Page 1 of Songbird: Black Kite
Chapter one
Hawk
Present
“Hawk!”
Someone barked my name, the angry syllable snapping me out of the dream I was having.
It was the same dream I always had. Golden hair, big brown eyes, and a song that never left my head.
Bird.
The girl I couldn’t remember, but somehow, could also never forget.
Aggressive footsteps chased away the last of the melody, the notes vanishing into the lost corners of my mind as I dragged myself awake.
Rubbing my eyes, I groaned and rolled over, wondering why the hell I was so fuckin’ hot.
“Don’t ignore me, you prick.”
“Fuck off.”
“Goddamn it, Hawk. Get the fuck up, man.”
I groaned, flopping onto my back and forcing my eyes to open.
I regretted that immediately.
“It’s too fuckin’ early, Mick,” I insisted, draping one arm over my eyes to block out the offensive light that made it feel like someone was taking an ice pick to the inside of my brain.
How fuckin’ much did I have to drink last night, anyway? It hadn’t been that big of a party, only about a hundred or so folks—most of them, I even recognized.
I think.
But sometime between the second bottle of whiskey and watching some young douchebag snort a line off a model’s ass in my media room, things got a little fuzzy.
Goddamn, my head hurt. It didn’t use to be this difficult. Back in the day, I could have partied twice as hard and still played a sold-out arena flawlessly. I could drink nothing but booze and smoke enough reefer to make Cheech and Chong proud, then put on a show that would have people talking for years to come without even breaking a sweat.
Now, I was afraid if I stood up too fast, I might piss my pants.
What the fuck happened?
“It’s not early, Hawk. It’s nearly two in the afternoon,” Mick said, his manager voice firmly in place. “I’ve been calling you for over four hours. I finally had to come over myself and make sure you weren’t dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I muttered.
“Oh, shut the fuck up. I have no time for your bullshit right now. My wife’s on a fucking tear because I’m here on a Sunday—again—when I should be on my way to my daughter’s piano recital.”
I grimaced, knowing just how awful his wife could get when she was pissed. Mostly because she wasalwayspissed at me. Jennifer Murphy and I were not exactly besties. No, that bitch hated me. I didn’t really blame her, seeing as how I was responsible for keeping her husband away from home with my bullshit.
I was also responsible for lining his pockets and her house in Redondo Beach, but she seemed to conveniently forget that shit when she was sneering at me every time we crossed paths.
“Well...” I said, swallowing down the uncomfortable guilt that crept up my throat at the thought of what a fuckup I was lately.
Still.
“You’ve seen me. I’m alive. Or what passes for alive, anyway.” Exhaling a breath that tasted as sour as my personality these days, I heaved myself up to sitting, finally looking around and seeing that I’d passed out on one of my poolside cabana beds, the thin mattress not doing anything to help my aching shoulder. I guessed that explained the heat; there was no shade on this side of the yard, and the California sun beat down on me relentlessly. “You can go back to playing super dad. I’ll be fine.” Looking down at the corded leather bracelet I wore on my wrist, I grit my teeth. “I’m always fine.”
