Fulcrum (Dark Tide Book 4) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  POSTFACE

  ALSO BY MAX

  MAILING LIST

  THE MUSIC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FULCRUM

  Copyright © 2021 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Image: Wanger Aguiar

  Model: Phillipe

  Get quiet. Go deep.

  Ask big questions. Seek small clues.

  Build routines. Expect change.

  From it all, rediscover you.

  ONE

  Toby

  “DEVIL” - Shinedown

  The role of a big brother is a cut and dried one: you protect, you guide, and you ensure your sibling’s fucking survival.

  I feel as though I failed on all fronts.

  When Rey and I were kids, the family cat got hit by a car. Mom stayed home to console our sister, but Rey and I opted to go with Dad to the vet hospital to see if they could help our cat, Sparky.

  Turned out the animal had no spark left. We walked in with a slim ray of hope at best and walked out without a member of our family—even if he was a furry one.

  This feels way too similar.

  The day nears its end, the clouds in the sky obscuring the beauty of the sunset behind. Boots rooted to the cracked pavement, I stand outside the rehab facility and light a joint.

  I said I’d do it. Didn’t mean I wanted to. I signed my baby brother in for his second stint at straightening out his head, and, like that fucking cat, the chance feels slim—too slim.

  I pull on the dart between my lips, sucking the toxic smoke into my lungs. A habit that calms and soothes. A hypocritical one, considering it does just as much damage, if not more, than what Rey’s mind does to him.

  Still, I take what relief I can get when I feel like the fucking Judas of our band. The three of us—Em, Kris, and me—let Rey deteriorate the last month on tour for our selfish needs. Get him out of the circuit early, and we would have forfeited our recording contract.

  We put our careers over the wellbeing of the fucking voice that makes our music what it is—unique. Long story short, we’d be able to replace a label, but not Rey. Still, money talks. And that’s what fame is all about when it all boils down to it: money.

  The door slides open behind me, and another destitute family member or friend maintains a brave face while they walk away, their loved one in the flames of purgatory. Because that’s what it is when you’re forced to face how fucked up your head’s become: hell.

  I exchange a look with the middle-aged guy, and he quickly averts his gaze. I’m used to it. Six-foot-one, with a short tri-colored mohawk. And that’s before I factor in the tattoos and piercings. My appearance screams non-conformity, which for most average Johns equates to trouble.

  If only people knew the truth about me: I’m as far from trouble as a person can get.

  I’m the fucking caretaker for this band of misfits.

  Camp Mom. I earned the name ten times over.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull the device free while I stamp out the remnants of my cigarette. The stranger from the clinic gives one last glance before dropping into his waiting car. Perhaps he knows who I am. Maybe he doesn’t.

  Either way, I’m in no mood to socialize.

  “What up?” I greet our lead guitarist, Kris.

  “Today’s the day, right?” His voice is quiet, as though he doesn’t want to disturb someone.

  “Yeah. It’s today.” I scrub a hand over my face and start toward my pickup. “Just dropped him off.”

  “He go in without a fight?” There’s an element of curiosity to Kris’s tone, yet he keeps it schooled.

  As he fucking should. “He went in without a word.”

  “It’s the best thing, man.”

  “So everyone keeps saying.” I hit the key fob button and open the driver’s door. “It doesn’t slow us down, though. We have deadlines to meet, regardless of whether Rey’s in care or not.”

  The fucking inside of the vehicle still smells like my brother.

  “I know.”

  I’m not convinced. “I’ve got a couple of beats I’d like you and Emery to see if you can expand on.” I turn the truck over to connect the Bluetooth and toss the phone into the console. “I’ll send them across tomorrow, yeah?” Kris sighs through the stereo while I put both windows down and blast air to push the aftershave out.

  “Sure.”

  “Where are you?” I press. Our shy guitarist found himself a woman on tour. Crawled out of his introverted anxiety-laden shell and opened up to a chick.

  “Recharging.”

  “Local?”

  “Off-grid,” he states simply.

  I dig it. Henley is cool, and if anyone deserves a break, it’s the guy who put up with our shit year after year without saying a goddamn thing. But I need to know he plans to come back.

  I’ve lost one member for fuck knows how long; I can’t spare two.

  “Five weeks, man,” I remind him. “You need to be back and ready to go.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “You don’t need to worry. But do me a solid and check in on Emery? His socials are strangely quiet.”

  Fuck’s sake. “Yeah. Okay.” Ironically, it was Em who made sure Kris didn’t fuck up with Henley. If anyone should be able to tell me where the lovebirds are, it’s him. “I’ll make a detour on my way home.”

  “You think Rey will come around in ti
me to lay vocals?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” My head fucking hurts each time I think about it.

  “We’re kinda fucked if he doesn’t contribute to new content. Rock music isn’t much without lyrics.”

  Thanks, Captain Obvious. “Man, I’ve got shit to do. Can we continue this later?” My head hits the back of the seat, and I close my eyes.

  “Sure.”

  He disconnects, and the heavy metal I’d blasted to fill the void between Rey and me kicks back in. I stay as I am, allowing the dense beats to shake my skull while I push down the burn of tears.

  I don’t cry. It never fixed anything. Sure as fuck never helped Rey up to now, so why start?

  He’s in for as long as he needs, but I signed the form to state that he can’t check himself out in the first 30 days—a month. I approved having one month shaved off his life experience. But if I didn’t, he’d cut it a hell of a lot shorter.

  That’s the flip side of it all.

  I push the heel of one hand into my right eye and sigh. Life goes on. We have a new album to promote, another to co-ordinate, and a goddamn lifelong career to salvage. Without music, none of us have a chance. We don’t know how to do anything else, as much as this love hurts.

  Art is pain, and the pain never goes away. You just learn to love the highs that come in sporadic bursts that little bit more.

  I slide the pickup into gear, check the parking lot is clear, and ease out toward the road.

  The sun might set behind the storm clouds, but the day is anything but over.

  Even when I sleep, I’ll be ready to answer whatever comes my way.

  For me? There is no such thing as relaxation.

  Especially not when you’ve just checked your brother into his second mental hospital before the age of thirty.

  All I have left is my grip on control to save me from falling in with him.

  TWO

  Jeanie

  “Stone Cold Classic” – George Barnett

  “I’ve got something you’ll fucking love.”

  I don’t know this guy’s name. Never have. His contact card in my phone reads MOLE. An insider on the entertainment circuits, he found me through social media under a fake account and broke the story that cemented my career: Jasper Holland’s infidelity with a lover of the same sex.

  In this day and age, free love isn’t anything shocking. But temporarily crippling the dreams of thousands of London Lords fangirls worldwide before he announced his bisexuality, is.

  “What is it?” I prop the phone between my head and shoulder, fingers still furiously at work on a column that was due yesterday.

  “First. How much?”

  “Depends what the dirt is; you know that.” I flick my gaze left to check the final fact on this run-of-the-mill cheat sheet for guitarists and then run a quick spell-check. “Who’s the mark?”

  “Dark Tide.”

  I stop what I’m doing. “I’m listening.”

  Breaking a story on the too-hot-to-handle boys of alternative rock could be the thing that catapults my rollercoaster income into the stratosphere.

  “How much?”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I run my eye over the suggested corrections in my email and then hit send. “You could tell me that Emery’s converted to Buddhism, or it could be as lame as Kris having an infected toenail.” I spin away from my basic desk and rock my chair onto its back legs. “Humor me.”

  “News on Rey.”

  I brace myself with one hand and narrow my gaze. “Alive?” He fell so far off the rails the final shows of their tour bets were going down on whether he’d be the latest rock obituary.

  “And kicking.” The traitor chuckles. “All the way into rehab. He was checked into a private clinic yesterday by none other than his big brother.”

  My chair’s feet slam onto the floor, drawing the attention of my cubicle buddy, Charles. “Serious?” I turn my back to my neighbor.

  “You want any more, give me a figure.”

  “What you got?” I flick my browser open and navigate to the online banking page.

  I need to be able to afford this.

  “The name of the clinic, and a link to Toby’s social media account.”

  I snort. “What good is a link when he has his profile locked down?”

  “It’s unsearchable,” I’m corrected. “Not private.”

  “Then why can’t I find it through his mutual friends?”

  “You aren’t taking the right road in, sweetheart.”

  I cringe at the moniker, but if I want to buy out this slimeball for less than four figures, I need to wear it—for now. “Six hundred.”

  “I’ll call Donny, then.”

  Fucker knows using my rival’s name will get under my skin. “Seven-fifty. Final offer.”

  “A grand even.”

  Fuck. “I have eight-fifty left for the month, and I need to eat yet.

  “Stay right there.” I cover the mouthpiece and lean back toward Charles. “How much spare cash you got, Chucky?”

  He sighs without facing my way. “You owe me from your last scoop.” Fucker uses air quotes on the final word.

  “I know, but this one is legit.”

  “And you know that how?” He turns his head to stare at me over the top of his glasses. He has that cute but geeky Clark Kent vibe going on. Pity he’s squarely in the gay camp, unlike Jasper, who prefers to straddle the line.

  “Rey Thomas is in rehab again.”

  His brown eyes narrow. “Share it with me.”

  “Never mind.” I rock back to my desk. “I’ll figure it out.”

  Three, two, one… “Fine. How much is it?”

  “I need four hundred.”

  “I can give you three.” He swivels to face me; one arm slung over the back of his seat.

  “Deal.”

  “But,” he announces, catching me before I resume my call. “I’m adding another fifty to what you owe me.”

  “Why?” I whine.

  “Danger money,” he explains flatly.

  I flip the bird at his back and then pick up where I left off with Mole. “Nine hundred.”

  Making him wait did the trick. “Whatever. That’ll do.” He’s impatient to get the call wrapped up. “You can find him at Cedar Fields.”

  “And the account link for Toby?” My phone chimes against my ear.

  “You should have it now.”

  “I’ll transfer the cash once I know it works.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” Mole signs off the same as always.

  “I don’t even know your name, asshole.”

  “And that’s how I like it.”

  With a roll of my eyes, I disconnect and then hold my phone up to signal Charles. He transfers me the money with a huff.

  “Love you, Chucky.”

  “It better be worth it,” he drawls.

  “If I break it first, this story is sure to pay dividends.”

  He pauses his manipulation of the graphics for our interactive fan page and turns to eye me. “How do you know it hasn’t already?”

  I snap my fingers and give the sucker a wink. “Google alerts, homie.”

  “Unreliable.” He mutters the word, already facing his over-sized monitor again.

  Our publication is online-only, and that’s what makes Better Beats viable. Limited overheads on an open plan office space that’s so damn basic we have extension cords hanging from the ceiling to power our gear. The external walls have no cladding, just the bare concrete and reinforcing rods, which coincidentally work great as coat hangers or umbrella stands when the city decides to unleash hell in winter.

  Four years slaving on another person’s dream, and I can confidently say the sacrifice has paid off. I’m close to breaking out on my own; I can feel it.

  And this story will be pivotal to that success.

  I prep the transfer to Mole’s account—name matching—and leave the payment incomplete on my monitor while checking the link he sent t
hrough. It seems legitimate enough with Toby’s name in the hyperlink, but those are manipulated easily these days.

  My breath catches, and I pause, thumb over the screen.

  This is as close as I’ve come to the unicorn of the alt-rock world: Dark Tide. I was a hair’s breadth away from a press pass on the last tour, but that bitch, Valerie, from Rocking in Rollers beat me to it. I asked her who she fucks for the perk, but she just glowered and stormed away.

  So much for queens helping one another.

  With my bottom lip captured between my teeth to contain the stupid grin that I sport, I slam my thumb down. The milliseconds while my phone diverts to the browser and my Facebook app feel like eons.

  But soon enough, there he is. Toby motherfucking Thomas.

  Goddamn, that man is fine. Where Rey sports the dark and broody look without fail, his brother is over six-foot of undeniable dominance. He has that look in his eye that just tells you he’s a man who takes no shit. And from what I know, he doesn’t.

  He keeps the fallible foursome in line through some of the most turbulent moments in rock tour history.

  Fuck. Rey almost died on their first tour, and the next day Toby delivered a statement with the straightest face I’ve seen from a loved one caught in the throes of despair. That is if he even feels a thing. Rumors are he doesn’t.

  I intend to find out.

  I set the phone down on my desk. “Holy shit, holy shit.”

  Charles eyes my flapping hands with skepticism. “That good, huh?”

  I burn to tell him what bonus extra I have for that measly nine hundred, but this is my gemstone. I’m keeping this diamond all to my damn self.

  “Amazing.” I snatch up the device and launch from my chair.

  Gaze fixed on the phenomenon that is Toby’s profile, I dare not navigate away from it in case I lose this miracle connection. Our intern arrives at the top of the stairs—no lift on our budget—and passes over my coffee order. The fresh Americano burns my left hand, but I can’t look away from the page on my phone, going as far as to open the door to the small balcony with my butt.

  “I’d say that’s impressive,” my boss, Devon, states. “But I don’t want to know how you get your ass so dexterous, to begin with.”

  “Practice.” I hide the screen against my chest and grin. “I sent you that column a minute ago.”