A Filthy Friend (Filthy Line #5) - Jaxson Kidman Page 0,1
hours.
Bad boy drummer for FILTHY LINE arrested for public intoxication.
Or if a fan noticed me, all it would take was a few texts and a picture and I’d be swamped with FILTHY LINE fans looking for a picture or autograph.
And while that wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, I wasn’t in the mood for any of it. I actually just wanted to be home. In my bed. I wanted to keep drinking whiskey and either pass out or puke.
I never thought the day - or night - would come when my dick would be drained from a beautiful woman and I felt nothing.
I walked a bit more, then had to make the phone call I hated to make.
I had to call Toby.
We had an agreement from years ago that if any of us needed something, call Toby. That’s what he got paid for. On top of his normal shit of making sure the band had a recording deal and that we weren’t getting fucked over by some big corporation.
Loyal as always, Toby answered my call.
All I said was I need a ride.
He asked where I was.
And that was it.
So I sat my ass down on the curb and waited.
I dug into my pocket and took out the folded envelope.
On it was Mitchy’s handwriting.
A letter from him to me.
It arrived the same day I got the news he was dead.
Dead.
Mitchy is dead.
It was something that went through my head countless times but something I never thought would actually happen.
I put the unopened letter away, trading it for my phone.
I did the same dumb thing as always… opening my text messages.
Hey. Feeling like shit. It’s all so heavy. I’m sure you’re sleeping. Ignore this when you read it. I miss you.
I sent the text and waited for Toby to pick me up.
When he showed up, I stood up and got into his small, luxury car.
Toby looked at me. “Do I need to know?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“No blood? Fights? Accidents…”
“No,” I said.
“Then what happened?”
I looked at Toby. “I bought some physical comfort. I let the car take her home. I was going to walk home. Didn’t realize how far away I was.”
“Got it,” Toby said.
He started to drive.
I knew it wasn’t going to be long until he talked to me.
“Have you talked with the other guys at all today?”
“No.”
“You should give them a call.”
“Why?”
“It’s more than a band,” Toby said.
I looked at him. “What do you think is going to happen? It won’t change anything. He was here, Toby. He was with us. I know he fucked up with Jay’s place. But he left when it was time. Maybe it wasn’t time. I don’t even know what happened to him…”
“Sab, you know what happened,” Toby said. “You can’t downplay it.”
“He went out like a rock star, Toby.”
“That he did. I don’t think there’s comfort in that.”
“None at all,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay. Tell me about your hired help for the night.”
“Hired help,” I said. “Wow.”
“What was she? A friend?”
“Shut up, Toby,” I said.
He laughed.
He drove me to my house up in the hills.
It’s tucked away, not really hidden, overlooking the city. I swore I would never let fame get to me the way it got to so many others.
I thanked Toby for the ride, climbed out of the car and stumbled my way to the house.
Lights turned on as I entered the house.
Everything was top of the line, super fancy, motion detected and all that bullshit stuff.
I shut the door and made it to the couch before falling down and passing out.
I dreamt about being in the backseat of that car again.
Except it was with someone else.
Someone I’ve known for a long time.
Someone named Bree…
Someone I could never have.
“Toby said we needed to get together,” I said.
“Now we’re listening to Toby?” Nash asked.
Jay sat on an amp without a guitar in his hands.
Reed and Dex each sat in a metal folding chair.
Nash stood on the practice stage where he always did, except he wasn’t going to be singing today.
Just like me… I sat on my drum throne, but it was in front of the drums.
I never thought the day would come when FILTHY LINE put music in the backseat.
“We have to issue a statement,” Dex said.
“Why?” Reed asked.
“Dex is right,” Jay said. “If we don’t do something, they’ll just run with stories about him. They’ll paint him as this loser junkie who deserved to die. And our silence will only fuel it.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Nash