Page 7 of Just Wait

No matter what we did, we couldn’t get through to him.

It’s going to fuck me up when he dies.

And he will.

There’s no way around it.

Addiction that deep only ends two ways—either the person decides to get help or they don’t. Eventually he’s going to have to pay the piper.

That fucker was one of my best damn friends too, but the sad truth is, we couldn’t cover for him anymore, even if we wanted to.

We do health checks before every tour, and the doctor responsible for Drew’s appointment wouldn’t sign off. Once the doc saw the track marks all over him, he brought it to the label, and they put their foot down.

We’ve always had a morality clause in our contracts, but they really only freak out about opiates. Anything else, they ignore, but the owner of the record label lost a bandmate to H back in the day.

Well, technically Bryan Thomas died by suicide, but everyone knew his addiction is what got him in the long run.

It’s an ugly truth of the industry, and none of us are perfect.

When we were first coming up, multiple members of more seasoned bands told us to stay away from opiates—the shit that causes a physical dependence, not just a mental addiction.

I took that as canon, but Drew was stubborn. He’s always done what he wanted, and he made it clear he wasn’t interested when the label offered to fund his trip to rehab. They even agreed not to kick him out of the band, if he stuck it out through the full ninety days.

No matter how hard we begged him to take the deal, none of us could talk any sense into him, and he walked. He’d been spiraling for a while, but I truly believed he’d come back and take the deal. It’s been six months without a word, and I’ve mostly come to terms with the fact he made his choice.

You can’t save everyone.

Hell, most days, I’m barely keeping Liminal together, let alone saving anyone.

“I’m bored.” Malcolm shoves himself off the couch in the greenroom we’ve been chilling in since finishing our sound check.

We’re supposed to be discussing what went wrong during practice and trying to expand on what went right.

Only, we’ve been doing this shit for years. We don’t need another meeting to micromanage each other. We all know our parts.

Well, me, Malcolm, and Riser have been at this for years, but Tennyson and Parish are relatively new additions to the band, even if they’ve been in the industry for years.

The label replaced Drew faster than I thought possible, but there was a lot on the line. The tour we were supposed to start six months ago was delayed until we could find a replacement and ensure they would gel with the band.

Tennyson is a killer bass player, and he fits well with us.

We also gained Parish as a bonus. He’s a beast on three different instruments, and I’m only a little jealous of how talented he is.

Some of the fans were pissed when they found out the tour was being delayed, but most were understanding, considering the label went the honest route.

Even with the staffing switch up, we’ve mostly settled into being a cohesive unit.

We’ve had no choice.

The label sent Randy—our official babysitter—to ride out the first four weeks of the tour. Despite all the shit we’d gotten into over the years, that was a first. He left a week ago, and the atmosphere is a hell of a lot more relaxed. Although, the downside is, we’re now on our own again to keep Mal in line.

Maybe I should hire him a professional babysitter?

I almost laugh.

He’d never put up with that.

He takes off for the door, and I sigh.