by JB Salsbury
“Okay!”
I turn back to my chauffer. “Tell me what lyrics you were singing.”
She chews her lip self-consciously. “Isn’t it… I mean, he’s saying thirty thieves and the thunder chief, right?”
“No. Not even close.”
“You’re lying.”
“Where’s your phone?” I see it sitting in the space holder between us and snag it. “What’s your password?”
“I’m not telling you my password!”
“What do you think I’m gonna do? Read your text messages and emails? This may come as a surprise, but I’m not interested. Not even a little.”
She recoils as if my words hurt. I want to tell her she should really try to have thicker skin, but I don’t care enough to exert the energy. “All fives.”
I hit the fives. “Clearly you don’t care if people break into your phone with that amateur pass—whoa… who’s the douchebag with little Miss Hot Tits?”
She grabs for her phone, but I hold it out of reach. “No one.”
“Another no one?”
She’s forced to put both hands on the wheel to drive, and I take a closer look at the IG post. “‘A night out with bae.’ So these two are a couple. No one says bae anymore. Someone should send Tits here the memo. Why are you so obsessed with—” It all clicks into place. “You’re into this guy?”
It seems as if she wants to deny it, but it’s too late, I can tell I’ve caught her.
“He’s my ex-boyfriend.”
“Ahhh. And you want him back.”
“I don’t, I mean… I don’t know, yeah, I guess so.”
I study the photo. His current girlfriend is sex in heels while the little nanny here is… well, a nanny in ugly fucking sneakers. “Good luck with that. This chick is hot.”
“Yes, well.” Her jaw clenches. “Thank you for reminding me.” We pull into the parking lot, and she throws the car in park and whirls on me. “Has it ever occurred to you that some people might actually find a person’s personality attractive? That maybe it’s not about how they look on the outside?”
I stare at her, bored, because I have an answer to that, but I don’t think she’s gonna like it.
She shoves her hand toward me. “Give me my phone back.”
I hit a few buttons before handing her the device. “‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.’” I swing open the door. “The lyrics are literally the title of the song, genius.”
She glares at me and I grin before slamming the door and walking away.
Funny… walking away and into the meeting room?
I’m still smiling.
8
Bethany
When was the last time Pastor Ben cleaned out his freezer?
The question pours through my mind as I stare at the fresh packages of frozen vegetables stacked on top of bricks of really old frozen vegetables covered in ice-fuzz.
I peek at Elliot, who is happily finger painting at the kitchen table. She was occupied while I cleaned out the cupboards under the sink, and judging by her intense stare at the page, I’d say I have another fifteen minutes until she’s ready to move on.
I pull everything out of the freezer and toss things that are inedible. Pretty sure frozen peas aren’t supposed to be a solid cube of ice. Toss. Maybe after this, I’ll see if Elliot wants to bust out the plastic pool. I usually wouldn’t suggest that because it’s a lot of work dragging it out of the storage shed, cleaning it, then filling it with water, but today I have energy to spare.
Yesterday at church, Wyatt showed up alone.
Alone!
As if that wasn’t enough, he actually stopped and asked how I was doing. Some might say he was being polite and it’s not out of the ordinary to make conversation with the greeter. But this wasn’t that.
He smiled. He made eye contact as if he were really listening. I was about to ask him where Suzette was but decided against popping our temporary bubble by bringing her up.
I felt great about our interaction, ready to start the new week on a positive note.
I don’t know why people hate Mondays. They’re just as good as Sundays, a chance for new beginnings. And Lord knows I need a new beginning. After an entire week of Jesse Lee, I have a lot of repenting to do. That man is infuriating. He’s selfish and thoughtless to how his words might affect other people. He’s callous and arrogant, and… okay, he’s kind of funny. I mean, when he’s not making fun of me, which is hardly ever.
I’ve made a new vow!
I will no longer allow Jesse Lee to hurt me.
“What is that?”
Speak of the devil.
I sigh and turn toward the towering pillar of tattooed torso standing over Elliot’s painting.
“I’m painting a ballerina.” Elliot continues to swirl her hand covered in blue washable paint onto the page.
“Ballerinas aren’t blue. They’re pink.” He heads over to the coffee pot and grabs a mug.
“Don’t listen to him, Elliot. Art is interpretive, which means ballerinas can be whatever color you want.” I slam the freezer door a little harder than necessary and scold myself. Remember your vow.
Jesse glares at me, and rather than jump with fear, I grin. Big.
“I bid you good morning, Jesse Lee. I trust you slept well.” I walk past him with my head held high.
“I did, until I realized I’d woken up in a 1940s TV show.”
I clear my voice and shake off his little jab. “It’s no surprise you’ve managed to sweep women off their feet with your charming personality.” I roll my eyes hard and make sure he’s looking at me when I do it.
He leans back with his ass to the counter and sips his coffee, grinning a little behind his mug. “My getting a woman off her feet has nothing to do with my personality. It’s got everything to do with my co—”
“Do not finish that sentence!”
He squints one eye in a way most women might find adorable, but not me. “Confidence. What did you think I was going to say?”
My face flames and I busy myself by tidying up around Elliot. The low rumble of his chuckle has me balling my fists and looking for something to throw at him.
The vow. Facing away, I close my eyes, exhale, and release the tension in my muscles.
“Hey, nanny. Any chance you’ve seen my package?”
My eyes dart open and I whirl around. “There you go again!”
I stomp toward him and hate the way his eyes dance with humor and a little confusion as he follows my movement. I stop directly in front of him in such a huff that his eyebrows pop above his ridiculously inhuman-colored eyes. Seriously, are those contacts?
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I hiss-whisper. “I’ve asked you to never speak about s-e-x with me and you refuse to respect my wishes. Listen to me loud and clear, Jesse Lee.”
He looks way too relaxed, even entertained, as he slouches against the cabinets.
“If we lived in a dystopian society and sleeping with you meant I’d get sunshine and oxygen and all the food I could eat as well as preserving the human race for future generations, I still wouldn’t touch you.” I step closer and his eyes flare, which pisses me off more. “I would rather die of scurvy and kill all hope for the survival of mankind than have s-e-x with you.”
With my rant over, I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. I take a big step back and slam my back against the stove.
Jesse watches me, and the heat in his eyes would make me think I’ve pushed him too far if it weren’t for his grin. “So… let me get this straight. That’s a no? You haven’t seen my package?”
I’m about to scream when Elliot looks up and points toward the door. “Daddy put it over there.”
What? I whirl around, and to my utter shock and disappointment, leaning against the wall by the TV is a tall, brown-paper-wrapped package.
Jesse smirks. “’Preciate that, kid.” He crosses to it, and I gape, searching for the right words as he picks it up and carries
it back toward his room. He stops to whisper, “It says a lot about you that you feel the need to spell sex like it’s a dirty word.” He winks.
When he slams his door, I finally shut my mouth, staring helplessly down the hallway.
I am an idiot.
I’m sick to my stomach. Again.
What I said to Jesse about not having sex with him after he was simply looking for a delivery… well, it was unacceptable and unfriendly. I don’t know what it is about this guy that brings out the absolute worst in me, but I hate it. I attacked him when, for once, he didn’t deserve it.
He didn’t speak to me the entire ride to his meeting. He’s done that before, and usually I don’t take it personally, but after the way I treated him, I know his silence this time was personal.
I dropped Elliot off at preschool and had to race halfway across town to grab an apology gift. Thank goodness the Lexus is fast. I made it back to the church to pick up Jesse with five minutes to spare. My stomach is in knots. I picked up the peace offering so that I couldn’t chicken out, but now, as Jesse could walk out those doors at any minute, I contemplate racing it to the nearest garbage can.
Do I really need to apologize? Surely misunderstanding what I perceived to be a highly inappropriate comment, in front of a child no less, would be forgivable with just a verbal apology. Oh crap, what am I doing? Once he sees what I got for him, he’ll use it to belittle me and play upon my kindness.
I spot the nearest garbage can. Right by the double doors. If I run, I can trash it in time.
I pop open the door and check to make sure no one’s watching, then I scurry to the can. I’m roughly four feet away when the door to the church swings open. My shoes squeak against the concrete entryway as I come to halt.
Jesse freezes when he sees me. “What are you doing?”
I shove my gift-bearing hand behind me. “Nothing.”
He glares from beneath his ball cap, the shadow of the bill making his face look even more sinister than it does naturally. “What’s behind your back?”
I exhale and accept my defeat by shoving the gift toward him. “For you.”
He studies it. “Is that…?”
“Kale, spinach, parsley, green apple, lemon, and some weird word that starts with an A. Akey or…” I shake my head and shove the drink at him. “I don’t remember.”
He slowly takes the drink. “How did you know my juicing recipe?”
Oh wow, I knew this would be embarrassing. “You know, we should probably get in the car before someone recognizes you.” I whirl around and scurry to the car, praying to God that my face will return to its normal color.
Sadly, God doesn’t seem to be answering my petty prayers today.
Jesse climbs inside and my cheeks still feel as if they’re being blasted with a blowtorch. I would hope that he’d notice and turn away, giving me some privacy to calm a little, but he has zero social graces. He angles his body toward me and stares, waiting for an answer.
Knowing it’s unsafe to drive while my hands are shaking, I ball them in my lap. “I’m sorry, okay? That’s all. I just… I felt terrible about our misunderstanding—”
“Your misunderstanding.”
“Right. I felt terrible about what I said to you and so I brought you a peace offering.”
He looks at the drink, takes a sip, and goes back to staring at me. “This is spot-on. How’d you know?”
“I Googled it. You’d be surprised the stuff you can find on the internet.”
“You internet-stalked me.”
“No!” My stomach twists a little, but I push back my nerves because I refuse to top off this humiliation party with a barf piñata. “You did an interview with some men’s fitness magazine and you offered up the information.”
He sips on his drink. “What else did you learn about me?”
“Nothing. I didn’t dig that far.” I know his favorite fish is sea bass, he hates filberts—which I believe are some kind of nut—and he only eats beef called Wagu, whatever that is. I punch the engine button and pull away from the church.
“Liar.” He finally sits forward.
With his eyes off me, I relax a little. Silence stretches between us, and although it’s uncomfortable silence, I’m still grateful for it.
When we hit the driveway, he speaks up. “Apology accepted.” He pops open the door and climbs out before leaning down with one tattooed arm propped on the car’s roof. “Oh, and I may’ve instigated your misunderstanding.”
“What? Why?”
He shrugs and steps back from the car, a grin on his face. “You’re entertaining when you’re mad.” He slams the door, punctuating his words.
Dick!
I back out of the driveway and speed off with a squeal of my tires, still hearing his chuckle through the open window.
Jesse
Day Twenty-One
One week until my twenty-eight-day mark.
I have to say, it’s been a piece of cake so far. All I have to do is ignore everything I don’t like, sleep as much as I’m able, and kill time in every possible way.
With my elbows on my knees, I stare at my guitar leaning on the wall by the closet. The best musicians in the world were at the top of their game while drunk and high. Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Hendrix, David Bowie. Sober those guys up and they’d never be able to create the magic they did when they were wasted. I should just pick it up, but what if I no longer have what it takes to create musical magic?
Discouraged, I drop my head into my hands and groan.
Hanging over the elastic waistband of my sweats is a roll of flesh that wasn’t there weeks ago. What the fuck is that?
I jump off the bed and head out into the living room, where Ben is sprawled out on the couch with his kid curled up at his side, watching some cartoon. “Hey—”
“Shhh…” the kid says but doesn’t take her eyes off the screen. “This is the best part.”
I roll my eyes and watch some singing blonde make an icehouse out of magic that squirts from her hands. When it seems like the song isn’t going to be over for a while, I drop down in the chair and wait. Whoa… blond chick just pulled her hair down and got sexy as fuck. Wait, no, I am not lusting after a damn cartoon. I drop my head back and wait until the singing ends.
“Ben, hey.”
He turns his head away from the television only to have his kid grip his chin and turn it back.
“Keep watching, Daddy.”
“Okay, princess. What is it, Jesiah?”
I grip the armrest of the chair. Why does he insist on calling me that? “I need to call Dave.”
“All right. I’m not stopping you.”
“I don’t know his number.”
“You don’t know your manager’s number?”
“I’m not doing this with you.” I stand up, prepared to wait for Dave to call me.
“What do you need?”
“A gym.” I slap my gut. “I need to move around, burn off all this processed food you’ve been feeding me.”
He kisses his kid’s head and slips off the couch. I follow him to the kitchen, where he pours himself a glass of water.
“Well?”
He looks at me thoughtfully, which makes me feel as if I want to curl in on myself, so I stick out my chest to prove a point. You don’t intimidate me anymore, big brother.
“You can work out at my gym.” He shrugs.
“No, I can’t. If I go to a public gym and get recognized—”
“It’s not public. It’s at the church. You can use it whenever you want. They do yoga classes and weight training a few days a week, but you can work out around that.”
“Wait, you have a gym at your church?”
“Physical fitness goes hand in hand with spiritual well-being.”
That explains the extra bulk he’s put on since I last saw him.
“When can I start?”
“I guess you’ll have to talk to Bethany and see when she’s available to take you.”
&
nbsp; I run my hands through my hair. Shit. How the hell is this going to work? I’m not used to having to ask for favors. I mention my needs and they’re met.
This is uncharted territory.
I fucking hate it.
9
Jesse
“Thanks for sending the clothes,” I say to Dave while sorting through the box of workout wear he overnighted me. I cross to the bathroom, and the 70s-era telephone comes off the dresser and thumps to the floor. “Any chance I can get a cell phone here soon?”
Fuck, it’s frustrating to think I’ve made this guy millions and I’m begging him to get me my own phone. The monster has been silent inside me, but now I feel a scaly stir.
“You write me a song yet?”
I pick up the plastic phone cradle and slam it on the dresser. “That’s how this works, huh? Necessities being divvied out as rewards?”
“More like you make an effort and prove you want your career back, then I’ll start treating you more like a client and less like a child.”
“I’ve been sober for almost a month!”
“You’ve been seeing Doctor Ulrich for a month and he says you’re still refusing to participate in therapy.”
“What the fuck? Isn’t there some client confidentiality shit where he’s not allowed to discuss what we talk about? I’ll have his license revoked!”
“For what? Telling me you’re not taking the sessions seriously? Good luck with that. You’re down to seeing him twice a week now and running out of opportunities to get the help you need.”
There’s a rumble behind my ribs where the monster lives, but rather than rage, he rolls over and continues his hibernation. Pussy.
“What’s going on with the band?”
“I told you, there is no band.”
“Are you trying to get me to drink again? Come on, give me something to hope for here. If this is all a lost cause anyway, then why the fuck am I here?”
He’s quiet for a few beats then clears his throat. “The guys are waiting to see what you write before they decide if they’re going to stick around or not.”
“That’s good, right? I’ll crank out a few number-one songs and we’re back in business.”
