed in a pair of workout shorts and T-shirt, welcomes me. “B, glad you’re here, man. Come on in. I’ll throw some steaks on the grill.”

He ushers me inside, and I drop my luggage onto the foyer floor. “Nice place you got. Must’ve been some find on Airbnb.”

“Well, actually,” he tugs on the front of his shirt. “It’s not a rental. This place has been in my family for generations.”

My eyebrows lift and I whistle. “Nice. Good to know one of us came from a good home.”

Our manager’s head leans to one side. “Have you ever been to Río’s parents’ house?”

“Can’t say I have.”

He doesn’t say anything more on the topic. “Leave your stuff there. We’ll pick it up when we go upstairs later. Want a beer?”

While Manhattans are my drink, a beer with steak does sound good. “Sure.” I follow him into a massive kitchen, which was redone within the past couple of years judging by the quartz countertops, huge island, and high-end appliances.

“This place rivals Secluded Rest.”

“Nah,” he contradicts me. Holding up one finger, he says, “The Hamptons.” A second finger slides up. “Oceanfront. I think you win.”

“Let’s say we both win.” I open the fridge and take out a few beers while he puts the finishing touches on the tray with our dinner. Steaks, potato salad, and a variety of other dishes are brought outside. If I were hungry, I’d enjoy this.

I’m not.

As the steaks sizzle on the grill, Luke plunges forward. “Jenna wants a divorce?”

I guzzle a beer. “So she says.”

“Do you?”

“What? No fucking way. I love her.” The truth nags—she doesn’t feel the same.

“So what are you going to do?” He flips the steaks.

“What am I going to do?” I repeat, finishing my beer. “What can I do? I told her I wouldn’t accept service of the papers. That’s about all I can think to do .”

“Well, that’s a start.” Coffee-colored eyes hold my gaze. “Are you going to fight for her?”

“I.” My brain short-circuits. I pick up a second beer and pop off the cap. “My love isn’t good enough.” Story of my life. No one I ever loved stuck around—not Lissa, not my mother (well, she is physically, I guess), not Dad.

I sip the beer, wondering why I’m sharing all this shit with Luke. I never talk about anything remotely close to these truths. With anyone. Except Jenna. Look where that got me.

He takes his time placing the steaks onto a platter, then brings everything over to the table. Out of ingrained manners, I sit and place some food onto my dish. Not that I have an appetite. Or manners.

Luke cuts the steak and savors the morsel.

“You know,” he begins. “I was there from the beginning. I remember when you did that crazy-ass jump that landed you in need of a physical therapist in the first place. I practically had to beg you to see Jenna for treatment. You were adamant about not going.”

I play with the label on my beer bottle. “I remember. The doctor said if I wanted to keep my commitments to UC, I had to get physical therapy, so I had no choice. Jenna was the logical person to help.”

“Right.” He deposits a forkful of potato salad into his mouth. “Because she dated Darren.”

There he is. The ever-present band member who we can’t allow to cross over to the other side. “She did.” I play with my fork.

“Who was an ass.”

His statement hangs like a broken guitar string. “He was the driving force behind UC,” I contradict him. “Darren invited me to join the band when I was still in high school. He got our bookings, before we met you. He was many things, but an ass isn’t one of them.”

Luke puts his silverware down. “His over-the-top lifestyle was getting old before he hurt his wrist. Afterward, he got addicted. He didn’t seek out help. He lied to all of us, including Jenna. He was a great keyboardist and contributed to some of UC’s greatest hits. But he still was an ass.”

I adjust my weight in the chair. “He did do all those things, but it doesn’t make him an ass. It makes him an addict, a disease shared with so many other people.”

“That’s true. But we could’ve helped him.

You want to know why he didn’t tell us?” When I don’t reply, he answers, “Because he didn’t want to come clean.

He was fighting his own demons like all of us.

His were big but not insurmountable. When he found drugs, he used them to self-medicate and take himself away. ”

Luke lets this sink into my brain. I consider it from all angles and have to agree with him about Darren’s personality. Plus the fact he wanted to relieve his pain. Don’t we all?

“Do you know why I’m telling you this, B?”

He picks up his knife and fork and cuts another piece of steak. I touch my silverware and make a tentative cut into mine. A perfect medium rare. My lips close around the first bite of food I’ve eaten since Jenna slapped me with her announcement. “I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to become an ass, too. I can’t lose another friend.”

Friend.

My silverware clatters onto my plate. I don’t do friends. True, I asked him to be my best man—at Jenna’s urging, might I add—but that doesn’t bestow the title of “friend” on him.

Or does it?

I choose the easy route. “I’m not a drug addict.”

“True. Not yet, anyway. But alcohol is an addiction as well.”

As he says this, I’m finishing my second beer. I haven’t been here more than an hour. “I don’t drink to excess. Often.”

“So far. Tell me you didn’t want to drown your sorrows in a bottle?”

I remember, or don’t as the case may be, the past few days. Which I spent alternating between texting and leaving Jenna voicemails, and drinking myself into oblivion. “The past few days excepted, I don’t drown my problems.”

“That’s right.” He cracks his knuckles. “You’re the resident sex addict.”

“What?!” I pop up so fast my chair flies backward. “I am not.”

He remains seated, chewing on his dinner. “In the past, when UC’s scored number one on the charts, what did you do?”

Pacing, I think back to all of our number one hits. All the women I took into various places—buses, beds, closets—and fucked their brains out to celebrate. I stare at the table. “I had sex.”