Shatter

The conclusion to Heavy Tulsa was a blur.

I was spent—vomiting from dehydration, drifting in and out of consciousness from blood loss. Jim and Stan were taking care of me, apparently. That’s what Jim told me later.

Scott was worse off. The dehydration kicked his withdrawals into overdrive. He’d quit cold after a three-day bender and his body was revolting. Kenny stayed with him, watching to make sure he didn’t die.

Somewhere in the chaos, we made a critical miscalculation.

We didn’t expect Courtney to fuck Caleb while Scott and I were at death’s door.

No one else in the band knew. I wasn’t going to tell them.

When I finally came around, I was a mess—dried blood on my arm, shirt clinging to sweat and filth. I woke up on the floor of Stan’s hotel room around noon, sticky with rot and unfinished dreams. My phone was face down on the rug. One new text.

Caleb
I didn’t mean for it to happen. I tried to stop it. I just… I couldn’t lie to you. She knew I couldn’t.

No details. Just enough.

The worst part? It made things easier between us. We didn’t speak on the ride to the airport. Didn’t speak on the flight. I don’t even know if she looked at me. I couldn’t look at her.

But she made sure to leave me with something.

We’d just stepped out of the van at my parents’ house. Everyone else was grabbing bags or stretching. I turned to say goodbye, but Courtney stopped me.

“Hey, Wes. Can I tell you something real quick?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She stepped closer—close enough that no one else could hear. Her voice was calm. Controlled. Almost rehearsed.

“Remember when I wanted you, and you said no?”

I nodded slowly.

She smiled, dead behind the eyes.

“So I fucked the next closest thing.”

Then she turned and walked away.

***

The last two weeks before the tour were strange.

Scott, Kenny, and Jim all graduated. The Parris and Comeau families threw big parties. I skipped Scott’s—I couldn’t face his parents after everything that happened with Caleb. I was avoiding Courtney.

After school ended, she was checked into a detox clinic.

She’d only been on Xanax at Heavy Tulsa—far as I knew. But I’d lost sight of her enough that there was probably more. I was relieved she was getting help, but I knew we weren’t done. Not after Tulsa.

Before we left for tour, I spent every second I could with Skye.

As soon as I saw her, I told her everything—no secrets.

At first, I felt guilty dumping it all on her. But she liked it. She fed on the emotional wreckage.

“I knew I was right not to let her join in,” she said, pouting. “But now I kind of want her to watch again.”

“Why?” I asked, confused.

“It’s kinky. She wants you so badly she fucked your brother. Now she has to sit and watch you choose someone else.” She grinned. “Let’s face it—she talks big, but she can’t do what I can.”

She licked the side of my neck.

“I told you I cut too deep at the show?”

She nodded, curious.

“I was feeling amazing before I blacked out. Lucid. Transcendent.”

I paused.

“If we worked up to it... I bet coming in that state is out-of-body level.”

We started undressing.

“I’ll do some research while you’re gone,” she said. “When you get back, we’ll work up to it. Slowly.”

She smiled. “Figure out how to get there safely.”

We laughed as we made out.

Safely flirting with death? Yeah. That’s us.

***

Tour life was miserable.

We knew it wouldn’t be fun—but we didn’t expect it to be boring. The first few shows had energy, but long drives, brutal load-ins, and late-night tear-downs killed the vibe fast.

Ironically, the shared misery brought us together. For the first time in forever, we were on the same page—and sober. Doug looked disappointed by the lack of tension. Maybe dysfunction had been part of the business plan.

Nothing really happened until Dallas, late July—when Jim let something slip.

“Man, this Texas heat is as bad as the Oklahoma shit,” Kenny said as we finished loading into the club.

“Yeah, I don’t know how people do anything in this shit,” Scott added.

“Next time I see them, I’ll have to ask Caleb and Courtney how they fucked in this,” Jim said laughing.

The silence between all five of us was crushing.

Scott and Kenny looked at him like he just kicked a dog.

Doug looked like someone had unplugged all the blood from his body.

“What?” Jim blinked. “Didn’t she tell—” He stopped mid-sentence.

Realized his mistake.

“Yup, that’s on me.”

I forgot to react, drawing Kenny’s attention. Luckily, Scott was so shocked I wasn’t on his radar.

“Scott, I’m going to call a guy and get you—whatever you want to calm down. On the label,” Doug said, trying to keep the situation together.

“Get me a couple of Xans, some white, and a spoon of brown to smoke,” his voice was sharp and serious.

Brown? When did Scott start fucking with heroin?

“You’ve got it,” Doug said, slipping away to make an expensive phone call.

I felt like I should call Courtney. Scott was never supposed to know.

“Scott, let’s take a walk,” Kenny said.

The two of them vanished into the city. I was left with Jim, who was panicking.

“Wes, what the fuck? Why did she tell me and no one else?”

“She told me too… just under more ominous conditions.”

“I had just handed you to Stan when they got back. She was still all over him. I made a stupid joke… she told me what they did with too many details… I thought they told everyone or started seeing each other.”

He was spiraling.

“Jim, if you told Kenny, it would have been fine. I just don’t get why you didn’t think it would be weird that Scott’s best friend fucked his little sister.”

“I thought that it was more than a hook-up and they were seeing each other.”

“Why the hell did you think that?”

“I don’t know. I’m so used to everyone I know who has sex being a couple—I forgot that this shit is normal.”

Man, it sucks being a band that had a top-10 single and a top-20 album and not getting laid.

“Jim, you need to enjoy life more.”

Eventually, Scott and Kenny made their way back to the club with Doug.

We didn’t talk about it.

Scott took his Xans and coke before the set.

None of us blamed him.

We carried him through the set. He was intense from the coke, but he sucked. I was improvising all night with extended solos to hide how bad he was. He didn’t mind. At one point he was carrying me on his shoulders on stage.

At the end of the night he was smoking his brown in the back of the van by himself.

“Jim, I love you. He’s never going to recover from that,” Kenny said. “Wes, don’t you dare tell Courtney that he knows.”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Kenny pressed quickly closing the distance.

“Nothing,” I said, standing my ground.

We were chest to chest and eye to eye.

I wasn’t going to do anything, but I was curious to see what he was going to do. The tour was boring.

“You’ve been pushing it lately, Wes. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you’re losing yourself.”

“What if I am?”

He stepped back.

“Remember what I told Scott—I’m not afraid to kill someone who walks out on me.”

“So, guess that means your mom’s first on your list.”

The tour should’ve been over then.

The band should’ve been over then.

Jim and Doug did everything in their power to keep him from killing me. They succeeded, but Scott’s worst nightmare came true.

I got sent home because Kenny broke my arm, my orbital, and three of my ribs. Caleb stepped in to finish the tour.

Stan and Doug did a hell of a cover-up. That’s the only reason Kenny didn’t go to jail.

***

The rest of the summer sucked.

Recovery was slow. Physical therapy was a drag. I couldn’t play guitar or have sex, so I wrote lyrics and hung out with Skye. Julia and Maggie still came by—Maggie, twisted as always, thought what I said to Kenny was hilarious.

The internet didn’t hold back. Embers of Twilight was a mess after Dallas. Scott and Kenny started using again. Jim got sloppy because they were sloppy. Caleb’s playing was technically brilliant but didn’t gel. The band collapsed in real time.

Then we got the text:

Emergency meeting. Labor Day weekend. Stan’s orders.

He picked a hotel conference room in the next town over. I told him I wasn’t showing up alone—not after July. I brought Skye. I was finally healthy again, and I made it clear: if things escalated, I’d press charges.

Scott and Jim arrived first, chatting like nothing had happened. Stan and Doug came in right after. Kenny wandered in twenty minutes late.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Stan said tightly. “Now, I know what happened in July. I want an explanation.” His gaze locked on Kenny.

“Wes crossed a line. I made sure he wouldn’t again,” Kenny said, flat and cold.

“Oh, is that it?” Stan’s voice dropped. Then he exploded.

He slammed his fist on the table hard enough to split his knuckle.

“Do you know how much your little ‘lesson’ cost me?” His eyes were wild. “You talk a big game—‘dream or death’—but shut the fuck up, you dumb piece of shit. If you were half as good as you think you are, you wouldn’t have tanked the tour by turning into a fucking useless junkie.”

Stan leaned in close enough for Kenny to feel spit. “I’ve played dream or death, Kenny. I could have you killed and never lose sleep. But you? You’re not worth the cost.”

He stepped back and wiped his hand with a napkin. “You’re just another edgy kid from nowhere. Without me, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Kenny didn’t respond. The point was made.

Stan turned to Scott.

“You’re going to rehab. You have no say in it. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Stan’s expression softened. He turned to Jim.

“You’re innocent. You did your best to hold things together.”

Jim practically melted in his chair. Might’ve shit himself too.

Then Stan looked at me. “Wes is back. Now that he’s healthy, he’s rejoining. No live shows until spring. I want three new singles finished by November.”

He looked around the table, voice like ice.

“If any of you fuck me again, your deal’s dead. And I’ll make sure none of you work in this industry again.”

Silence.

“Any questions?”

Kenny raised his hand. “Yeah. How does Wes just come back after that?”

Stan didn’t blink. “Because he’s the piece that makes this whole dysfunctional band work.”

He let the words hang. “Watch the videos. With him, you’re generational. Without him, you’re worth less than nothing.”

He turned toward the door.

“Figure the personal shit out yourselves. I’m a millionaire, not a fucking therapist.”

And just like that, Stan was gone—leaving us in a silent, fluorescent-lit room with too many chairs and nothing to say.

No one moved. No one spoke. We just sat there, blinking under the buzzing lights, trying to process everything.

After thirty minutes of dead air, Skye broke the silence.

“Okay, can everyone just speak their mind so you can move past this?”

Jim cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll go first.”

“I love this band. I love you guys. And I think Stan’s got the right idea, even if he’s a psycho. Scott—please take care of yourself. Kenny—please start trusting the people who love you. Wes…” He looked at me. “Dude, pick your moments better. Your honesty’s brutal, but the timing? It’s gonna get you killed.”

We all let out a quiet, “Thanks, Jim.”

I exhaled. “I’m sorry, guys. I’m just tired—of all of it. Of us. Of myself. We keep making excuses for being the worst versions of who we are. I don’t know… maybe I’m just losing whatever compass I had.”

Scott nodded. “That’s the core of it, isn’t it? We’re all trying to be more than we are, but we’re a mess. I was shooting up by the end of the tour… like, what the fuck are we even doing?”

He looked up at the ceiling like it might hold an answer.

Kenny’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I just try to carry it all, you know? Everyone’s hurting, and I thought if I took enough of it on myself, maybe we’d make it to that faraway place.”

Then his eyes landed on me. “But Wes… you’ve been changing, man. You’ve been doing evil shit in the shadows. I know you pulled Maggie into Courtney’s mess to keep me wrapped up in it. Why? What happened to you?”

I didn’t have an answer.

“I’ve just been stressed,” I said, quietly. “Trying to keep in step with Stan. Trying to keep us alive in an industry that wants to eat us alive. You guys have to trust me—I’m just trying to make sure we make it out of this.”

The words hung there.

Skye’s hands found my shoulders.

“So,” I said, “Are we going to do better? Figure this out together? Or should I call Stan and tell him we’re done?”

No one answered.

But we all stood. The hug came naturally.

We were going to figure this out—

for now.