Knave

Knave Candace Robinson & Amber R. Duell Copyright ©2023 by Candace Robinson & Amber R. Duell Edited by Brandy Woods Snow Cover Design by MoorBooks Design This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book may not be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author. Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Epilogue For Jerica Chapter One Ferris Before Do something enough times and the body remembers. Brushing teeth, putting on a shirt, tying a shoe—all of it was accomplished without thought. For Ferris, that list included playing drums. One. Two. Three. And four. He counted beats in his head, even though he didn’t need to. It was just something to fill his thoughts as his arms moved across the drum set in front of him. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and flashing lights illuminated the bar. Dozens of people crowded the stage, rocking out to the loud music. The heavy drumbeats, the quick guitar notes, the screaming vocals. One. Two. Three. And four. The heart-pounding song poured from him in sync with the rest of the band, Death Remedy. Perfect. Well-practiced. All body memory and no conscious thought. Without his arms knowing the movements, the beats, he wouldn’t be able to play anymore. His mind was numb. Empty. Except for the counting… One. And two. Three. And four. Ferris’s lifeless eyes followed the studs on the back of the lead singer’s jacket as he moved energetically across the stage, riling up the crowd. The man had to be sweating his nuts off since Ferris was in a tank with torn-off sleeves and still dripping. Dark hair fell across Ferris’s slick forehead and stuck, whereas Oliver kept his short, so at least he had that going for him. That and the lack of anxiety over getting another hit. Oliver had been suspicious that something was up with Ferris and had searched his stick bag earlier, discovering the dwindling coke stash. Ferris had hidden it in there before the show, deciding to wait until after the gig to take more and relying on hard liquor to get him through the performance. There would be a fight later. Another one. Which only made Ferris need the high all the more. Needed it so he could fucking forget. Forget everything. What the fuck did Oliver care anyway? Ferris had his addiction completely under control. It was fine. He just needed something to take the edge off the pain. His bandmates didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. And they were no saints either. They’d all experimented at some point and he’d never given them shit. One. Two. And three. And four. Shit. That was wrong. Lucas, their bassist, shot him a sideways look as Ferris stumbled to catch up with them. Maybe he needed to stop counting and just let his body do all the work. Let his mind shut down. Ferris squeezed his eyes closed. If only it were that easy. Thoughts circled through his brain endlessly, reminding him, blaming him. That was what the drugs were for: forgetting. The cymbal crashed against his stick and he flinched. Images of that night came between flickers of the strobe light. Metal crunching. Tires squealing. Flashing blue police lights. Blood. Everywhere … blood. The heat of it streaming down his forehead, into the corner of his right eye. And— The drumsticks fell from his hands. “Fuck!” “You okay, mate?” Lucas asked as his fingers kept plucking the string of his bass. Oliver’s singing never faltered and Johnny didn’t miss a chord on his guitar. Ferris could barely hear the question over the music. Or perhaps it was the ringing in his ears. The phantom whoop whoop whoop of the ambulance as it took away everything important to him. He turned his head just in time to avoid puking all over his snare. Lucas jumped back as the vomit splattered the stage next to the bassist’s custom rainbow-checkered Vans. “Ferris! The fuck?” Ferris shoved up from his stool and tripped, falling forward. He crashed into the drums, sending them flying, and slammed face first on the old wood floor. The song screeched to a halt. Every eye in the godforsaken room landed on the drummer, the silence deafening, as he struggled to get back on his feet. Embarrassment flushed his face. Just fucking perfect. Oliver met his gaze, his eyes hard. Ferris winced. “Fuuuck,” Ferris groaned when he was finally standing again, swaying. He reached for something to steady himself, but found his crash cymbal. The moment he put weight on it, the metal tilted, dumping him back to the floor again. “Shit,” Johnny said as he hurried to catch him. And failed. Ferris rolled onto his back and closed his eyes with a disgruntled hmph. He could hear his friends now—loser! And his family—such a disgrace! First, he’d gotten Ellie pregnant before marriage, and now he couldn’t function without shooting up. He couldn’t function with the fucking drugs either. He was too far down the rabbit hole and there was no climbing out. He didn’t want to climb out. But this… He closed his eyes against the shame and let himself pass the fuck out. Whomp, whomp, whomp. Ferris groaned, clutching his head as his pulse thrummed in his ears, echoed in his mind. The sounds of the bar boomed, muted, through the walls of… Where was he? Squinting, he took in the off-white metal interior of the van plastered with different band stickers. The band name The Swingers carved into a