Wheels of Fire

Chapter One

Chaser

Sometimes the path to harmony isn’t in the doing of stuff, it’s in the undoing of the things that leave you unbalanced. The releasing of the people hanging around your neck. The albatrosses who drag you under. It’s a lesson I should’ve learned a long time ago.

Instead, thanks to my druggie bandmates, I’m sitting in an austere six by eight cell. With no idea whether Andrew is alive or not.

Fear digs the deepest graves. That's why I'm keeping mine in check.

I’m innocent.

This is all a big mistake.

I’ll be out soon.

“Adams!” an officer shouts.

Please let that be someone coming to their damn senses and letting me out of here.

I stand and wait by the cell door. The officer approaches, almost apologetically. “I gotta cuff you.”

I hold my wrists out as he slides the gate open. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Lot of us are fans,” he says in a low voice as he walks me through the corridors.

“Thanks.” What the hell else do I say? You’d think growing up in an MC, I’d have a healthy hatred of law enforcement. And I do, to a certain extent. But my father always impressed upon me the importance of showing respect until it’s no longer an option. Law enforcement’s just doing their job.

The grim vibe of the building doesn’t improve as I’m led away from the cells, down a corridor with painted cinderblock walls. All windowless and free of decoration. We stop outside a small room. Inside, a square metal table is bolted to the floor. A crabby-faced detective waits to interrogate me on the other side.

He scowls as the other officer walks me to a chair.

The guy is most definitely not a fan.

Once we’re alone, he sits forward. “Let’s go over your story again, Mr. Adams.”

“This is ridiculous.” I spread my hands on the table in front of me. “Test me for gunshot residue.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about the process.”

I roll my eyes. “While you’re wasting time busting my balls, the person who actually shot my friend is running around free.”

“You and Andrew Lane are friends?”

“Yes.” Most of the time I want to kill the guy but I haven’t made a serious attempt, yet.

It’s probably better to keep those sentiments to myself.

“A number of witnesses say you had an argument yesterday. Over your girlfriend.”

“She and Andrew had a mild disagreement. We resolved it. Hell, I played on stage with Andrew last night.”

“Another witness says you threatened to shoot Mr. Lane a few nights ago.”

“Bullshit.” One of the only “witnesses” was Alvin and there’s no way he’d rat me out to anyone. Jacob and Garrett technically didn’t see anything. I can’t imagine the girl Andrew brought on the bus spilling the story so fast. And Mallory would never talk to the cops. That leaves someone who wants to feel important spreading second or third-hand information.

“So you didn’t threaten to shoot him?”

“We get into disagreements all the time. We’re a bunch of guys on the road cooped up on tour buses.”

Unimpressed, he flips through his notebook. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I shrug.

“Does Andrew Lane have a drug problem?”

Does he ever.

“No idea.”

“What about Jacob Whitfield?”

He’s the whole reason we’re in this mess.

“You’ll have to talk to Jacob.”

“We will once we locate him.” He leans forward. “But come on, he’s your singer. You don’t know his habits?”

“I’m not his babysitter.” Big, fat lie there.

“He’s the one who called you and asked you to meet him and Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea what they were doing in that part of town?”

“I assumed they’d gotten lost.” While trying to score heroin.

“Then what?”

“When I got there, Andrew was already on the ground bleeding out.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, drowning in the helpless feeling of possibly watching a friend die.

“And?” he prompts.

I take a deep breath. “I put pressure on the wound and slapped Jacob to snap him out of his shock and told him to call 911.” Furious over the whole situation, I may have punched Jacob a little harder than necessary. But I’ll happily take the blame for the crime I actually did commit if Jacob has the urge to press charges.

“Who else was there?”

I close my eyes again, trying to remember details lost in the chaos. I’m pretty sure Vinnie and Garrett took off as soon as I arrived. It’s not in my nature to snitch or volunteer information to cops, though. “I’m not sure. Everything was crazy. I focused on getting Andrew help and didn’t pay attention to who was around us.”

He rolls his eyes at what I’m sure sounded like a self-serving statement. “Where was your girlfriend during all this commotion?”

Unease prickles down my spine. Mallory doesn’t need to be brought into this. “Asleep in our hotel room.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

He stands and knocks on the door. “All right.”

“Are you letting me go?”

“I’ll attempt to verify your version of events.” He jerks his chin up. “Someone will come in and test your hands.”

“Good.”

Raised voices in the hallway, draw our attention to the door a few seconds before it’s flung open. The detective barely has time to jump out of the way.

“If you’re done violating my client’s rights, I’d like to have a word with him,” the intruder says.

I drop my head, suppressing my laughter. Knew my girl would come through. After her initial confusion, when I called to explain what was happening, she bucked up and promised she’d track down my father. And fuck knows, Dad wouldn’t waste time finding me a lawyer the second he found out I was in jail.

After the detective leaves, the man extends his hand to me. “Sloan Paxton, your father hired me to represent you.” He drops into the seat across from me. “I’ll need a little time to get caught up on your case. Speak to the detectives. See what I can find out. The victim is in critical condition—”

“Andrew’s alive?”

He pins me with a stare. “Yes.”

“Thank God,” I breathe out.

“These are still serious charges.”

“I know that,” I spit out. “I was worried my friend was dead. No one’s told me anything.”

“I’m not going to ask if you did it—”

“I didn’t.”

He holds up one hand and shakes his head. “Don’t.” He glances down at the papers in his hands. “Who’s Peter Carson?”

“The band’s tour manager.”

“Andrew’s band, or yours?”

My brows draw down. Why the fuck’s he so interested in Pete? “Mine. Why?”

“He’s the one who told the cops you tried to shoot Andrew the night before.”

“Are you shitting me?” I jump up, stabbing my fingers through my hair. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“You tell me.” He studies a legal pad covered in chicken scratch that must only be legible to him. “Your girlfriend states Peter told her he had no idea where you were.”

“That piece of shit.”

“Easy. Let’s get you out of this jam.” He consults his notes again. “Do you own a gun?”

“Yes,” I answer carefully.

A slight downward twitch at the corner of his mouth says that’s not the answer he hoped for. “Where is it now?”

“Locked up on the tour bus.”

I swear he breathes a sigh of relief. “You never made it

back to the bus last night?”

“I see where you’re going with this. No. The cops arrested me at the hospital.”

“Good. Okay.”

“Is Mallory okay? Have you talked to her?”

Paxton shifts and won’t meet my eyes for a second. “She’s worried about you. She came down here with me but they won’t let her see you yet.”

“She’s here? Get her back to the hotel. I need her to stay clear of this as much as possible.” Damn, knowing she’s so close kills me.

“Is she involved?”

“No and I want to keep it that way. She doesn’t need the bad press.” When will my shitty life decisions stop putting Mallory’s career in jeopardy?

“Let’s continue. What is your relationship with Andrew Lane?”

“We’re friends. We’ve collaborated on some songs. Our bands are touring together.” I shrug. That tour might be over. Hell, Kickstart’s entire career might be blown if the whole world thinks I tried to kill the legendary Andrew Lane.