Lead singer Tate Archer is finally back in control of his life after his time in rehab last year. Things are going well, especially with his girlfriend, Chloe. However, a sudden reminder of his past brings his world crashing down, followed by a life changing revelation from Chloe. Can he hold it together or will his addiction take hold of him again?
Gregg is still struggling after being kidnapped and almost drowning. He’s trying to pretend everything is okay, in spite of the terrifying nightmares, and crippling fear of water. Can Bria and his band mates help to break this nightmare cycle for him?
Luke finally marries his true love, Pippa, and settles down to start his happily ever after. But things are not as they seem, and very quickly take a sinister turn.
Dillon, still struggling with his past, is heartbroken when he loses someone he loves. As usual, his emotions play out in anger, with actions that have serious consequences for his future.
Is this the end of the dream? The end for Broken Chords or can these friends pull together to help each other while dealing with their own individual traumas?
Tate
Tate Archer stands at the edge of the magnificent ballroom and watches his friend and fellow band mate, Luke, dance with his new wife. The wedding has gone exactly as he thought it would. Luke’s wife, Pippa, was all about the attention, endless spotlights, and anything else her husband’s celebrity status brings. She lapped it up like a drug, and their wedding was no exception. No expense had been spared. Her new husband was worth a fair bit, so that’s no surprise.
Tate smiles as his beautiful girlfriend, Chloe, emerges from the crowd of guests and walks over to him. They’ve been together less than a year, but he can’t imagine ever being without her. She’s worked her way into his life, and he loves her deeply.
She reaches up and kisses him. ‘Hey gorgeous. Are you surviving?’
He puts on an exaggerated grin, and she playfully hits him on the chest.
‘Oh knock it off. I promise I’ll make it up to you later.’
He wraps his arms around her and holds her against his chest. ‘You’re really going to have to do something epic, to make up for this.’
‘It’s a wedding, Tate. It’s kind of a normal thing.’
‘Nothing about this fiasco is normal. She must have spent six figures on it. It’s ridiculous!’
‘My goodness, you are in a grumpy mood today.’ Her face softens and she rubs his back. ‘Are you doing okay though?’
Tate nods, even though he’s far from okay. Being a recovering drug addict and a borderline alcoholic, this wedding isn’t his idea of fun. He’s stressed and on edge. Not sleeping last night is also adding exhaustion to the list. The sooner he can get out of here, the better.
He catches his sister, Bria, waving at them from across the room, then pointing at Chloe. ‘I think someone wants you.’
‘Are you okay to be left alone?’
‘I promise I won’t go on a rampage and destroy the place... no matter how tempting.’
‘Behave. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
He watches her disappear around the corner with his sister, then looks around the stuffy, over decorated room. A lot of the guests are celebrities he recognises, but a few must be Pippa’s school or college friends. And those are the ones giving him a little too much attention.
He makes his way over to the toilets, politely smiling at everyone as he passes, before eventually reaching safety. He’s well used to the whole polite smiling thing with his job, but he’s not in the mood for it tonight. Far from it.
After using the facilities, he washes his hands and faces his reflection. He looks tired. He thought he got rid of the black rings while he was away. Seems he’d only dodged them for a few weeks. The mess with Bria and Gregg has been on his mind since he got back which isn’t helping his less than regular sleeping patterns.
Tate dries his hands, then glances over his shoulder as the bathroom door shuts and locks. He freezes as he stares over at the door and the person he’s now apparently trapped with. ‘Astrid? What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I’m friends with Pippa. Of course I’d be invited to her wedding. You look well.’
‘Thanks. Now open the fucking door and get out of my way.’
‘Oh now, don’t be like that. I haven’t seen you for well over a year. We have a lot to catch up on.’
‘No we don’t.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m seriously not doing this with you. Get out of my way!’
‘Why are you being like this?’
‘Are you fucking serious? You threw me under the bus. Pouring your heart and soul out to any reporter who’d give you five minutes in the spotlight. You near on called me a junkie. Said I’d been using heavily for years. You stuck a knife in my back to get yourself some publicity. That’s why I’m being like this.’
‘You know what the press is like. My comments were exaggerated by the reporters who spoke to me.’
Tate crosses his arms so she can’t see him clenching his fists. The comments had come from Astrid. The reporters just ran with what she fed them. ‘That must be one hell of a lawsuit.’
Her forehead scrunches at his words. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You suing the papers for misquoting you.’
It takes a few seconds for what he’s saying to sink in. She shrugs and smiles at him. ‘It’s done now. There’s no point going over old news. So, you look well.’
‘You said that already. Move.’
She takes a step closer to him and he straightens his shoulders. He’d pretty much trust anyone and anything over Astrid. ‘So, how are things with the band?’
‘Grand.’
She steps closer and he backs away, bumping in to the sink. If this was a guy he’d shove them aside and be on his way. But Astrid is a whole other entity. There’s no way he’s going to even sidestep around her, in case he bumps into her. ‘And Chloe? Things are still going well with her?’
He’s not going there with her. Not now. Not ever. After a long wait, she realises she’s not going to get an answer. She smiles and holds out a piece of paper. ‘Just in case you lost it.’
‘Lost what?’
‘My number of course.’ She reaches out to touch his chest, but he jumps back and shouts. ‘Don’t you fucking touch me!’
‘Very well.’ She places the paper on the edge of the sink and smiles up at him. ‘Give me a shout. I’ve missed you.’
Astrid waves and turns around, unlocks the door, then goes back to the reception party. Tate waits another minute to make sure she’s gone, then slumps back against the sink.
What the fuck just happened? That was weird, even for her. He looks down at the number resting on the sink, then angrily tears it into pieces, and drops it in the bin before he turns away and heads back to Gregg. He drops down in the seat beside him and takes a long drink of coke, briefly wishing it was something stronger.
‘What the fuck happened to you? You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘Astrid.’
Gregg looks over his shoulder to the toilet. ‘I thought you went for a piss?’
‘She made an appearance and locked the two of us in the room.’
‘She’s here?’
‘Mates with Pippa apparently. Nice of her to give me the heads up that Astrid would be here.’
‘I’d say the same about Luke, but I doubt he knew. Shit. That’s not at all creepy. You okay?’
Tate nods then takes a drink. He’s not okay and that’s pissing him off. Seeing her like that out of the blue, had completely thrown him. The woman hadn’t been a major part of his life for the six weeks they were together. It was sex. Nothing more. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen their relationship the same way. She’d imagined this big romance between them, and when he dumped her, she’d taken it badly.
Telling everyone who would listen, that he’s a junkie, had been a great way to get back at him. ‘Just threw me a little. Wasn’t expecting to run into her in the toilet like that.’
‘Too right. What did she want?’
‘Me.’
Gregg grimaces. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Left me her number in case I forgot it. I tore it up and threw it in the bin, before you ask.’
‘Didn’t think you’d do different, buddy. You manage to extract yourself without losing any limbs?’
‘Just about.’ He drums his fingers on the bar top, as he glances around the room. Everywhere he looks there are people with cameras, or waiters with drink. It’s suffocating. He needs to get out of here. ‘Where’s Chloe?’
Gregg shakes his head. ‘Went off somewhere with Bria. Bit of a girly chat. Probably comparing their studly boyfriends. Hey, you okay?’
‘No. I need to go.’
Gregg stops joking around and squeezes his arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get you to the car and then I’ll track down Chloe.’
‘Thanks. Sorry about this.’
‘Never apologise, Tate. I’d prefer you go, than stay and struggle.’
Dillon
In his thirty-seven fucked up years on the planet, Dillon has had his fair share of heartache. Time and time again, he was hurt by people he thought had his back. He learned his lesson a long time ago. Built a wall around his heart to protect himself from the pain.
He’s had enough of that to last him a lifetime.
Sitting in a posh hotel room, best man at his friend’s wedding, he realises all his wall-building came to nothing.
His heart has yet again been torn apart, but this time it’s entirely his fault.
No one did this to him. No one betrayed him or walked away from him.
He takes another drink from the bottle of whiskey, not feeling the effects of the alcohol. His body is used to it at this stage. Which is probably something he should be worried about.
He keeps his alcohol and drug use off the radar for the most part. The guys aren’t idiots. They know he uses, but he’s got a handle on it. He’s not addicted to any one drug. He’ll take whatever he can get.
That’s also probably something he should be worried about.
Right now he’s not. Right now, he couldn’t give a fuck what he takes. As long as it stops the pain he’ll take it all.
The coke he got from a friend of Luke’s seemed like a good idea at the time. He doesn’t usually go for coke, but it was all he could get his hands on. And fuck knows he needed something.
He tears off the suit jacket, rolling it in a ball and throwing it across the room, followed by the tie. Damn thing is suffocating him. He should be downstairs. He should be making sure Luke is being looked after. Should be making sure he’s having the best day of his fucking life.
But he can’t.
He spends most of his life pretending to be someone else. It’s easier than dealing with the shit that’s in his head. But he can’t pretend about this. The thought of going downstairs, smiling and chatting to people with a gaping wound in his chest is far from appealing.
He rubs his chest, a little surprised there isn’t a fucking massive hole there. That’s what it feels like. He curses himself and gets up, nervous energy forcing him to pace at the foot of the bed.
He loves Luke.
He’s completely, totally, and stupidly in love with his best friend. Has been for years.
But now Luke is married. Not that it makes a difference. He could never have anything with Luke.
That didn’t stop him wishing for it.
He takes another drink, the agitation building with every step. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he expected to carry on like nothing has happened?
Nothing did happen. This is affecting him and him alone.
As always.
God he’s so sick of being alone.
He stumbles into a nest of tables, knocking the lamp onto the floor, breaking the glass shade. The mix of coke and whiskey is fucking with his balance.
He looks down at the broken lamp for a long time, just staring at it like the damn thing is going to put itself back together again.
But it’s fucked. No putting that back together. Some things can’t be put back together once they’re broken.
For some reason, he finds that funny. He must be wasted if he’s comparing himself to a fucking lamp.
He turns and looks around the room, catching his reflection in the mirror over the vast bed.
The laughter fades as he stares at himself. He takes another drink from the bottle, watching his reflection do the same.
‘You’re a right fuck up you know that.’ He points to himself, taking an unsteady step closer to the mirror. ‘No wonder no one wants you. Fucking pathetic waste of space.’
He picks up the remains of the lamp from the ground and launches it at the mirror, taking out his reflection. The mirror drops from the wall, landing against the wooden headboard, shattering into pieces.
Before the mirror has settled on the bed, he picks up the chair by the desk and throws it against the wardrobe door, splitting the wood.
With hot angry tears pouring down his face, Dillon unleashes his temper that he usually keeps a hold on. But there’s no holding it back now. His world has just collapsed and he hasn’t got a fucking clue what to do about it.
He knows he’s gone too far when the TV flies out the window, landing in the flowerbed under his room, shattered glass falling on the perfectly pruned flowers. But there’s no point holding back at this stage. He’s already fucked himself again.
Might as well go out in style.