by JB Salsbury
“Do you want a ride?”
“You don’t have to. I’m fine taking the bus.”
“But I’m here so…”
I glare, hoping to be able to read his intentions. “What do you want?”
“You’re fucking exhausting.” He drops his head back then rolls it to look at me. “Do you want a ride or not?”
I don’t have a good reason to say no—other than the fact that something about accepting the ride feels like giving in—but after the day I’ve had, I don’t have the energy to resist. I gather my things and climb into the car. The AC blows in my face and the radio is on, but the volume is low, creating pleasant background noise.
I strap on my seatbelt and point Jesse in the direction of my apartment and try not to stare at him illuminated by the dash lights.
His great skin, gauged ears, and full-sleeve tattoos make him look every bit of the rock god the media proclaims him to be. His jeans and faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, combined with the way his hair sticks out from beneath his hat, adds a regular guy look that softens his intimidating exterior.
“Stop staring,” he says as he makes a left.
“I’m not staring. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re being so nice to me.”
His gaze darts toward me for a second before refocusing on the road. “I’m not.”
What could he possibly be doing driving around after eleven o’clock at night? I chew my lip. “Were you out looking for… you know.”
His head whips around. “No, I don’t know. Are you… do you think I’m out trying to score?”
My eyes practically fall from my skull. “No! I’m pretty sure you could find someone to have sex with without having to pay!”
He grimaces. “Not score pussy, genius. Drugs. You think I’m out looking for drugs?”
“No, I mean… I don’t know.” I catch the roll of his eyes in the headlights of oncoming traffic. He seems offended, but what else am I supposed to think? “Take a left here.”
“Your intelligence is astonishing.”
I cup my ear with my hand. “Wait, is that… sarcasm I hear?”
He shakes his head.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just takes my directions as the silence in the car swallows us.
I’m relieved when my complex comes into view. “I’m there, on the right.”
He pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park. “How will you get to the house tomorrow?”
“The bus.”
His eyebrows drop low.
“I like taking the bus. I have friends there.” I grip the handle to get out. “Hey, Jesse?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry for what I said about why you’d be out driving around tonight. You really helped me out earlier today, and you didn’t deserve that.” When he looks confused, I continue. “With Wyatt and Suzette, you didn’t have to tell them we’re friends, but I appreciate that you did.”
He nods. “I didn’t say it for your benefit.” He avoids my eyes by looking forward dismissively. “I said it to make Tits jealous. Did you see how hot she got when she thought I was with you?”
His words are tendrils that knot in my chest. “But she’s engaged to marry someone else.”
“So?”
“Do you have that little respect for the sanctity of marriage?”
“They’re not married yet.”
“They’re in love though.” I swallow back the sour bile that surges into my throat.
He tilts his head, glaring. “That chick looked at me like she wanted to lick my skin off.”
“And you’d let her? Knowing she’s wearing another man’s ring?”
“Fuck yeah I would!”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Yep.”
I hop out and slam the door. I can’t believe I assumed for one second that he’s a decent human being. He’s made it clear from day one that all he’s interested in is finding the next available vagina. Of course he’d do whatever it takes to get in Suzette’s pants.
Gross.
And now he has me defending my ex-boyfriend and his flippin’ fiancée!
Jesse Lee is the worst!
11
Jesse
Day Thirty-Five
Less than two months to go.
Since my lapse in judgment last night, I’ve decided to make a few adjustments to my daily routine.
I woke up at sunrise thanks to my newfound sobriety. After my coffee and a smoke later, I’ll lock myself in Ben’s bedroom to write. I’ll refuse to let myself leave after nine o’clock and only emerge when I’m forced to go to my meeting. I’ll keep my mouth shut in the car and only speak up to let the nanny know I’m going to drop her off at work again, but this time I will not be picking her up. I’ve got more important things to do with my insomnia—like write songs for my next platinum album, for fuck’s sake!
I never allow people to get under my skin, and it’s been pretty fucking easy since adolescence. The less I care, the easier it is.
So how the fuck does this no-name girl manage to irritate the shit out of me?
I dated the actress Elise Daegar—okay, maybe dating is overselling it, but we saw each other exclusively for at least a few weeks. She threw a vase at me for leaving the toilet seat up, smashed in my headlights for not opening the car door for her, and insisted I send her flowers on set every day. None of that made me so mad I wanted to punch something.
I flex my hand on my guitar fret, still feeling the ache from last night’s low moment.
So what? I punched the dashboard.
Back in the day, I would’ve drowned my irritation with a bottle of whiskey or a fresh Columbian line. That’s all this is. My aggressive response last night had a lot more to do with my sobriety than the annoying woman I currently hear singing a God-awful rendition of Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.”
I strum my guitar and focus on the lyrics to a new song I’m working on trying to ignore the voice that sounds like cats being burned alive on the other side of the door. Why is she singing in the hallway? Is she trying to smoke me out of here?
“It’s not gonna work,” I growl and strum my guitar a little louder. “The thorn it sears, the smoke and mirrors…” I jot down a few chords. My hand shakes as the nanny reaches the chorus, her voice even louder.
“Gotta hold on to what we’ve got.”
I can’t take another second. I jump off the bed and rip open the door.
Her back is to me as she folds towels and puts them away in the hall closet, and she has on headphones the size of coconuts. The kid is in the living room, sitting a foot from the television with the volume up. She’s got the right idea.
“It doesn’t make a difference if we’re naked or not! We’ve got each other and that’s—”
I pull off her headphones, and she jumps and whirls around.
“What did you just say?”
“What are you doing? I told you to stop sneaking up on me!” she snaps.
“Did you just say, ‘It doesn’t make a difference if we’re naked or not’? Those aren’t the lyrics. ‘If we make it or not.’ Make it!”
“That’s ridiculous. He’s clearly saying naked.” Her brown eyes narrow. “You were spying on me?”
“You’re yelling! The fucking neighbors could hear you. Are they spying too?”
“Who made you the lyrics police anyway?” Her cheeks burn red, but she covers her embarrassment by stiffening her spine. “And last I checked, it wasn’t a crime to sing.”
“Ha! That? What you were just doing? That wasn’t singing. That was an attempt to contact alien life.”
“Oh my gosh, Jesse Lee, you’re so funny,” she says in a mocking fangirl voice before rolling her eyes and turning her back on me.
“I need to work, but it’s impossible to focus with all that racket coming out of your face.”
Her shoulders bunch up around her ears. “Fine. I’ll stop. You could’v
e just asked without delivering insults.”
I step away, not nearly as appeased as I thought I would be after shutting her up. I’m eager to get away from this confusing woman and back to something that makes more sense—my song—but I stop short. “What are you wearing?”
She drops her head back in exaggerated exasperation then turns around with a bored expression. “It’s a dress. I would expect someone with your experience to know that.”
“No shit it’s a dress.” I take another step back, not completely sure why. The dress is nothing special—simple tank top, stripes on cotton, hits above the knee. Her shoulders are tan and toned, most likely from carrying heavy trays of food. She’s barefoot, and her toenails are painted a pale blue. Her feet are cute. Really fucking cute. I blink and refocus on her. “Why are you wearing it?”
She kicks out a hip. “None of your business. But!” She holds up a finger and points at me. “I’m gonna need the car.”
“No.”
“You can’t say no. Dave said—”
“I’ll talk to Dave. For now…” I look her up and down, wondering briefly what she’s wearing underneath and how easy it would be to slip a hand up her thigh to find out. Not that she’d let me. If I had to guess, I’d say Wyatt’s the only man she’s allowed between her thighs. Judging by his Dockers and Top Siders, there’s no way he rocked her world the way I would if given the chance.
“For now…?” She rolls her hand in the air.
“What?” I clear the thickness from my voice. My jeans are significantly tighter than they were before I walked into the hallway.
“You said ‘I’ll talk to Dave. For now… ’? For now what?” Her dark eyes search mine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble and, as casually and unaffectedly as possible, walk back into the room. I don’t slam the door or huff in frustration. I’m aware I have a much bigger problem on my hands—or rather, in my pants.
This makes no sense.
I date supermodels. Actresses. Gorgeous heirs with their own reality shows.
Normal girls have never caught my eye.
What the fuck is going on?
“I’m attracted to Bethany.”
“Jesse? Is that you? In all the years we’ve been working together, this is the first time you’ve ever called me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose at the oncoming headache. “You’re funny, dickhead.”
Dave chuckles. “What’s up? And how’d you get my number?”
“Can we cut the bullshit already?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. How’re things?”
I pace the room, feeling antsy as fuck after my interaction in the hallway with the nanny. I thought a shower and my hand would take the edge off, but thirty minutes of steam and two orgasms later, I’m still fighting to keep the blood in my body equally distributed. “Everything’s fine.”
“How are the new songs coming along?”
“Really good, but—”
“You want to start using the car.”
I stop pacing and stare at a blank wall in Ben’s room. “How’d you know that?”
“I already got a call from Bethany.”
I whip my head toward the door, ready to race out there and give that woman a tongue lashing. Fuck! A groan bubbles up my throat at the thought of having my tongue anywhere on or inside—no! Stop it right now! “She did?”
“Yeah, she said you took the car yesterday and that she needed it today for some kind of lunch date.”
“A date? She said she has a date? You told her no, right? I need the car to go to the gym.”
“Easy, take a deep breath. I know not getting your way all the time is going to be a difficult adjustment, but I promise you this is for the best.”
“Wait, so you told her she could use the car today?” The beast inside me licks his teeth. “Whose money did you use to buy that car? I don’t know what the fucking nanny told you, but I’ve been sober and working my ass off. I’ve earned the right to that car, and if you have a motherfucking problem with that, you can send in your resignation and I’ll go buy myself my own goddamn car!” I’m practically panting to catch my breath.
“You done?”
No, I am not fucking done! What’s happening to me? Why do I feel as though I’m about to jump out of my skin at the mention of Ben’s kid’s nanny?
“Bethany was cool. She said you’ve been working hard, that all she hears coming from your room is your guitar, and the reason she called was to make sure I was okay with you driving the car now. I told her I was fine with that until you failed a drug and alcohol screening.”
“Hold up, drug and alcohol screening?”
“Every morning at nine, a nurse will show up to take a urine sample—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“As long as you pass, you get use of the car.”
I drop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
“And after thirty days of clean screenings, if you deliver me some songs, I’ll get you a phone.”
“Wow, thanks, Dad,” I say dryly.
“You’re welcome, son. Now go work out the driving schedule with Bethany. You’re both adults. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Fuck.”
He laughs. “Nice to have you back, Jes.”
The line goes dead and I continue to stare at the popcorn ceiling.
Sixty more days and I get my life back.
Until then, I have to find something that will not only entertain but inspire me, oh, and extra challenge, I have to do that without drugs or alcohol.
I am so fucked.
The monster in my gut grumbles, “You wish.”
I’ve always wondered why men who are losing their hair don’t just shave their heads rather than comb one side over to try to cover the shining hairless scalp.
As Paul addresses the group of recovering addicts, I contemplate the many reasons why he doesn’t just shave his shit. Maybe he’s grateful for every last hair he has and wants to show them proudly by growing all sixteen hairs a foot long and using them as a bald shield.
God, this is where I’m at? Pondering the ins and outs of male pattern baldness?
I’d kill for an icy glass of twenty-five-year-old scotch, a cigarette, and a gorgeous woman who doesn’t argue with every-fucking-thing I say to sit on my lap right now.
“And use it to replace one addiction with another. Has anyone experienced this and would like to share?” Paul’s gaze comes to mine like it does after every question he asks. If he’s trying to be inconspicuous about getting me to share, he’s doing a shitty job.
“I’ve started puzzling,” Oscar, the drunk who lost his wife and kids in a divorce because of his addiction to cheap vodka, says. “When I crave a drink, I head out to my dining room table and work on my puzzle.”
“That’s great!”
Paul’s encouraging smile has other guys in the group interjecting their own stupid shit. One works on his motorcycle, the other started rolling ten years’ worth of coins. Blah blah boring blah…
“This is good stuff. It’s wonderful that you’ve all found something healthy and productive to do when the cravings become unbearable.” His gaze settles again on mine, and I hold his stare until he’s forced to look away. “Great, let’s close with the serenity prayer, and I’ll see you guys here tomorrow.”
They pray.
I close my eyes and imagine every woman I’ve ever seen naked.
Once we’re dismissed, I jump up, eager to hit the gym for as long as I’m able. Back in the day before the booze—okay, before the drugs—I did my best brainstorming while working out. Wrote some of my best shit in my home gym. I feel a bit of that coming back with every workout.
I head out into the hallway and past the offices where my brother is currently working. I keep my head down to avoid being seen by one of his staff. I don’t know how much Ben has shared with the church employees, and I don’t really care as long
as they don’t bother me or rat me out to the media.
I make the last turn and head toward the glass door where I see the Lexus waiting. I grin and straighten my shoulders, strangely excited for the next verbal spar with Bethany about her fucking lunch date.
And what kind of a pussy-ass bitch asks a woman he wants to bang out to lunch?
“Hey! Jesse!”
“Fuck.” I whirl around, glaring at whoever yelled my name loud enough for everyone to hear.
Suzette. She’s sitting in a chair at the far end of the lobby, but she stands as I approach. She’s dressed to kill in a halter top, skinny jeans, and a pair of black heels made for the club, not church. Her eyes light up in a way I’ve seen a million times before. “You’re here.”
I smirk. “What’s up… uh…”
“Suzette.”
“Right. Suzette.” I didn’t forget. The nanny’s obsession with the pretty brunette and her dorky fiancé makes her a household name. But I want her to think she’s forgettable. “What are you doing here?” Let me guess…
“I’m here for a meeting with Ben, but”—she steps closer and whispers—“I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Ya don’t say. I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the stir of excitement at this kind of distraction. “Here I am. Now what?”
Her face turns red, making her seem more innocent than I’d pegged her for from the photos I’ve seen.
“Where’s your man?” I make sure she sees me scoping out her body—her tits, hips, long legs. You’re not dressed like this for him, are you, bad girl? “He’s not coming?”
The red in her cheeks blazes a path down her throat to her breasts.
I fucking smile. See, this is fun. This is how flirting should be.
“Ms. Ortiz?”
I drop my chin at the sound of my brother’s voice followed by his footsteps.
“You’re here? I’ve been calling your cell.”
I look at Ben, who studies me and Suzette as if he’s expecting to find cum stains on her clothes.
“Pastor Langley, I’m sorry.” She points at me. “Did you know you have a huge celebrity in your church?”
