Bottleneck Read online

  Table of Contents

  FREE NOVELLA

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  POSTFACE

  ALSO BY MAX

  MAILING LIST

  THE MUSIC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOTTLENECK

  Copyright © 2020 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Image: Wanger Aguiar

  It’s never too late.

  Chase that dream.

  Tell them you love them.

  Do what feels right.

  ONE

  Emery

  “Thank God I’m Not You” - Himalayas

  Shame isn’t an emotion I’m accustomed to. But when you’re bent double in the foyer of a concert venue, hurling what’s left of the alcohol you consumed for dinner into a trash can, a guy has to feel some kind of humiliation.

  If only it were the actual fucking booze that caused my stomach to clamp tighter than a nun’s cunt.

  Nope. Most of a bottle of whiskey and a sneaky vodka chaser doesn’t have this effect on me anymore. It was them: Kris and Henley. My whole fucking reason for showing my face at a Lords of London gig when their drummer promised to rearrange my appearance if he ever saw me again.

  I couldn’t stand by and watch my best buddy self-destruct a second longer. I couldn’t be witness to his pig-headedness while he drowned his sorrows and followed me down a spiral that sure as fuck don’t lead to Wonderland. So, I stepped in and brought the object of his affection to him so that they’d remedy the epic fuck-up she made.

  I got my best buddy back together with his girl.

  I should feel proud of that, right? Fuck, no. Not when their happy glow lit up the side of the stage when they saw each other again. Not when the stank of their lust almost choked me where I stood on the side-of-stage steps.

  I had to get the fuck out of there if I wanted any hope at keeping my jealousy contained.

  I want a chick like Henley. I want that kind of blind devotion. And the worst part of it? The girl I almost had that with opened for tonight’s show.

  Alice fucking Walker. The very embodiment of the impossible dream.

  My breaths come ragged and heavy, the putrid odor of what I’ve expelled slapping me in the face. My knuckles are white where my fingers grip the sides of the can; the metal receptacle is my only hope at staying upright.

  If I let myself fall now, I’m not sure I’d ever stop.

  “Oh, my God.”

  The whisper echoes louder than the girl probably intended, her hand doing nothing to hide the surprise—or is it shock—as she elbows her friend in the side.

  “You know who that is, right?”

  “O. M. G. Clara. As if I don’t.”

  Fuck it. I knew I should have stuck around behind security lines, but seeing Kris get his happily ever after with a chick that I totally dig is equal to scooping my eyes out with a dirty fucking pick.

  Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I force myself upright and pull a deep breath in my mouth to avoid the acidic smell from below. A quick scour of the barren foyer shows water station next to the merchandise stand. I urge one foot in front of the other and zero my gaze in on the target: ten gallons of rehydration.

  “Say something,” the none-too-subtle friend hisses. “He’s getting away, babe.”

  As if I’m some fucking prize to be captured. Well. I suppose to some I am.

  “Emery!”

  Fuck. The bass-heavy stretches of the Lords of London’s music drift through the thick double doors that lead into the auditorium. Security is few and far between; most man the doors from the inside. You know—where the fucking fans are supposed to be.

  A few more yards and I can wash this taste from my tongue. Really didn’t think through this part of the plan. I should have slipped out the service door and skimmed the rear parking lot, but that would have meant an almost guaranteed run-in with Alice, so I hedged my bets leaving through the public entrance. All I need is a carb-heavy meal to settle this nausea and an hour’s kip on the goddamn plane while I head home.

  “He didn’t answer,” my panicked fan calls to her friend, ditching the whisper.

  The mere fact she has to call back to the other girl sends a shiver down my spine. Means the chick is on foot.

  In pursuit.

  Like I said earlier: fuck.

  “Emery!” Her breathless call precedes the slap of her boots on the heavy-duty carpet. “That is you, right?”

  Oh, I shouldn’t …

  “Nope. Got the wrong guy.” I don’t even spare her a look as I crowd the water cooler. As if a goddamn plastic cup is likely to save you from some hormone-raging teen. One hand braced atop the canister, I shunt the tap with my thumb and eyeball the flow of icy liquid as it dribbles at an excruciating rate.

  “Oh.” Her footfalls halt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your night. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

  She had to, didn’t she? Had to fucking show me she has more common decency than I do. Fuck conscience. With a heavy sigh, I raise the cup and chug the water, swirling it around before it slides down my throat. Don’t do it, you douche. Don’t you dare.

  “Wait.” Fuck you, asshole. I turn around, shoulders dropped, and take a deep breath. “You were right. I was messing with you.”

  I should be focused on the jailbait before me, but instead, her over-excited friend in the background steals my attention. Bitch has a grin to challenge the fucking Joker. No points for guessing who drives this dynamic duo.

  “What are you lovely ladies after? An autograph? Selfie?” Might as well cut to the chase so I can get back to escaping this house of horrors.
<
br />   The dark-haired little fox before me tugs her bottom lip between pearly-white teeth. “Um. Kris is here tonight, right?”

  My eyes narrow, taking her in all over again. A super-short, pleated school-girl skirt covers a tiny little ass, stick-thin legs concealed in fishnets. Her feet must weigh a hundred pounds with the size of her platform boots. Whatever tits she has are strapped to her bone-thin frame by a black boob-tube.

  I thought she was out to get laid, but now that I pair her wardrobe with the purple streaked hair, it starts to make sense.

  “Yeah. He is.” I flick my gaze to the other bird again, trying to mentally peel back the layers of makeup and figure out how old these two are. “If you were inside, you’d know that.”

  Skinny twirls one of her multi-colored strands around a finger, but it doesn’t seem to be as though she wants to be cute. Nah. She’s nervous. “You think you’d be able to take us to meet him?” She frowns when I don’t respond straight away. “I mean, I know it’s a big ask, but my friend and I couldn’t afford tickets, and we came anyway just in case …”

  Her incessant chatter dies off as I tune out. What the fuck? If my shallow ego wasn’t bruised enough already, this tiny slip of a girl has crushed it beneath her neo-gothic shitkicker.

  “Shut up for a second.” I lift a hand to quiet her elaborate explanation. “Let me get this straight: you don’t give a fuck about me?” I clarify. “You only want to meet Kris?”

  She nods, lip pinched between her teeth again. Way to make a guy feel good about himself, babe. Her pal reaches our fucked-up introduction, standing beside her buddy.

  “I can’t even deal with this fuckery.” The heel of my boot scuffs up the carpet as I turn and head for the exit. Gonna need two smokes at least to recover from this burn.

  “Hey!”

  Every muscle in my back bunches. That wasn’t the little goth chick hollering after me as though I owe her the world.

  “She wasn’t asking for much, ya know.”

  Fuck it. Might as well light up now—not as though there are any security guards nearby to say a fucking thing. I scrounge around in my pocket and pull out the squashed pack of smokes and my Zippo. The tension in my back doesn’t ease while I tug a slightly bent stick out and light it.

  “I can’t believe the jerk is smoking in here,” the self-righteous bitch mutters to skinny.

  I ignore her remark and turn back to the girls with the burning pick-me-up pinched between my fingers. “Let me ask you this.” They watch as I drag deep and then puff the cloud of smoke in the bigger one’s face. “Imagine for a moment, if you will, that you’re in a band. Relatively famous.” I tip my head to one side. “Definitely with your own fan club.” The smaller chick gets where this is going; she can’t even look at me. “And some fucking teenager only stops you so that she can meet your bandmate.” Her pal, on the other hand, holds my eye with her own aggression. “Maybe it’s just me,” I announce, arms swung wide, “but that fucking shit sucks.”

  “I’m sorry.” Goth-girl takes a step back, halted by her friend’s firm hand to her upper arm.

  “Don’t apologize to him, Clara.”

  “Yeah, Clara,” I taunt like the fucking grown-up I’m clearly not.

  Feisty takes a step forward, dragging her unwilling accomplice with her. “You’re in a band that we both like. So what?” She leans in close. Too close. “Why does that mean we automatically have to like you?”

  Fucking bitch has a point. Not that I’ll let her know that. “Common courtesy,” I spit back at her. “Are you saying, if I’d walked past you two just now and then stopped when your pal here asked me to, but only so I could get her to introduce me to you, she wouldn’t have felt like shit?”

  “Whatever,” feisty snaps at the same time as her friend mutters, “It’s happened before.”

  “What?” I turn my head to give the small one my undivided attention. “Really?”

  “Come on,” the bigger one orders. “Let’s go.”

  “No.” I jam the wasted cigarette between my lips and reach out to forcibly separate them.

  Feisty rears back as though I slapped her, while goth girl seems as though she’s shocked a God would have touched a mere mortal. I pity this bitch.

  “People really approach you just to get to her?” I ask Clara, jabbing a hand in her friend’s direction.

  Goth girl nods.

  “That’s some fucked-up bullshit right there.” I take five and drag through the last of my smoke. I’ll probably regret this but sue me—she seems like she needs it. “Fuck it. Let’s go.” I stamp the butt out on the edge of the trash can and then grab the tiny girl by her hand.

  Feisty starts to follow.

  “Not you.” My pointer hovers dangerously close to her over-made face. “You can wait here.”

  “Clara?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “Are you sure?”

  “What the fuck are you worried about?” I scoff. “That I’ll sneak her into a back room and fuck her brains out?” I lean in for emphasis. “Bet that would get your jealous panties in a twist, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t rate yourself too highly,” the jaded one spits back. “I ain’t chasing whatever diseases you’re carrying.”

  “Clean as a whistle, baby.” I throw her a saucy wink. “Got the email to prove it if you wanna see.”

  The confused little thing at my side glances back and forth between us, finally settling on me with a soft smile. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. “I think I’ll be okay, Misty.”

  I jerk the kid under my arm and start us toward the backstage entrance. Misty—pfft. More like Rocky. Against better judgement, I twist and poke my tongue out at Clara’s rejected buddy. Fuck that shit. There’s being a wing-woman, and then there’s being used. I can guarantee her pal Misty has never once been the honey for this chick.

  “Clara, huh?” I glance down at where she slowly softens under my arm. “You’re kind of small, you know that?”

  “Uh-huh.” There’s an emptiness in her eyes that I don’t like.

  “You must be young, then.”

  She shrugs, making my arm jump. What kind of answer is that?

  I ignore the niggle in my gut that says I should just run with the assumption she’s underage, and forge ahead anyway. “How young? Fourteen? Fifteen? Your parents know where you are?”

  Her head jerks back as we cross through to the off-limits area, her brow knitted while she stares up at me. “Are you kidding?”

  I slide my arm free so that I can get a proper look at her. She stops walking when I do, affording me a better rake over that lean body. “You can’t be any more than sixteen.”

  “I’m twenty-two.” The insult sits on the tip of her tongue, yet she wisely chooses not to sling it while I deal with the security guy.

  Can’t take risks when she hasn’t seen Kris yet.

  “Twenty-two, huh?” I fold my arms, drawing her eye to the size of them once we’re home and hosed. “Prove it.”

  Without breaking eye contact, she reaches up and slides a single card from the side of her boob tube. Her license is presented before my face for inspection, clamped between forefinger and thumb.

  Unless her older sister looks exactly like her and she’s running under a false name for the night, this chick one hundred percent told the truth.

  Fuck.

  “Bitch, you need to eat something.”

  Jaw slack, she expels a disgusted sigh while stuffing the card back in her top. “Are we meeting Kris, or what?”

  “Yeah, we are.” I lift my hands. “But fair warning, he’s with his woman after a while apart so I won’t be held responsible for what they’re doing back here.”

  “His woman.” She frowns. Oh, fuck. She wasn’t.

  Clara’s throat bobs with a hard swallow.

  She was.

  “Babe,” I start a little softer than before. “Don’t look so devastated.”

  She glances around, lips in a firm line, as though she wants to figure out wh
ere to go on her own. Chick needs to escape.

  “I get it. You’re hooked on Kris’ image.” I use a palm to her lower back to steer her in the right direction. “But that’s all it is: an image. He’s an entirely different guy beneath all that.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “That’s why I like him. Because he’s a lot like me.”

  Fuck. “He ain’t the only fish in the sea, darlin’.” I point out which corridor to take, casing the place out for any signs of Alice or her band.

  “Maybe not.” She slows, seemingly unsure if this is still a good idea. “But the others all suck.”

  “Thanks,” I quip.

  I at least get a small smile from her. “Sorry.”

  “Hey. Maybe he’s taken, but you know what else he is?” I ask.

  She shrugs. A lot. Just like him.

  “He’s a fucking good friend,” I state.

  And a fucking good friend is what I think this chick needs right now—not another Misty.

  “Let’s see if we can track him down.” Hopefully, I’ll be able to hold back my vomit this time.

  TWO

  Alice

  “The Drug in Me Is You” – Falling in Reverse

  Ugh. Comfy sweats, a box of chocolates, and an hour decompressing on the PlayStation are my Heaven. Lords of London tear into the final song of their set above, building the audience to an epic conclusion for what has been a great show.

  One we were lucky enough to open for.

  Bringing Kris from Dark Tide in for a guest spot as lead guitar topped off what has been one of Jasper’s tightest performances to date. That guy has a magnetism that nobody can deny.

  Fingers pressed to the ache above my eye, I step out into the corridor with the hopes I can get out to the tour bus before the post-show rush. Security buzz around preparing for the madness that is the backstage-pass crowd, yet not one of them pay us regulars any mind as we move through the darkened halls.

  Which is why I’m not surprised to see none of the rent-a-cops bothers to ask Dark Tide’s bassist what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Why is he even here? Jasper mentioned Kris, but he assured me it was a solo spotlight. He promised me none of the others would come.