Looking For Trouble Read online

  Looking For Trouble

  A Rogue Series Extra

  Lara Ward Cosio

  Rogue Publications

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  BONUS EXCERPT

  About the Author

  Also by Lara Ward Cosio:

  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.

  Copyright © 2018 Lara Ward Cosio

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B07CQ2DX65

  Author’s Note

  Looking For Trouble takes place in parallel with the timeline of Finding Rhythm.

  While it can be read as a stand-alone, incidents from Finding Rhythm will be referenced.

  Preface

  rogue

  pronunciation: rōɡ

  noun

  1. A dishonest or unprincipled man.

  1.2 A person whose behavior one disapproves of but one who is nonetheless likable or attractive

  (often used as a playful term of reproof)

  1

  “Well, Daniel? Are you going to tell me how that makes you feel?”

  Daniel. I’ve told her three hundred times nobody calls me Daniel. I’m Danny Boy. No surname even needed. I’m like my own version of Madonna or Bono. Everyone in the whole of Dublin—hell, maybe even all of Ireland—knows me as Danny Boy. It’s all I’ve ever been called. But Ms. Amelia Patterson, my therapist extraordinaire, thinks it’s time I go back to formalities. She says it’s only right now that I’m closing in on forty years of age and am trying to improve myself. The name, however, like these sessions, doesn’t sit right.

  I lean down and give Roscoe a pat. He’s resting all his weight against my leg in the same way he did ever since he adopted me on the streets of South Korea. He’d conned and charmed his way into my life the way I might have been accused of doing to others before. But as a stray dog in need of a home and companionship, he didn’t get too much resistance from me. Now we’ve been best of mates for going on seven months. We don’t go anywhere without each other. He, more than sitting my arse in this overstuffed therapist’s chair, has given me the support I need.

  But, I have promised my little brother, Shay, I’d keep on with this nonsense. It’s sort of an unspoken condition of me continuing to stay at his posh house in the wealthy Dublin suburb of Ballsbridge while he’s off in the States with his girlfriend.

  The best thing about Ms. Patterson, as she insists I call her since as a psychologist she’s not technically a doctor, is her penchant for pencil skirts. She’s on the thicker side but has lovely legs. Which, along with my reluctance to share my feelings, prolongs my delayed response.

  I can’t stall any longer, however, so I tell her, “What I feel, actually, Ms. Patterson, is a keen desire.”

  She does her best not to roll her eyes. Apparently, she can see what I’m after. It’s not, after all, the first time I deflect this way.

  “A keen desire,” I continue, “to explore the client-therapist boundaries. I don’t see why we can’t talk over a drink. Just a wee pint?”

  “As a part of your ongoing recovery, you know you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol.”

  “Ah, that’s not a no this time, is it? Look at that, Roscoe, she’s coming ‘round.” I give Ms. Patterson a wink and she sighs. Her patience has limits.

  Technically, she’s right about the whole recovery thing. I’ve been clean of heroin for just over nine months. Part of the effort to stay that way has been Narcotics Anonymous meetings where they encourage a clean slate from all substances. But I’ve always done things my own way. I detoxed—more times than I can count—on my own. After twenty-odd years of the back and forth to using and being free of it, being clean has finally stuck. What makes the difference this time? How do I know I won’t slip back into that sweet oblivion again? That’s what Ms. Patterson wants to know.

  Truth be told, she wants to know even more than that. She wants to know my deepest issues, the ones that made me turn repeatedly to the smack. But I don’t think she and I know each other well enough for all that—hence the invitation for a drink.

  “Let’s go back to my original question,” she says. She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again, and I fixate on the red mark left on her bare skin. It’s from the way her flesh had been pressing together and the resulting mark takes the shape of a heart. A heart that looks stretched out and worn like the neckline of your favorite cotton shirt. “How does your brother moving out of the country make you feel?” she asks.

  Ah. Yeah, now that sounds familiar. She had asked that earlier and instead of answering I’d gotten sucked into my own thoughts. Seeing as how she’s pushing for a response, I take a deep breath and meet her eyes.

  “I feel,” I say, “fantastic. You know? Like a liberated man, in fact. No one to babysit me or constantly check up on me.”

  That I’ve felt almost unbearable loneliness, is not something I’m going to tell her. Not until we’ve at least had that get-to-know-you drink.

  2

  Bloody typical. I groan and drop my hand, though I don’t let my mobile fall when I see my brother’s curt text reply to my phone call to him.

  “Can’t speak at the moment. What’s up?” he wrote.

  You’d think he would realize that it’s nearly eleven at night my time. Shouldn’t that have warranted a call back? For all he knows, I could be in a jail cell—which has actually happened a time or two and means his texting instead of calling is especially rude.

  Stretching my arms overhead, my joints pop and the release is satisfying. I’m in the “Man Cave.” It’s Shay’s glorified game room, really, with a snooker table, dart board, a bar, a sofa and armchair, a large screen television, and a full drum kit. I find myself lounging here into the wee hours more nights than not. There was a time when Shay joined me. Now, I’ve got Roscoe. I love that dog, but he’s a piss-poor games competitor.

  I’d grown bored of the MMA fighting I was watching and called Shay to tell him about my session earlier today with Ms. Patterson. I was all ready to give him an earful about the nerve she had in suggesting I’ve got some sort of issue with being on my own in this big, beautiful house while he’s off in that hippie paradise, San Francisco.
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  Typing that out in text doesn’t sound like much fun, though, so I write back a simple, “Why can’t you speak?”

  I pat Roscoe’s snoring head as I wait for the reply.

  “In a car, on the way to a bloody hike of all things.”

  Shay’s response makes me laugh. He’s a fit guy, has to be because of his drumming, but he’s not really a run-off-into-the-beauty-of-nature kind of athlete. More of a get-in-and-get-out kind of gym guy.

  “Don’t go, then,” I type.

  “Got brought along. No choice now.”

  “Brought with who?”

  “Marty. And Ashley.”

  That bit of information makes me sit up. Ashley must be that “sober coach” who had been hired by my brother’s band management to babysit me during the last part of the tour. Though they kept her purpose quiet, I sussed it out pretty quick. Like Shay, I’m good at reading people. But I had no interest in being spied on by yet another person. Turned out she didn’t much care to pay me any mind either since she couldn’t get enough of our man Marty. Married Marty. Not that that seemed to matter to either of them. It was clear as day they could barely contain themselves around each other.

  “What are you there for? Try and keep them from going into heat?” I type, imagining the air thick with lust between those two and my poor brother trapped in the middle.

  There’s a long silence as I wait for Shay’s response. I envision him trying to withhold a laugh. I love making that kid laugh.

  “Something like that.”

  Just as I suspected. Marty’s about to get some strange. After years of being married to the same woman, he’s finally given in to temptation. Doesn’t bother me one way or the other. I don’t judge other people. Let them make their own mistakes. And let me figure out mine. Each to his own.

  “What did you ring me about?” Shay writes. “It’s late there.”

  I knew he’d figure out the time difference eventually.

  “You okay?”

  Shay’s concern is all I need. I suddenly breathe easier knowing that though he’s thousands of miles away, he’s got my back. I won’t bother him with my complaints about Ms. Patterson. He’s the one paying for her so-called services, anyway. Going along with those sessions is my ticket to staying in his good graces, which is exactly what I’m determined to do. I’ve been on a good long streak now, and I’m not after screwing that up. Even if I have begun to feel that itch again. It’s the itch to quiet the destructive voices of negativity that have been whispering in my head lately. I call them voices because that’s the only way I know how to describe it. But it’s not raving lunatic Beautiful Mind-style voices. It’s more an oppressive certainty that I have no worth and never will.

  But I’m not listening. Not this time. No good comes from it when I do.

  As if on cue, Roscoe groans as he stretches in his sleep. He’s a nothing-special, medium-sized brown dog. But he’s got the most soulful eyes and demeanor you’ll ever find. Not including Shay, I can’t say when I’ve had a better friend. Roscoe’s the one who saved me the last time I got too itchy for a way to vanquish the relentless noise in my head. It’s a cacophony of self-doubt and self-hatred, and a conviction that I’m worthless. The only cure—or distraction, really—is heroin. The drug served its purpose for years, letting me check out from the world, including the world in me where I found nothing to like. But this has been the longest clean stretch I can remember, and I credit Roscoe for it. Well, Roscoe and Shay. The two each had a big part in getting me to reach for and hold on to basic normalcy.

  Being on tour with Rogue, my brother’s band, had been the perfect way to keep me focused on something other than finding a fix. I’ve taken to learning the craft of stage lighting. I think I’ve got a talent for it, actually, and for the first time in more than a dozen years, I had a real job. Still, the pull to just have a little taste of the H got to me when we were in South Korea. I had to stop that noise in my head, so I set out into the city, sure I’d find what I need. I’ve done this for so many years, that I can pretty quickly find the right—meaning wrong—neighborhood to get what I’m after. But along the way, I found Roscoe instead.

  Or, rather, he found me. He turned out to be the very thing I needed. You might think I poured my restless energy into taking care of him, but really, he took care of me. He asks for very little in return—just for me to be there—and it would kill me to disappoint him. That being said, I’m still beginning to get that ridiculous certainty that if I just try a little smack, this time I’ll be able to handle it. The temptation always starts this way, with the argument that I’ll only do enough to dull the negativity in my head. It never ends there, of course.

  I can’t share any of that with Shay. It’d break his heart. He’d probably drop everything and fly here, wanting to try to save me from myself. Then his girlfriend might break up with him. Again. The kid would be miserable. Again. I don’t want that.

  So, I type a reply to dismiss my brother’s concern. “I’m grand, kid. Just had to let Roscoe out for a piss and thought I’d check in with you while I was at it.”

  “Okay, good.”

  I can feel the relief in that simple reply. I feel it, too. I don’t want to burden Shay with my shit. He’s been there and done that. Now is his time to be with his girl and relax.

  And me? What is this my time to do? I’m not exactly sure. All I do know is that I’m going to do everything I can to ignore those voices in my head saying I should go back to my old ways.

  3

  I was five years old when Shay was born. I remember him crying a lot. And I remember loving the sound of him wailing. I loved it because it meant I wasn’t alone.

  It’s that same wailing sound that wakes me from where I dozed off on the sofa in the Man Cave. The lights and television are still on, but I have no idea what time it is.

  After a moment, I realize the sound is just an ambulance passing down the street. Not an exact match for Shay’s cries, after all. I must have been thinking about my brother in my sleep.

  His concern for me earlier with our texts was reassuring. But as much as I take comfort in it, it’s also a reminder of how things have changed from when we were kids. I was the one who did the caretaking then. I did that at far too young of an age. With the parents we had, I had no choice.

  How my parents ever managed to find each other, let alone procreate, is beyond me. I’d guess it was because literally no one else in the world would have them. They’re the most detached and negligent people on earth. When they joined forces, they didn’t make each other better as some couples do. No, together they somehow had a complete inability to fulfill the basic duties of parenthood. Oh, and I should mention that though I call them “parents,” they are nothing like what that title implies. Sharon and Joe Donnelly did the bare minimum by granting us a roof over our heads and nearly enough food to get by.

  I remember treating Shay like he was my living doll. When I saw Sharon prop him up in his crib with a bottle of formula and walk away, I climbed in with him and held him while he drank. I did that even when he was older and able to hold the bottle well enough himself. Ms. Patterson says I got a sense of closeness by taking care of him that I didn’t get from my parents, who were only too happy to sit in front of the tele and waste the days and nights away, low-grade drunk the whole time. All I know is that I felt driven to take care of my brother, to be someone he could count on. Because even as a kid, I already knew how it felt to have no one.

  I took on the role of caretaker. I wanted to be sure Shay was okay, but I also realized on an intuitive level, that doing so gave me an unfamiliar, but desperately needed, sense of control. Nothing ever mattered to Share and Joe. There were no boundaries, no set bedtime, no reminders to brush teeth, or change into clean underwear. There were days when our parents couldn’t be arsed to get to the store and we didn’t have any food. I’d take it upon myself to chat up the mothers up and down our street, targeting the ones who were open to a harmless fli
rt from a teenaged me. They brought us in for a good meal now and again. Whenever that happened, I felt victorious, even if it didn’t change the fact that we were those kids in the neighborhood who ran wild, the ones the less sympathetic mothers told their own kids to stay away from.

  We might have seemed a little feral, but I stepped up and made sure my brother and I were okay. We were inseparable as I did what I could to piece together some kind of normalcy for us, even when that including just getting out of the house and wandering through the neighborhood. I’d pull Shay along in an old wagon when he was only little, and my favorite thing was to try to get a glimpse inside the other houses. To get a view into what real families did. Because I always knew our family was not right.

  By the time I was twelve, I’d also taken to minding our parents, making sure they handled the basics like paying the bills and doing the shopping. I forged their signatures on our schoolwork, and made up excuses to our teachers for why our parents could never meet with them. Being the one to take care of everyone was all-consuming. It was just the way it was, but Ms. Patterson has described it succinctly, saying I never had a childhood.

  I’ve never thrown a pity party about it all. I know there are plenty of kids who have it rougher than we did. But I also know it’s why when Shay got older and started taking care of himself, I got restless. I was worn down by being the only one to hold it all together. By the time I was sixteen, I was depressed. It was then that those “voices” sunk their hooks into me. It was the vocalization of what my parents had shown me all my life—that I had no value. I internalized those feelings, despite the good relationship I had with Shay, and began to believe that’s how everyone saw me.