Treat Me (One Night with Sole Regret 8)

Chapter Eighteen

“Where’s Adam?” Shade asked the other two guitarists.

Owen shrugged. “No idea.”

Shade’s gaze fell on a familiar guitar sitting on its stand next to the stage. “He left his guitar.”

“Maybe he had to go to the bathroom,” Kellen suggested. “Ever try to take a piss with a guitar strapped on?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Shade said, watching the wide double doors behind the stage for Adam’s reappearance.

Several minutes ticked by with no sign of the lead guitarist. Shade grabbed the arm of a nearby roadie who was standing there with his arms crossed waiting for the performance to begin. “Will you run to the dressing room and tell Adam we’re waiting for him? He’s probably in the bathroom.” He sent a second roadie to the bus, just in case he’d gone there instead.

A few minutes later, Gabe came down from the stage with drumsticks in hand. “What’s the hold up?”

“Adam’s missing,” Shade said.

“Missing?”

“Yeah, he was just here.” Shade turned to see if the incredible vanishing guitarist had returned in the few seconds he’d been distracted. Still no sign of him.

Shade didn’t truly begin to worry until the two roadies returned without Adam in tow.

“He wasn’t in the bathroom or the dressing room.”

“Not on the bus either,” the other roadie reported. “I found his earpiece on the ground behind the bus. At least I think it’s his.”

The guy dropped the earpiece into Shade’s palm. It was probably Adam’s, but he couldn’t be sure. “Was his motorcycle still there?”

“I didn’t see one.”

“Fuck!” Shade yelled. “Did he say anything to any of you?” As Shade’s glare landed on the members of his band, each shook his head in turn. “Fuck! What in the hell is he thinking?” The problem was Adam never thought things through. He was impulsive. Reactionary. An inconsiderate, self-absorbed jackass. Why had Shade let himself hope that Adam had changed?

“Maybe there’s an emergency,” Owen said.

“Even if there is, he could have taken a few seconds to tell someone. Fuck! I’m going after him.”

“Do you know where he went?” Gabe asked.

Shade pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and pressed the icon for Adam’s tracking app. He was already miles away heading west, but within seconds he moved out of range and the little orange dot that indicated his position blipped out of existence.

“Fuck!” Shade said again. “He’s headed west.”

“What’s west?” Kellen asked.

“Texas. Madison. His fucking heroin dealer. How the hell should I know?”

“Calm down,” Owen advised. “We’ll figure something out.”

Shade wasn’t going to calm down. How could Adam leave just minutes before they were set to perform? What could possibly be that important? Nothing, as far as Shade was concerned. Granted, if something happened to Julie—God forbid—and he had to rush to her side, he would have walked out on a show, but he would have fucking told someone first.

“I’ll try calling him,” Kellen said rationally. “Maybe he’ll answer.”

While Kellen attempted to get Adam on the phone, Sally rushed toward Shade, almost colliding with him as her high heels skidded on the slippery concrete. She grabbed his arms to steady herself before looking up at him with wide eyes. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you on stage?”

“Adam isn’t here. We can’t perform without our lead guitarist, can we?”

“I’m worried,” Owen said, his eyes on Kellen as he shook his head to let them know Adam wasn’t answering his phone. “He wouldn’t just run off like that unless it was a life or death situation.”

“Yes, he would,” Shade said. “I was the one who dealt with him when he was at his worst. You all pretended everything was just fine while I was forced to get him lucid enough to perform. It was only a year ago. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”

“He’s changed, Jacob,” Gabe said, clutching the back of his neck with one hand as he stared at the floor.

“He has?” Shade shook his head in disagreement. “Sorry, but I don’t see it.”

Still beyond pissed, Shade stomped up the side steps and crossed the stage. The waiting crowd cheered when they recognized him. He took the mic out its stand and approached the audience, taking a moment to bask in the knowledge that they loved him almost as much as he needed them.

“Good evening, New Orleans. You look ready to rock!” When the fans cheered, his heart thudded with regret. He wouldn’t get the chance to perform for this amazing crowd. He’d been so looking forward to it. “Unfortunately, our performance is not going to happen tonight,” he said, his thoughts not matching his words. Fucking Adam let us all down again. A roar of disapproval circulated through the arena. “Our lead guitarist, Adam Taylor, was called away on an emergency.” And didn’t bother to tell anyone. I will never forgive the asshole for forcing me to disappoint all these fans. But as front man, he was expected to be the one who delivered such news, and he didn’t shirk his responsibilities no matter how distasteful. Fucking Adam. “So we have to cancel the show.”

A groan of disappointment reverberated through the stadium.

“I’m not sure if they’ll issue refunds or reschedule the performance, but we’ll square you away. I promise.”

Grumbling, the crowd started to disperse.

“Hey! Hey, Shade!” The call came from some young guy among the group still hanging around the barrier fence directly in front of the stage. “I play lead guitar and know all your songs by heart. I could take Adam’s place tonight.”

It was as if Shade’s guardian angel had fallen into the body of a skinny teenager in a black beanie hat.

Shade crouched down on the stage in front of him and stared into the kid’s dark eyes. Long, jet-black bangs were smashed down to obscure those eyes, but the sincerity Shade read in his direct gaze gave him hope. “Are you sure?”

The kid nodded, oozing the kind of self-confidence of someone who was telling the truth or was completely delusional. “I’ll prove it. Hand me a guitar.”

“Wait!” Shade called to the retreating crowd. “We might have a solution. Can you give us a few minutes to see if the show can go on after all?”

Innumerable fans were probably already too pissed off to return, but the majority of them stopped their retreat to see what was in store for them.

Shade instructed security to let the young guitarist into the backstage area. His bandmates looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Did you get a hold of Adam?” Shade asked Kellen, giving his longtime frenemy one last chance to not disappoint him.

Kellen frowned and shook his head.

“Okay,” Shade said, nudging the kid forward. “This guy says he knows all our songs by heart and can take Adam’s place onstage tonight.”

None of his bandmates looked convinced, but they did look intrigued by the possible solution to their shitty situation.

“So I say we give him a chance to prove himself,” Shade said. “What’s your name?”

“Wes.”

“Give Adam’s guitar to Wes,” Shade said to Adam’s technician. “Let’s see what he’s got.”

They put the kid through his paces. Riffs. Solos. Wes wasn’t as skilled as Adam—no one was as skilled as Adam—but the talented kid would do in a bind.

“You don’t get stage fright, do you?” Shade asked.