Tyke also enjoys the arts, attending gallery openings and poetry events whenever his schedule allows—making him the most cultured member of the band. His dream to one day branch out and share his other artistic abilities with the world is something he hopes to accomplish in the very near future.

Combined Bios:

Trip and Tyke began playing instruments under the guidance of their musician father, but their interest in playing in a band grew once they discovered a mutual love for hard rock music. They joined a band called Dingy while in high school, accompanied by their best friend, Zachary ‘Riff’ Oliver. Later the band was renamed Black Falcon after the addition of the band’s new front man, Noel Falcon.

The band’s first record, Hell in a Hand Basket, went double platinum, making Black Falcon a force to be reckoned with. They’ve released two additional albums since then, and their latest single, “Ball Busting Bitch” is currently on Billboard’s Top 40.

They currently reside in Kentucky, near their other band mates.

As I read through his bio, I can’t help but notice how Tyke Douglas is consistently lumped in with his brother, as opposed to giving him his own identity. Being a twin myself, I can totally relate to this issue. It’s all too easy for people to see you as the same person as your twin. It’s what happened with Annie and me.

I flip through the rest of the links, studying more pictures of Tyke. He’s very easy on the eyes with his tall frame, tan complexion, and light hair. Even though he and Trip are twins, their hair sets them apart, making it very easy to tell the difference between them. The more I stare at the man on my screen, the more addicted I become to his profile. He’s devastatingly handsome, and the thought of how attracted I am to just his mere picture scares the shit out of me.

How am I ever supposed to concentrate on helping this man when he’s my own personal brand of tattooed man-flavored candy? This will prove to be a very difficult task, for sure. The best I can hope for is to find that he’s simply photogenic and absolutely hideous in person.

I close my laptop and set it on my nightstand before I tug my glasses from my face and set them on top of it. I double-check my alarm clock and then snuggle down in my bed after offering up a little prayer that I’ll be able to contain myself tomorrow. If Tyke is the stereotypical bad-boy rocker that he appears to be, I’ll need all the help I can get to keep from jumping his bones and jeopardizing the job I’ve worked so hard to get.

“Pain Killer” – Three Days Grace

I rub my face as Trip pulls into the drive of Serenity Hills. “Are you completely sure this is necessary? Really, I’m fine.”

He turns his head in my direction and raises an eyebrow. “Take a good look in the mirror again and then tell me you don’t need help.”

I sigh as I stare at my own reflection in the visor mirror; the angry bruises surrounding my left eye are instant reminders of what happened a few days ago.

I reach up and gingerly trace the wound with my fingertip. “It was an accident. I told you I’m done drinking, and that shit won’t happen again.”

My brother adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “You need to stop making promises you have no intentions of keeping.”

“I swear it this time. I’m done. I’ve had enough,” I fire back, angry that he doubts my sincerity.

Trip pulls up to a circular driveway in front of a huge white house. “I want to believe that, Tyke, but I can’t take the chance of you trying to hurt yourself again.”

“For the last time, I wasn’t trying to—” Trip holds his hand up, instantly cutting me off.

“I was there, Tyke. In the hospital when they brought you in. You were so out of it you don’t remember telling me you were disappointed that you weren’t dead.” Trip’s eyes soften. “If you won’t talk to me, then you have to talk to someone—someone who can help you work through this. I feel like I’m not that person for you. Whenever we try to talk, all I seem to do is make shit worse. It would kill me if something happened to you, so please, for me, just spend some time here and get things off your chest.”

I chew on the corner of my thumb. He’s right. I don’t remember admitting to him how I really felt that night, right before I crashed the Escalade into a concrete wall. I had been thinking I’d be better off dead, but that wasn’t meant for others to hear. I don’t feel that way now—at least, I don’t think so. But alcohol and mood enhancers have a way of bringing out my innermost demons.

“Okay, but I promise you, I won’t be here long,” I tell my brother, doing my best to sound confident.

Trip smiles. “Good. I need my brother back.”

The moment we get out of the car, we’re met by a tall man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a gray suit, and a huge black guy with a bald head standing on the wraparound porch near the front door of the building.

After I take in the large arms the black guy has crossed over his chest, my eyes flit to Trip as he pops the trunk. “Are you sure this isn’t a fucking prison?”

My brother’s eyes snap in the direction of the two men and then he shrugs. “You’re being paranoid. Looks like a nice place to me. Come on.”

I grab my duffel bag from the trunk and take my guitar case, my baby inside it, from Trip before stalking toward the porch. Dread fills me already. Agreeing to come to the place was probably a big fucking mistake.

The graying man gives me a small smile and extends his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Douglas. I’m Dr. Shepherd, staff physician here at Serenity Hills, and this is Timothy, our staff nurse. I will be overseeing your medical treatment while you’re here.”