Amped

by Teagan Kade

I look to Mat, speaking down to the cell. “You really think so?”

  “You guys are going to be booked out until Kingdom Come after that. Mark my words. Everyone is talking about it. Check out your social media channels. I bet they’re blowing up right now.”

  I reach for Mat’s cell and unlock the screen. The amount of notifications streaming in have turned his homepage into a slot machine. “Fuck me,” he says, looking over as I thumb through them.

  “What now?” I ask Dom.

  “Now,” he says. “I work my magic.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MAT

  I’m playing with Sel’s hair in bed, mystified by the way it changes color according to the light. It goes from dark chocolate to a light chestnut in an instant as the sunlight outside falls dappled across the sheets.

  Fucking beautiful.

  Which also stands as the perfect way to describe how we connected on stage last night. If there is one song that’s destined for greatness, it’s Better Days. I feel it deep in my gut where I guard all my emotions.

  Sel’s cell was ringing so hard next the bed at one stage I suggested we use it as a makeshift vibrator.

  She said she preferred my tongue.

  I wasn’t going to argue.

  Now we have the benefit of being able to pick and choose where we play next, who we will accept for interviews and promo. The tables have turned once more, as they have a habit of doing in Hollywood. We’re out of the Bellhopper and back to being hot property

  *

  The next few days are a blur of interviews. We jump from one address to the next, answering the same questions and laughing at the same jokes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say every disc jockey and presenter in this town is sharing the same material.

  Dad’s brought up a lot, but I expected that. I’m used to talking about him. I enjoy it, even the less glamorous elements of his life. I’m clear pointing out I’m not going to make the same mistakes, that what I’m bringing to his songs is fresh and new, something unique. I don’t know about the presenters, but the listeners seem to be lapping it up. The only thing people love more than a fall from grace is a climb back to the top. They call in with high praise, the odd teenage girl professing her love or talking about what a ‘bae couple’ we make.

  At 2UB a five-year-old boy calls in telling Sel she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, asking for her hand in marriage. I ask him what he has I don’t. “Cookies,” he replies.

  Touché.

  Both Sel and I are in tears, struggling to maintain composure given our five-year-old caller thinks it’s all very serious, demanding an answer.

  “Maybe in another fifteen years when Mat starts to go gray,” Sel replies, looking at me with a glow in her eyes I haven’t seen in a long time.

  God, even I am getting sappy and emotional over it all. What do they call it? Clucky? Sel would make a great mom. And me? A Dad? It’s a strange concept. If you had of asked me doing chili shots in the Caribbean a year ago whether I’d be sitting here contemplating a family, I would have laughed you out of the room, but with Sel new possibilities arise. I see an actual future with her, and it’s beautiful.

  Sel slides into the passenger seat. “What number was that?”

  “Sixteen. Four to go.”

  “Radio?”

  “Yep. All of them."

  She feels like I do, like we’re running a marathon jumping from one mic to the next, but Dom said it’s important to get out there, get some good exposure for the festival.

  “The last one is at Kiss Studios, right?” asks Sel, tying her hair up.

  “Yeah, down south.”

  “It isn’t that far from Palm Springs. Why don’t we go see your mom?”

  I’d been considering a long soak in the Jacuzzi at home, but it’s been almost a month since I visited Mom. I don’t know when I’ll have the chance again. “Good idea.”

  The Jacuzzi will have to wait.

  *

  It’s unseasonably cold at Freedom House and Mom’s wrapped up in a checkered blanket on the deck.

  “Why don’t we go inside?” I offer.

  She turns to me, her face pulled together in confusion.

  None of it is getting through to Mom today. She wears the same vacant expression she always does these days. Even Selena’s presence hasn’t managed to snap her out of it. We’re both strangers to her.

  “Who are you?” she asks, when Selena leans close.

  Thankfully, Selena has far more patience than I do. “It’s Selena Torres, Mrs. Barton. I’m friends with your son.”

  Genuine surprise on Mom’s face. “My son?”

  I can’t take it anymore. I cut in. “I am your son, Mom. Mat, remember? Your husband was Mason Barton, lead singer of the Dead Knots?”

  “The Dead Knots!” she exclaims. “What a wonderful band! Do you know I’ve met their lead singer?” She winks at Selena. “He’s quite the hottie, you know. All the girls want a piece of him, but he only has eyes for me.”

  I think Selena and my mother are about to share a strange swooning moment until a nurse interrupts proceedings.

  “It’s time for your medication, Mrs. Barton.”

  “No,” Mom says, suddenly firm. “I won’t take it.”

  The nurse smiles at Selena and I. “Yes, I’m afraid we all have to take our medicine, Mrs. Barton. Open wide now.”

  The nurse starts to hold her down, but I take her arm. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  She pulls it away. “Please, it’s for her benefit, Mr.…?”

  “I don’t want anyone forcing my mother to do anything,” I snap.

  “Mat.” Sel’s hand falls on my arm. “Let them do their job.”

  Thankfully, Mom opens her mouth and allows the pills to be placed in.

  The nurse glares at me as she leaves.

  Sel watches her. “She is not a Mat Barton fan.”

  “It’s not funny,” I say.

  “What’s not funny?” Mom interjects.

  “Nothing, Mom.”

  “Mom?” she questions. “Who you calling Mom, kid?”

  Jesus.

  “Easy,” Sel whispers. “You know what she’s like.”

  I do, which only makes it more frustrating. This was a bad idea.

  Sel turns my head back to the lounge and points. “Hey, is that a stereo in there?”

  I look harder. “It would appear.”

  “Bring your mom inside,” Sel says. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Where are you—”

  But Sel has already darted off. She returns with a CD from the car just as I’ve managed to coax Mom inside.

  I get where she’s going with this. “You want to play her the new song?”

  She spins the CD in her fingers. We were going to take it to Dom later, see what he thought. “Maybe your dad sang it to her. I don’t know. I thought it was worth a shot.”

  It’s not a bad idea at all. Isn’t that what they say? Find them something familiar, something that might trigger a memory?

  There are a handful of other patients in the room, a group mindlessly watching Jeopardy in the corner, but I doubt they’re going to care.

  I bring Mom over to the stereo and sit her down. Sel sticks the CD in and hits play. “Tell us what you think of this, Mrs. Barton.”

  The intro comes in and the other patients stir, making their way over. By the chorus some of them are dancing, two old guys arm-in-arm swinging around, robes flying. Mom’s smiling, nodding her head along to the beat. I smile myself. It’s infectious. The mood in the whole room is lifting. There’s finally freedom in Freedom House.

  Sel turns up the volume and starts to dance herself, offering Mom a hand. Mom takes it, exclaiming ‘Oh!’ when Sel twirls her around, the two of them dancing.

  It’s so great to see Mom happy again.

  I see the same nurse who gave Mom her meds approaching. I know the look she’s wearing.

  She cuts between us and switches the stereo off. />
  “Why’d you do that?” I protest. “Everyone’s enjoying it. Can’t you see?”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t allow music in the ward. It’s disruptive to patients.”

  I don’t miss the emphasis on ‘disruptive.’ “Come on. It’s harmless.”

  She crosses her arms, unmoved. “Policy is policy,” I’m afraid. She puts her hand out. “I’m going to need that CD, too. You can have it back when you leave.”

  Fucking hell. It’s like being in the principal’s office again. Sel sees I’m ready to blow. She steps in front of me and ejects the CD, handing it to the nurse. “Sorry about that.”

  The nurse gives a curt “hmm” and walks off back to her station.

  “Bi—”

  “Mat,” says Sel, stopping me. “Let it go.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. These are the people who care for your mother when you’re gone,” she whispers. “You really want to piss them off?”

  “Yeah, I kind of do.”

  “What happened to the music?” asks Mom.

  I look to Sel. “Yeah, what happened to the music?

  Mom pipes up again. “I think I remember that song.”

  We both turn our attention to Mom. I take her by the shoulders. “You remember that song?”

  “Mason’s song, wasn’t it?” she replies.

  I jump back, looking to Sel. “Holy shit. She remembers it. He did sing it to her.”

  Sel pulls out her phone, swiping through the screens to bring up a hasty recording of the song she made when we were in the studio last. She keeps the volume low, but clearly not low enough.

  “Stop that right now.”

  We all turn to a man in a white coat entering the room, the nurse from before at his back scowling.

  Sel hits pause.

  “Who are you, sorry?” I ask.

  “I’m the Chief of Medicine. Who are you?”

  Damn. He’s got me there. “A concerned son.”

  “As the nurse here informed you, music is not allowed here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It disturbs the other patients. We try to provide a calm, peaceful environment, Mr.…?”

  “Barton.”

  If he recognizes the name, he doesn’t let on, clearing his voice. “I’m sure you understand, Mr. Barton. After all, you want the best for your mother, don’t you?”

  So he does know who I am. “I do, which is why I think playing her this song will spark something inside her, help her remember.”

  The weathered sigh of a medical professional follows. “Mr. Barton, are you a practicing psychologist?”

  “No.”

  “A doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then how about you leave the treatment to the professionals. Neurological disorders like your mother’s are complex. Trying to trigger regressed memories too soon might actually undo all the hard work we’re doing here.”

  Hard work—yeah, right. I’m starting to dislike this place more and more, especially considering what we’re forking out for it. “What harm is one song going to do?”

  “Mr. Barton,” he says, more forcefully now.

  “No. I pay for my mother’s care here.”

  “I believe Mrs. Barton pays for her own care here, Mr. Barton. She signed her power of attorney and any assets required to pay for her care to this facility when she arrived. She is in our care.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean that until we clear her, she is required by law to remain here.”

  I see what’s going on. “Or until the money runs out, right? What kind of bullshit laws allow this? She was in no condition to agree to anything when she arrived.”

  He smiles, smug, and I want to fucking rearrange his cocky face. “Yet we have her signature on the contract, Mr. Barton.”

  It dawns on me. I brought Mom here. I watched her sign that damn contract, the doctor telling me how I wouldn’t have to worry, how any money required for her care would be automatically deducted from the trust fund. Andrew wanted to come, see the facility and contract, but I rushed it through. I’m being screwed by another contract, another law, and Mom’s paying the price.

  “So she’s fucking trapped here while you bleed her dry. I pay for her expenses, don’t I?” I’m yelling now, Sel trying to tug me away.

  “And that does not entitle you to treat her,” continues the Chief. “Now, if you’ll please—”

  He reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “Get your god damn hands off me.”

  “Mat!” shouts Sel.

  I snap out of the rage for a moment. This is getting us nowhere. I have to take another tack. I put my hands up. “Okay, you win. We’ll say our goodbyes and be on our way.”

  A fake smile. “Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Barton.”

  We watch them leave.

  Selena pulls in close and lowers her voice. “Now what?”

  I smile. “We’ve still got our voices, don’t we?”

  Sel smiles in reply. “You bad bad boy.”

  “Want to be my bad bad girl?”

  I’m caught in the excitement of this breakthrough. I look to Sel. “Come on. Sing it with me.” I start the song over, singing acapella and Sel joins me halfway through the first verse. The other patients gather around again, everyone bopping as we get to the chorus, Mom on her feet, and fuck me, she’s actually singing along.

  She remembers it. She damn well remembers it.

  The joy spreads. Sel sees it. Mom sees it. This is what I’ve wanted for the longest time, just a flicker of hope.

  It doesn’t last long.

  Security arrives shortly to kick us out.

  I’m about to start a fuss when I hear Mom. “Mat? Mat?”

  It’s all I need.

  I stand back from the rent-a-cop and take Sel’s arm. “Come on, Sel. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  But Mom’s coming home, one way or another. I’ll get her out if it’s the last fucking thing I do.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SELENA

  It’s pouring outside, the White House’s gardens turned into little more than a swampy jungle. We could well be in Colombia instead of Beverly Hills. We enter holding each other, saturated, but laughing.

  I shake myself out in the foyer, Mat doing likewise. “That’s some downpour.”

  “And to think it was crystal clear in Palm Springs.”

  I come close and run my hands under his shirt, over the chiseled planes of his abs and chest. “I’m sorry about your mother Mat. I didn’t even know they could do that.”

  He nods. “We’ll find a way. We always do, don’t we? Torres and Barton, the dynamic duo.”

  I look sullenly at the floor. “It used to be the three amigos, remember?”

  Mat holds my shoulders. “You’ve got to forget about Rick. Let him do his own thing and we’ll worry about us.”

  He’s right. “And your mom? Have are we going to get her released? I thought the money was running out.”

  Mat paces, hands on his head. “I suppose it will, but I think, and I’d have to check with Andrew, they can claim her assets if it does.”

  “Her assets?” I question.

  Mat opens up his arms, spinning around. “All this.”

  “I thought it belonged to the liquidators, tied up in your Dad’s case or whatever.” It’s starting to get confusing.

  Mat shrugs. “I guess everyone wants a piece of the Bartons.”

  It’s a miracle we’ve even been able to stay in the White House for so long.

  I can see Mat thinking it over. “We could get another doctor to examine her, right?”

  I doubt it would work, but I don’t want to put a damper on things. “Maybe.”

  He’s smiling as he lists out his ideas, each wilder than the last, but this is just it, what makes Mat so special. Rick was never this passionate about anything. Well, maybe money, but when Mat’s on a roll like this you can’t help but be sucked i
nto his world, swept up in the excitement and momentum of it all.

  Mason was the same. Whenever he had an idea for a song he’d dance around the house and drag us along, belting it out at the top of his lungs. You couldn’t help but smile.

  It occurs to me how much I missed Mat while he was away. Maybe I was trying to deny it, to move on, but now more than ever it’s clear to me how happy I am to have him back in my life. The world’s crashing down around us, but I feel like as long as we’re together everything is going to be okay—better than okay. It’s going to be incredible. We might be living under a bridge, sure, but still.

  Mat’s still speaking when I interrupt his speech, leaning forward and kissing him.

  Like all Bartons, he’s quick on the uptake.

  He wastes no time. He dips me, kissing me full on the mouth. It’s salty, warm – everything I’ve come to know.

  I moan with excitement as our mouths meet, something charged zapping between us. I’m breathless when we come apart. I pull the wet shirt over his head, revealing his ink, muted from the last three years on the road. He kisses me again and I melt into his arms, tight to his chest, his head tilting to nibble on my ear lobe.

  I kick off my heels as Mathew drags my jeans down, pulling my tank over my head, tossing it away. It slaps wet onto the floor. With one hand he unsnaps my bra from behind, my breasts spilling against him, mashing against the ink eagle on his chest as he brings me towards him. My breasts are high, perky nipples between us like eraser points on my chest. He already has a finger on my clit, see-sawing through my folds.

  His hands take fistfuls of my ass, a finger slipping under the band of my thong, wedging it tight into the slick valley below. He crouches and draws the thin garment away, twisting it off my ankles. I can feel his erection growing thick between us.

  He lifts me up and throws me onto the chaise in the foyer, standing at the end slowly undoing his belt before crawling towards me.

  “Mathew, I—”

  He places a finger on my lips and I can taste my arousal upon it, earthy and pungent. “Quiet.”

  The next thing I know his lips are soft on my own. They part willingly and allow the curious tip of his tongue to enter. It’s an entirely familiar sensation but gentler, the hard edges rounded off. I find myself moaning against him as his hand snakes up my back and into the dark tresses of my hair. Normally when he kisses me I light up like fireworks, but this is different—embers building to flame.