Promised Intent (HARDCOVER)

Kasen

Nobody starts life thinking they’re going to ruin everything they touch. That they’ll get addicted to drugs. Sacrifice the success of the band they’ve worked their ass off for. Kill one of the few people who was trying to help them. 

But that’s what my life has turned into. I may not have directly killed Robbie, our band manager, friend, and all-around good guy, but no one can deny I’m partially to blame. 

If I hadn’t fucked up, Robbie might not have been so stressed out and maybe he wouldn’t have had the heart attack that took him from us way too soon. 

But I did, and he did, and now I have to live with my sins, my regret, and worst of all, my fucking conscience. 

Life was never supposed to turn out like this.

There are parts of life that were easier when I was high—I never had to feel any pain, I was the life of the party with more friends than I could count, and I could ignore the emptiness that sometimes weighed me down so much I thought I was going to drown. But none of those things were worth what I nearly lost—my band, my found family, my life. 

I’ve been clean and sober for 625 days. Some days have been easy, while others have been fucking hard. But none have been as scary as the days coming up. We’re leaving for tour in two weeks, and I’m fucking terrified. 

Unfortunately, I’m not the only one. Trent, Miles, and Tristan aren’t being as subtle as they think they are with their constant attempts to hang out with me the closer we get to tour. They’ve turned into goddamn helicopter parents and I both love and hate them for it. 

They’re acting like I’m going to break, and I hate that I can’t guarantee I won’t. But I miss the way they used to look at me, and I’m getting desperate to find a way to prove to them I’m doing fine. I’ve come up with a plan to get someone to help me convince them of just that and help be my sober buddy on tour. Two birds, one stone. 

But my plan relies on calling on an old friend to do what she promised all those years ago. 

I knock on Mel’s door—I got her address from Decker Cross, our old producer, who recommended we work with her on this tour after Robbie died—and wait for her to answer. When she does, it’s a gut punch. Mel is no longer the tough brunette I grew up with. Now she’s got this pure spitfire energy that dares any man to take her on if he’s ready to have his balls eviscerated. Her bright dyed-red hair matches Ariel in The Little Mermaid, but that’s where the comparison stops. Colorful tattoos traverse both her arms and across her chest, and she has piercings through her bottom lip, her nose, one of her eyebrows, and several in both ears. Where Ariel was naïve and innocent, Mel is commanding and hardened. Despite her small stature—I doubt she’s taller than five feet three—she’s a powerhouse and demands excellence from everyone she works with. I’ve seen Melrose Fletcher a handful of times over the last few months while we’ve prepared for the tour since she’s our new tour manager, and each time it’s the same reaction. Seeing her feels like coming home but getting the shit kicked out of me at the same time. It’s bittersweet. 

Melly used to be my best friend once upon a time. She was the one person I confided all my hopes, dreams, and fears to. At one point, I even convinced myself she was my soulmate. But life fucked her over and she moved away, which caused the first tear in our friendship. It’s not easy to be long-distance friends when you’re thirteen. For months, we wrote letters to each other like old-school pen pals. Every day, I checked the mail like it would offer me salvation, and every time there was a letter from her, my spirits were high for days. 

But then the letters stopped. I continued to send mine until they started getting sent back and “Return to Sender” became my least favorite phrase. After the fourth returned letter, I took the hint that she was done with me and stopped sending them. It took three more years before I stopped writing them altogether and stuffing them in a shoebox in my closet. Getting our band off the ground is what finally made me quit. 

If she didn’t want to follow her promise, then I wasn’t going to abide by mine. 

So it feels a little ironic that the woman who drove me to dive headfirst into my band is now the one I need to help me convince them—and myself—that I can handle this tour. 

“Kasen? What are you doing here?”

I hate the distrust in her whiskey-brown eyes and the way she keeps her guard up around me. It was never like that with us before. We hid from everyone else, but never each other. It’s just another reminder we aren’t the kids we used to be. 

“I’m calling it in.” I don’t bother pussyfooting around why I’m here. 

She doesn’t question what I’m talking about—she knows—but her eyes show a caution that never used to be there when we were younger. My heart starts to race the longer she stares at me silently. 

“You promised me, Melly,” I remind her. 

She takes an exasperated breath and then steps aside, signaling for me to come in. I walk through the door and take a quick perusal of her house. A small smile tugs at my lips, and there’s a comforting warmth spreading in my chest at the chaotic mess that is her living room. I remember her room was always a disaster, but she was emphatic that it was organized chaos. It’s nice to see not everything has changed about her. 

“So what exactly do you need?” she asks.

I spin around and take in her crossed arms, the slight pucker of her lips, and the narrowing of her eyes. She looks slightly pissed, more than a little annoyed, and more beautiful than I even remembered. 

“I need you to fake date me.”