Redemption Read online

  Redemption

  Published by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Copyright © 2019 Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, or recording, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design:

  Najla Qamber, Qamber Designs and Media

  Formatting:

  Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

  Editing:

  Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit www.drrebeccasharp.com

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Other Works by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  About the Author

  First, To all of us who have made mistakes.

  To all of us…

  It’s not our faults that make us failures.

  Only an inability to forgive.

  Next, To Pap. This will never be enough.

  Last, To all those struggling.

  I see you.

  ;

  Keep fighting.

  Ash

  Five months ago

  Denver, Colorado

  “W-Who the f-fuck called you?”

  When you’re marginally drunk, you hear how you’re slurring your words. When you’re fucking shitfaced (an extreme sport for me, given how much and how frequently I indulged), slurred words registered as perfectly enunciated.

  And I was perfectly fucking enunciated.

  My vision, on the other hand, was a different story.

  Taylor Hastings swayed slowly in my vision, like an angel descending to Earth. No. I shook my head even though it made my double-vision worse. She was too good—too pure—and I was too fucked up; if Taylor were descending anywhere for my sake, it was straight to hell.

  Her lopsided short brown hair framed her angelic face—one I’d watched transform from the young girl who’d been my sister’s best friend to the breathtaking woman before me. It was a transformation I’d had to pretend not to notice, though it claimed all the attention of my dick.

  No wonder I was so good at pretending by now.

  Her full arched lips pinched tight with concern over what I knew was a fucking sky-falling brilliant smile. And those bright green eyes that normally looked like the clearest emeralds, now burned at me like Wildfire from Game of Thrones.

  And if that shit could take down all of King’s Landing, it could certainly take down me.

  I ripped my gaze away, my head swimming as I searched for something else to focus on. Too bad everything else—the dark dive-bar, the fuzzy TVs, the shitty people—blurred into a piece of abstract art that, if I could capture it, would probably make me a fucking fortune.

  It could hang in the Met and people would pass by it, astonished by the shock-and-awe it evoked, the intense anger and betrayal that flowed through each red, vengeful line.

  I laughed bitterly. Wrong. It was just splatter on paper, and I was just fucking drunk. And there was no talent in either.

  “The bartender did.” It took a second to remember what I’d asked as I watched her mouth mold around the words. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

  I pictured that mouth molding around my dick, my jeans tightening unbearably at the thought. Not that it mattered what the hell I imagined. Taylor Hastings was goes-to-church-every-Sunday prim and fucking proper.

  “I told him to call the band.” Didn’t I?

  “Yes, well, he called the hotel, and they called me asking to put your sister on the phone.”

  Fuck. I pinched the bridge of my nose. The last person I ever wanted to see me like this was Blake. She was too good, too. Just like Taylor. But my famous little sister would blame herself for the hole I’d dug around me in order to make her star sit higher.

  “Well, I d-don’t need a fucking babysitter,” I drawled with a sneer. “Just another drink and a good fuck.”

  I gripped the edge of the bar for support as I swayed dangerously trying to turn away from her. Fuck me if the disappointment in her eyes was more incapacitating than the alcohol could ever be.

  “I have to disagree, Ash. You’re falling apart.” Her voice didn’t waver, that was only one more misperception from the alcohol. “This whole tour… You’ve gotten worse and worse after each show. It’s like every time I turn around, you’re trying to go out for drinks and party with the band.”

  My head fell for a moment, concealing a self-deprecating laugh. If only she really knew…

  Thank fuck she didn’t see the flask always tucked in my pocket at all times, or the bottle of water that was never filled with water as a back-up, or the tiny stash of Listerine bottles I kept on hand as cover-up.

  The trick was to follow each drink with a shot-sized bottle of mouthwash—and swallow; it kept the buzz going with a minty-fresh kick to throw everyone else off my habit.

  “I’m fine,” I ground out.

  I couldn’t stand all her good-intentions wrapped up in a perfectly pitiful bow. And I couldn’t explain myself to her. It would be like trying to describe how the moon felt to the sun. She’d never understand what it was like to never be the one to shine. She’d never understand what it was like to never be enough.

  “Do you… Do you realize how much you’ve been drinking on this tour? I know it’s a big opportunity for the Zach and the guys, but it’s getting out of hand.”

  Anger burned through me. Of course, I knew. But I kept it together so it wasn’t a problem. I managed the band. I coordinated PR. I got shit done and the band was thriving. Therefore, I wasn’t a fucking deadbeat alcoholic.

  Therefore, I wasn’t an alcoholic because the alcohol wasn’t a problem.

  I glared at my empty glass, wishing it had one more sip left inside. I didn’t give a fuck that the bartender told me he was cutting me off. Prick.

  My eye caught on a double of clear liquid sitting in a glass within reach.

  Fuck it.

  I reached over in front of the tatted-up guy next to me and took his glass of straight vodka, held it up in silent ‘cheers’ as its owner stared at me with wide eyes, and downed it. Because fuck it.

  Fuck Blake.

  Fuck Zach.

  Fuck friendship.


  And fuck the angels who came to save us sinners.

  “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” The angry rasp from the victim of my alcoholic theft growled into my face.

  Damn. When did he get that close?

  My one eye squinted up at the much-larger-than-drunk-me-anticipated biker who stood and gripped my collar, yanking me against him. I winced at his stench.

  “I-I’m so sorry, sir,” Taylor gushed, wedging her petite form between us.

  I snorted as Taylor called the gigantic mural of tattoos ‘Sir.’

  “I’m taking him home right now,” she continued as she dug into her perfectly coordinated purse. “Please. Here’s fifty dollars for the drink he took and another round on me.”

  I should be the one giving this guy money for the drink but fuck if I even still had my wallet on me.

  He looked between the two of us until his pity for Taylor superseded his desire to kick my ass.

  I knew I was pitifully drunk when Sir Tats-A-Lot dropped my shirt with a snarl instead of punching my face in.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I grumbled.

  “You’re right. I could’ve just let him smash your face in,” she mumbled as she turned and hooked one of my arms over her shoulder, linked her hand with mine, and snaked her other arm around my waist.

  I stumbled against her as she led us from the bar.

  Just her hand in mine made my dick want to fucking explode, it was the most I’d ever touched her. Hell, probably the most anyone had ever touched her…

  Her hand was so warm. Warm and soft. Just like her heart… and like the rest of her was. Not that you could ever see enough to even imagine. Even now, she had on dark jeans and a loose sweater over a white button-down shirt. She always looked like she was on her goddamn way to church.

  “You can’t keep doing this, Ash. You can’t keep partying and drinking like this—it’s how you end up with an addiction.”

  The pity in her voice felt like acid rain over my skin. She was right. It was how you ended up with an addiction. Or how you continued to fuel one. Taylor had only been on tour with us for a few months; she’d missed the years I’d spent ending up where I was.

  I tried to pull away from her, but her small but firm grip tightened to stop me.

  “Please, let me help you,” she pleaded.

  Hell fucking no. The last thing I needed was her constant reminder of just how far I’d fallen.

  “I’ll be just fine in the morning. Always am,” I bit out forcefully.

  “Being able to act fine on the outside isn’t the same as being fine on the inside, Ash!” I swayed into her again, this time because I wanted to feel her softness against me, and the way my touch made her uncomfortable. “And you’re not fine on the inside… This is the third time in two weeks someone has gotten the two A.M. call that you’re too drunk and need a ride home.”

  Her desperate frustration rang like a siren in her words. And I remembered how fucking cruel it was for her to be so beautiful even when mad.

  I was going to have a word with the other members of the Zach Parker Project on how to keep their fucking mouths shut when off-stage. Especially if they were going to talk about me. Their fucking friend and manager.

  “That’s my own goddamn business.” Her fingers on mine tightened.

  Taylor never cursed. Not now. Not in high school. Not ever. Never drank. Never partied. And yet, she was still one of the most popular girls in school, because when someone has that much heart, it’s damn hard to criticize her uncommon preferences.

  “It’s not when it affects the people around you,” she said with a low voice.

  I gritted my teeth.

  Well, who the fuck would be thrilled to watch their superstar little sister fake a relationship with their best friend?

  Yeah, it was to save Blake’s floundering reputation. And yeah, it was great for his band—the band I managed—to open for pop princess, Blake Tyler; it would open doors on streets that hadn’t even been listed on our previous map.

  Keyword: faking.

  Correction: former best friend.

  It felt like we kept walking and the car kept getting further and fucking further away—just like what remained of any good opinion she could have held for me.

  “Just take me home, Pixie.” Resignation coated over the nickname I’d given her small, cheerful and spritely self years ago.

  Taylor was a lighthouse—a towering pillar of strength and a beacon of hope. And I was nothing more than a shoddy ship in stormy seas, drifting farther from her light, drinking myself until I drowned.

  Truth was she was too good for me even at my best, which is why I let her see me at my worst. Because only then would she come to me. And even though it was out of pure pity, she’d try to save me and, in the process, let down her guard enough for me to see her truth: that she cared about me more than she would ever admit to when I was sober.

  “The car is here.”

  I blinked twice, registering how we’d stopped and how her warmth began to drift away.

  We stood by one of the tour’s rental cars. Taylor had the door open and held onto it like it was a lifesaver and I was the storm trying to drown her. And the extent of my sins probably would. Still, her tiny, perfectly compact frame held her ground, rigid with righteousness.

  “Careful getting in,” she chided firmly. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

  Grumbling, I fell into the passenger seat and struggled to remember how I’d gotten here. I remembered Sir Tats-A-Lot, but not why he was angry. I remembered the sense of betrayal and anger I’d felt seeing my sister and Zach together, realizing their ‘fake’ relationship was now very, very real. But I couldn’t remember how many drinks it led me to have.

  And I remembered knowing the second I saw Taylor at the bar that tonight would change everything… But I wouldn’t remember how for a very long time.

  “Let’ss see whaat kind of s-selection we have here.” My announcement made me aware of my surroundings again.

  I’d reached the next level—the triple-platinum-awards-level-drunk, complete with a second serving of lucidity, a mini-bar of regrets, and the one-hundred-percent money-back guarantee that I wouldn’t recall any of this in the morning.

  Good.

  The nauseating beiges and blues of our five-star accommodations slurred through my vision. I was on the floor, my back propped against… something… as my hand rifled through the mini bar.

  “Ash, stop! You’re too drunk already. You need to get in bed.”

  Fuck.

  My eyes yo-yoed over to the bedroom where Taylor was pulling down the comforter and fluffing my fucking pillow like she was about to tuck me in.

  But maybe she was right.

  But as I pinched the bridge of my nose, the image flashed in my mind again: Zach and my baby sister sucking face like it was a goddamn Olympic sport. And rage fed the beast inside me.

  I didn’t know why I was angry.

  But alcohol justified it.

  Alcohol turned hurt into unrestrained anger. Alcohol turned an unexpected surprise into an unforgivable betrayal; it turned friend and family into foes. Alcohol didn’t just make me see the world through shadowed lenses, it ripped my fucking eyes out, made me blind, and rewired my brain to think I was seeing twenty-twenty.

  Betrayal. Betrayal. Betrayal.

  “You’re not my mom-ager,” I snarled, grabbing the tiny bottle of vodka and uncapping it. “You’ve done your job. You got me back. Thank you. Now, you can leave.”

  Her hand wrapped around mine, preventing that tiny glass opening from reaching my mouth and providing me with the only legal amnesiac I had access to.

  “I’m not leaving. And I’m not here because this is a job,” she said firmly, her eyes piercing right through the rotted walls around my heart. “I’m here because I,” her eyes dipped, “care about you. And you need help.”

  “Give it to me,” she demanded, her perfect Cupid’s-bow lips parting when I re
leased the bottle so quickly. “You have a problem, Ash. You need to stop drinking and go to bed.”

  Anger poured through my veins like rain on top of an already raging river.

  “If you wanted a drink, all you had to do was ask,” I sneered, nodding to the bottle she now held.

  “I’m dumping this down the sink.”

  “Leave and I’ll just drink o-one of these other treats while you’re gone.” The minibar was freshly stocked and waiting for me. “Unless you want to drink it.”

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing her drink. Something else she was too good for. It was wrong to feel a thrill when she looked down at the bottle in her hand. But then her shoulders gave a small slump before she extended her arm and put it on top of the dresser and out of my reach.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself, Ash?” she asked quietly.

  My throat bobbed. “Did you know?”

  She gulped but didn’t run. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes had a backbone of steel.

  “Know what?”

  “That they weren’t faking it,” I growled.

  The anger inside me was like a black hole; it came from nowhere and latched onto any slight and turned it into a bottomless pit where no vengeance would ever be enough.

  “Does it matter if they love each other?”

  Yes.

  No.

  Fuck. I grunted as my hands crashed onto my face and yanked back my hair as my gaze snapped to hers.

  “Why does no one see me?” I demanded in a voice I didn’t recognize. “Why does no one see me as I drown?”

  I was at the peak of my inebriation where things became so clear. Like the eye of the storm, I’d survived the destruction of drunkenness swirling inside me to make it to these moments of calm lucidity. Even though they’d be lost come morning.

  Small hands with pale blue nails reached out and cupped my face.

  “I see you, Ash,” she murmured, the green in her eyes so damn clear. “I see you, and you are a good man.”

  Through it all. The drinks and anger. The self-destruction and shame… I knew she wasn’t lying. I knew she saw the better man who’d gotten lost somewhere along his way.