Skeletons of Us (Unquiet Mind Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Anne Malcom
we could get anyway.
In addition to this, we all bought a beach house in Malibu where we spent our precious little downtime. Being a famous rock band was busy. Understatement of the century. When we weren’t recording or rehearsing or writing, we were touring. When we weren’t touring, we were doing press. Not that I complained. Busy was good. Busy was great. Constant motion meant my mind was always full of thoughts. It’s when it was empty, when I was stationary, that the danger came. That the memories came. So I was never stationary.
Apart from now. We hadn’t worked since the news of Drew’s death broke, not that we were overcome with grief. I had been shocked numb for a while, but I wasn’t beside myself with emotion. We hadn’t worked because the press went insane as soon as they got a hold of it. Paps were part of this life, an undesirable part, sure, but a necessary evil. They came with the territory, and they loved Unquiet Mind. Mostly because Sam and Wyatt were always doing something that sold papers.
They loved Noah and me too for different reasons. It was because we rarely did anything that sold papers. It was because we were different that they became fascinated, followed us everywhere, waiting to uncover some dark or dirty secret. Luckily, the publicist we hired was the best at her job and our dark and dirty secrets were buried deep.
No one knew about the Sons of Templar or my connection to them. Partly because I never went home to Amber, only to see Rocko the day he was born, before we started getting followed everywhere we went. Zane visited regularly, but we didn’t get snapped together when he did. And he didn’t wear his cut on the off chance that we did.
My past, everything with my father, it was sealed tight. I was constantly worried it would come out, but that was a worry for another day. Now I had to think about how to navigate the coming weeks of a press circus. Well, maybe not right now . Right now I was giving myself the luxury of sitting in my living room with my boys, who were bickering the only way they could, like the brothers they were.
Wyatt and Noah glared at him in a synchronized motion that looked like they’d rehearsed it. I guessed they had; they did it whenever Sam said something inappropriate—every day in other words.
“Bro,” Wyatt hissed through his teeth, not so subtly nodding his head toward me. “Ever heard of the saying ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead’?” he said, mirroring my earlier thoughts.
Sam snorted. “So I’m supposed to pretend I liked the guy just because he snorted too much coke and ended up six feet under? Fuck that. I’m sorry he’s dead and all,” he said with a glance to me, “but that’s not going to stop me from speaking my mind.”
“I think a bullet through the forehead will be the only thing that stops that mouth from spurting out bullshit on a daily basis,” Noah murmured.
Sam glared at him but didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned forward, grasping the bottle of whisky on the coffee table and unscrewing it. He poured four shot glasses to the brim and then handed them around the group.
“Now, the guy was a dick, but at least he introduced me to that actress who did yoga, what was her name?” he trailed off, scrunching up his nose.
“Sam,” Wyatt snapped with impatience.
Sam jerked out of his trance. “Right, yep, wrong time. I might look her up after this though,” he pondered. “So here’s to one of the worst actors in Hollywood and to the guy who, for better or for worse, was part of our lives. Sorry you’re dead, bro.” He lifted his glass to the ceiling. “To Drew.”
“To Drew,” I murmured as Wyatt and Noah said it in unison and we all brought our glasses to our lips. I quickly swallowed the bitter liquid, screwing up my face as it burned all the way down to my stomach.
I didn’t drink. Hugely strange for anyone in Hollywood, anyone my age, and certainly the lead singer of a rock band. But it wasn’t
In addition to this, we all bought a beach house in Malibu where we spent our precious little downtime. Being a famous rock band was busy. Understatement of the century. When we weren’t recording or rehearsing or writing, we were touring. When we weren’t touring, we were doing press. Not that I complained. Busy was good. Busy was great. Constant motion meant my mind was always full of thoughts. It’s when it was empty, when I was stationary, that the danger came. That the memories came. So I was never stationary.
Apart from now. We hadn’t worked since the news of Drew’s death broke, not that we were overcome with grief. I had been shocked numb for a while, but I wasn’t beside myself with emotion. We hadn’t worked because the press went insane as soon as they got a hold of it. Paps were part of this life, an undesirable part, sure, but a necessary evil. They came with the territory, and they loved Unquiet Mind. Mostly because Sam and Wyatt were always doing something that sold papers.
They loved Noah and me too for different reasons. It was because we rarely did anything that sold papers. It was because we were different that they became fascinated, followed us everywhere, waiting to uncover some dark or dirty secret. Luckily, the publicist we hired was the best at her job and our dark and dirty secrets were buried deep.
No one knew about the Sons of Templar or my connection to them. Partly because I never went home to Amber, only to see Rocko the day he was born, before we started getting followed everywhere we went. Zane visited regularly, but we didn’t get snapped together when he did. And he didn’t wear his cut on the off chance that we did.
My past, everything with my father, it was sealed tight. I was constantly worried it would come out, but that was a worry for another day. Now I had to think about how to navigate the coming weeks of a press circus. Well, maybe not right now . Right now I was giving myself the luxury of sitting in my living room with my boys, who were bickering the only way they could, like the brothers they were.
Wyatt and Noah glared at him in a synchronized motion that looked like they’d rehearsed it. I guessed they had; they did it whenever Sam said something inappropriate—every day in other words.
“Bro,” Wyatt hissed through his teeth, not so subtly nodding his head toward me. “Ever heard of the saying ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead’?” he said, mirroring my earlier thoughts.
Sam snorted. “So I’m supposed to pretend I liked the guy just because he snorted too much coke and ended up six feet under? Fuck that. I’m sorry he’s dead and all,” he said with a glance to me, “but that’s not going to stop me from speaking my mind.”
“I think a bullet through the forehead will be the only thing that stops that mouth from spurting out bullshit on a daily basis,” Noah murmured.
Sam glared at him but didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned forward, grasping the bottle of whisky on the coffee table and unscrewing it. He poured four shot glasses to the brim and then handed them around the group.
“Now, the guy was a dick, but at least he introduced me to that actress who did yoga, what was her name?” he trailed off, scrunching up his nose.
“Sam,” Wyatt snapped with impatience.
Sam jerked out of his trance. “Right, yep, wrong time. I might look her up after this though,” he pondered. “So here’s to one of the worst actors in Hollywood and to the guy who, for better or for worse, was part of our lives. Sorry you’re dead, bro.” He lifted his glass to the ceiling. “To Drew.”
“To Drew,” I murmured as Wyatt and Noah said it in unison and we all brought our glasses to our lips. I quickly swallowed the bitter liquid, screwing up my face as it burned all the way down to my stomach.
I didn’t drink. Hugely strange for anyone in Hollywood, anyone my age, and certainly the lead singer of a rock band. But it wasn’t
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