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Chapter Seven
JD
I stumbled out of my bedroom, bouncing off the walls in my trek to the kitchen. My bare feet seemed to thunder against the wooden floor of the hallway, or maybe that was the pounding in my head? I wished I had a machete to cut it from my shoulders because I was in fucking pain of my own making.
Thatcher sat at the counter with his phone and a cup of coffee, smirking at me. I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t remember much of the previous night. If I’d embarrassed myself, I was going to walk into the ocean even though I couldn’t swim.
“Good morning,” Thatcher greeted cheerily, a sarcastic grin plastered on his face.
I plopped into a chair and held my head in my hands. I fought back the urge to puke right there in his kitchen.
“How’s your head?” The mockery was thick in his question.
Sure, I’d had more than a few seltzers after we’d sung “Heroes,” the song I’d written in the aftermath of Hardy’s death. I’d forgotten about it until Riv brought it up while we were working on “Come Back”—a song I really didn’t like—before the party started.
We pulled out “Heroes” and polished it so we could include it on the album, along with our heartfelt thank-you to the members of Station 2, which would be included inside the album jacket for the fans.
The song was a tribute to the first responders who’d saved us after our accident, but I wasn’t sure if they’d felt the emotions behind the song as we sang it last night. Did our sincerity and appreciation ring through to them? I couldn’t tell.
That was why I started shotgunning seltzers. Now my head felt as if someone were kicking it from the inside like a fucking soccer ball.
“I’d like to bust it open and pull out the asshole kicking a soccer ball so I can rip off his feet. You?”
Thatcher chuckled. “I had a few more than usual last night. Not great, but surviving. You want some eggs and bacon?”
I laid my head on the kitchen island. “I don’t know. Maybe after I throw up?”
A cup of coffee slid in front of me with fluffy whipped cream on top. “That’s what you like, right? Sweet and hot?”
My heart melted. “How did you know?”
Thatcher smirked. “I made a guess, but from now on, I’ll pay closer attention, Jordan.”
His use of my first name surprised me. “You’ll pay closer attention? Why?”
“Well, I usually pay close attention to things that are important to me. You want breakfast?”
“Maybe toast? I don’t drink like that, usually. I promise.”
Thatcher’s laugh brought a smile to my face. “French or buttered?”
Thatcher stood at the stove, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he studied me. Feeling his full attention was overwhelming. “Either one is fine, as long as it’s not burned.”
“Noted. Drink your coffee, honey. You’ll need the caffeine. You agreed to go into the studio to record some songs with your bandmates. I’m not sure where the studio is, but you’re supposed to meet the band there at noon.”
“Fuck. Why can’t I remember that?” I’d never been black-out drunk before, and it was fucking disturbing.
Thatcher laughed. “I wasn’t keeping a count of what you drank, but Riv mentioned you had more than a couple of those seltzers, and I didn’t notice you eating anything. River made a point of telling me to make sure you got to the studio by noon.”
I tried to fucking remember, but nothing registered. “I’m supposed to be at the studio?”
“Uh, Sound Wave Studio. I think that’s what River said. Is that right?”
I nodded as I picked up the coffee and swigged down a gulp, happy I didn’t burn my throat. “That’s our studio. Was Lerner around last night? They usually handle our schedule.”
Thatcher set a plate of buttered toast in front of me. “River said they weren’t there last night. I only met them on the night of the accident. River said they’d texted him that they’d secured a couple of studio musicians to work with the band temporarily. I can drop you off at the studio before I run some errands.”
I swallowed a bite of the toast. “I’ll get Riv to pick me up. You don’t have to trouble yourself to take me to Sound Wave in the city. If he can’t pick me up, I’ll take a rideshare.”
