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Storming the Castle
by Arianna Hart

Copyright © 2017 by Arianna Hart. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

MIAMI, FLORIDA

Sam Castle managed to open one eye--he wasn’t sure if it was his right or his left--and tried to remember where he was. Obviously, he was in a hotel room. He’d been in hotels nonstop for the last eighteen months. The air conditioning was blasting, so it was hot outside.

The picture on the wall was tropical, so he was probably in the south. Alabama? No, that was three nights ago, he remembered that much. Florida. That’s right, Miami Beach. American Airlines Arena. Through a fog of alcohol-induced pain, he sort of remembered doing a second encore, despite his ears practically bleeding by that point.

Even with the best protection money could buy, and he had a shitload of money, his ears still rang for hours after every concert. But after killing his second, or possibly third, bottle of Jack Daniels, ringing ears were the least of his problems.

He fell more than rolled out of bed and landed in a tangle of sheets and the bedspread. The smell of stale beer and spilled whiskey made his stomach churn as he stumbled to the bathroom.

The lights over the acre of marble countertops and shiny chrome made him wince, but seeing his reflection in the mile-wide mirror had him recoiling. There was no way that could be him. His eyes were so bloodshot they were more red than green, his face was pasty white and puffy, and his shoulder-length black hair was a mass of sweat-dried clumps and snarls.

He turned around, trying to escape the image, but his reflection mocked him from every wall in the bathroom. His hands shook as he turned on the water in the shower. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, barely knew where he was or where he was going, forget what he’d done the night before. He didn’t have a clue what time it was or what he had to do next.

And worst of all, the music he’d always used as his escape was gone.

As he stood under the multiple jets, letting the hot water pound on him. He tried to find a hint of a melody or tease out a single lyric, but the muse who used to drive him to distraction was silent.

Dead silent.

This had to stop.

In the last eight years, he’d written and produced five albums and done six world tours to support those albums. On “off” days¾what a joke¾he visited local radio stations, did TV guest spots, and sat down with reporters who all asked the same damn questions.

“Where do you get your inspiration?”

“What does your father, the drill sergeant, think of your music?”

“What’s going on with you and supermodel Bridgette? Any plans on marriage?”

And the dreaded, “So what’s next?”

He didn’t even know the name of the hotels his manager booked him in—how the hell was he supposed to know what he was doing next?

Turning the water to freezing, he tried to shock his brain back into working order. The icy needles punished his aching body and cleared away some of the haze from the night before. Shivering, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Doing his best to avoid his reflection, he dried off and wrapped himself in the plush robe hanging on the door.

His eyes weren’t any less bloodshot and his face was still pasty and puffy, but at least he was clean. As he left the bathroom, he noticed a breakfast tray waiting on the glass table in the sitting room of his suite. Coffee, Gatorade, and a covered dish were displayed elegantly between a fancy folded napkin and a single rose in a crystal vase.

How the hell did they know he was awake? Or what he wanted for breakfast? Or if he even wanted breakfast?

“Feeling better?” his manager, Dave Kendrick, asked from where he sat on the couch. He was reading something on his tablet and hardly looked up when Sam stopped in front of him.

“Jesus, Dave. How the hell’d you get in here?”

“I always get two keys to your room, just in case.”

“In case of what? I choke on my own vomit?”

“I was going to say in case you lose yours or forget something before the show.”

“Did you order breakfast?”

“Of course.”

“How did you know what to order?”

He sighed heavily and put down the tablet. “I get the same thing for you every day. Two eggs, over easy, hash browns, white toast with strawberry jam, and a double helping of bacon, Gatorade, and coffee with a side of Jack Daniels.”

“What if I want pancakes, or French toast, or an omelet?”

“Do you want pancakes, French toast, or an omelet?” Dave asked. “I can call down to room service for you.”

“No, I don’t want pancakes, damn it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, you’re managing me.”

“That’s what you pay me for. I manage the little details like booking your room and ordering your favorite foods so you can focus on the music. That’s why they call me a manager.”

“I know that.” Sam shoved his hands in his hair in frustration. For someone who’d made millions putting his thoughts to music, he was having a great deal of trouble expressing himself. “Look at me. I can’t remember how much I had to drink last night, or what I did, or even what city I’m in half the time. My ears are still ringing, and my throat is raw, and I want that whiskey and coffee so bad my hands are shaking.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying this has got to stop. I can’t do it anymore. I need a break.”

“Tonight is the last show of the tour,” he said, tapping on his tablet. “You’re scheduled for some downtime before you go back in the studio. Go to L.A., hit the beach, go to some clubs. It’ll be good for you.”

“No. I mean a real break. From everything. I don’t want to go to L.A. I want to disappear.”

“But your next album…”

“There is no next album,” Sam practically growled.

“Your contract states you owe the recording company one more album and an accompanying tour.”

“Don’t you get it? There isn’t another album. I haven’t written a single thing in months. I don’t have so much as a guitar riff.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. As in, oh shit.”

“Ah.”

“And another thing, it isn’t normal to start your day off with Jack in your coffee.”

“To be fair, it’s already two o’clock in the afternoon,” Dave said.

“I don’t care if it’s happy hour. If I can’t get through a day without a drink, you know what that makes me?”

“You’re not an alcoholic. I know alcoholics. Trust me, it’s just the rock and roll life.”

Sam thought about that for a moment. Thought about his buddies in the business, about how many of them had died or burned out in the twelve years since he’d released his first self-produced album.

“It has to stop. I have to stop.” Maybe if he kept saying it, he’d actually do it.

“There are plenty of discreet rehabs. We can check you in for a couple of weeks, get you detoxed and cleaned up.”

He thought about his father’s reaction to seeing his only son in “one of those tree-hugging country clubs where they eat bark and talk about their feelings and how it’s somebody else’s fault they’re so fucked up” and barely held back a shudder. Although he’d stopped trying to please his father a long time ago, he found himself agreeing with the sentiment.

If he was going to clean up his act, he was going to do it on his own.

“No celebrity rehabs. Find me some cabin, or someplace no one knows about. I don’t care if there’s a pool or wifi or even cable. I want someplace quiet, where nobody knows me, where I can think.”

“I’ll ask around. Discreetly. Are you going to be able to do tonight’s show?”

He thought about standing up in front of thousands of people, singing what basically amounted to his diary.

He cracked open the tiny bottle of Jack and poured it into his coffee. “Yeah, I can do the show.”