Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty 3)

“Because it’s time!” he yelled. “Because I’m a fuck-up and I’m always going to be a fuck-up. Nothing you do is going to be able to change that. No matter how many rehab programs you put me in, no matter how many shrinks you drag me to, it’s not going to change. I’m still going to fuck up. I’m still going to ruin everything!”

“So what?” For the first time all night, Jared’s voice was low. Calm.

It confused him, had Wyatt turning around to stare at the guy who’d been his best friend for more than a decade. “I don’t—what do you mean?”

“I mean, so the fuck what if you screw up again? So the fuck what if you end up ruining this tour? We already have more money than we can ever spend. And even if we didn’t—even if the label came after us and somehow got it all in a breach of contract suit—so the fuck what? You think a big, fancy house is worth more to us than you?

“You seem to forget we came from nothing. Money didn’t matter. Only the music did. If you think that’s changed just because Quinn drives a fancy pink motorcycle now, then you’re even more screwed up than I thought you were.”

“For the record,” Quinn interjected, “the motorcycle has sentimental value.”

“The motorcycle’s an embarrassment,” Ryder told him. “But you’re not, Wyatt. I thought you knew better than anyone that Shaken Dirty’s about more than the bottom line. It’s about more than the money, more than the fame. It’s about the four of us doing what we love, together. Where we do it or how much we get paid for doing it—that’s just the details, man. And yeah, if you fall off the wagon again, it’s going to hurt all of us. Not because of the money. But because we don’t want to see you die, man.”

He wasn’t going to touch that, not when a lump the size of a watermelon had already taken up residence in his throat. He’d always known he’d take a bullet for these guys, but to hear them say they’d do the same for him—when he wasn’t worth it, when he couldn’t be counted on, when he’d stood by and watched his own father die without lifting a finger to stop it, for Christ’s sake—fucked with him on a whole new level.

Still, he wasn’t yet a big enough pussy to say any of that, so he shoved all his screwed up emotions down deep and concentrated on what he could talk about. On what should matter to his friends.

“You say that now, but your money’s safe. What happens if you really do have to pay? If you lose millions of dollars—”

“We already paid.” Jared cut him off mid-sentence.

“Shut up, man,” Ryder hissed, elbowing him in the gut.

For long seconds, shock held him hostage as his brain tried to comprehend what Jared was telling him. “What the fuck does that mean? What did you pay? Who did you pay?”

“You think keeping you was easy when we were so insistent about dumping Micah?” Jared asked.

“Shut up,” Ryder said again, even more forcefully this time.

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinn added quickly.

“It does matter,” he and Jared said at the same time.

“I want to know exactly what he’s talking about,” Wyatt continued, as the room grew eerily silent.

“We ponied up a fuckload of money to keep you after the breach of contract,” Jared told him. “To the label, to Micah. Shit, even to management.”

“Exactly how much is a fuckload?” Wyatt demanded, as rage and heat and shame slammed into him like a runaway eighteen-wheeler.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ryder said again.

“How. The fuck. Much?” When they continued to stare at him blankly, he swore—loud and vicious. “If someone doesn’t start talking right the fuck now, I’m walking out that door and I am not coming back.”

As he waited for their answer, fury had his voice and hands shaking, had his head feeling like it was going to blow up.

Quinn must have figured out that he meant what he said, because the keyboardist was the one who eventually spoke. “Nine million, total.”

“Dollars?” he asked incredulously. “Nine. Million. Dollars?” He sat down at the table before he could fall down, as the number reverberated through his head. He buried his face in his hands. Tried to think. Tried to breathe. Nine million dollars. Nine. Million. Dollars. “Jesus Christ, are you insane?”

“It’s beginning to feel like it, what with the way you’re trying to throw your career away. And ours with it.” Jared sounded tough, but he was the first one to pull a chair up right next to Wyatt and sit down.

“We already told you. The money doesn’t matter,” Ryder repeated.

“Of course it fucking matters. What are you going to do when I screw up again? Where are you going to be?”

“Same place we’ve always been,” Quinn told him. “Hanging out together, making music, watching one another’s backs. We’ve been doing it since we were seventeen. I think it’s a little late to try to learn anything different now.”

“Yeah, especially since none of us wants things to be any different than they are.” Jared clapped him on the back.