The Passenger

by Jacqueline Druga

  The Passenger

  Jacqueline Druga

  Copyright © 2021 Jacqueline Druga

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Special thanks for all your help to the dream team, Paula G, Connie, Wendi and Kira

  To my son, Noah. You're always my muse.

  The Passenger

  Jacqueline Druga

  ONE

  It was a good crowd and had remained that way throughout most of the show. The venue was small, and the lively group of individuals made the place look packed.

  The size of the crowd surprised Jonas Truett, considering the no-name bar was located on a back road in the middle of nowhere.

  How they got the gig was a fluke. The owner caught their video online. The basement studio recording of Jonas and the guys covering a seventies’ tune had less than three hundred views. Yet, the owner saw it, loved it and invited them to play. Live music was a dying art. Jonas had been playing guitar since he was a teenager. Having the chance for their full band to play, instead of doing just some acoustic act, was an opportunity they didn’t want to pass up. Even if it was two-hundred miles from home.

  Surprisingly, the show for the most part was a success.

  The loud cheering and screaming had Jonas Truett feeling like a rock star when he broke into his guitar solo, the second to last song of the third set.

  Then the fight broke out.

  Some local guy wound up tight, calling Jonas some hot shot making moves on his girl.

  Jonas could have let it go. Nodded it off with a, “Yeah, yeah, man, whatever.”

  But Jonas was a hot head and anger begets anger.

  Words were thrown with chest to chest pushes, and Jonas took a hard right to his cheek before the fight was stopped.

  The local guy calmed and offered he and Jonas do the grade school, ‘shake hands and make up’ thing.

  Jonas refused, insisting the guy be removed.

  This didn’t help Jonas’ mood though. That guy got the first and last punch, and Jonas felt like a tool. Fueling a pouting, stomping behavior Jonas often demonstrated when he got ticked off.

  He wished he could blame his reaction on copious amounts of alcohol, typically it was to blame and made it worse. But Jonas stopped drinking hours earlier. Not because he wanted to, but because the hotel was ten miles away and he had to drive some winding road just to get to the highway.

  Being drunk in unfamiliar territory wasn’t a good idea. However, a six pack to go was.

  The fight took the wind out of the band’s sail, bringing the fervor down several notches, especially when the crowd trickled away during their last set.

  The end of the night couldn’t come fast enough for Jonas.

  Finally, it did. The bar was empty except for a few stragglers who probably closed the place every night.

  The band members just wanted to leave, come back and tear down the big stuff the next day. However, Jonas didn’t want to leave his gear behind.

  Brett, the drummer stood on the stage, finishing the last of his beer, and grabbed his stick bag. “You want me to wait for you?”

  Jonas wrapped his cords. He rolled them in neat loops so they wouldn’t get tangled, then set them inside the small, canvas gym bag. “Nah, I’m good, thanks,” Jonas replied. “If I don’t see you tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Sounds good.” Brett took a step off the edge of the stage and stopped. “Whoa, hey …” He bent down and lifted something from the floor. “Is this your phone?” He held it up.

  Jonas glanced over with a slight squint. “Yeah. Was it on the floor?”

  “Yep. Probably knocked off in the fight.” He extended it to Jonas.

  “Tell me before I look, is the screen broken?”

  Brett examined the phone. “Nope. But you have four missed texts from your mom.”

  “I saw them, I just didn’t open them. Thanks.” Jonas grumbled and took the phone. He gazed down at the phone, still not opening the messages. He didn’t need to. They were short texts. The last one probably came in during the fight.

  Hey, let me know you got there okay.

  Have a good show, love you.

  Are you okay?

  Please let me know you’re okay.

  After putting his phone in the front pocket of his gear bag, Jonas pulled a cloth from his open case and lifted his guitar from the stand. He should have put it away first. He didn’t, he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he should have. He still stewed about the events of the night, how things went from a mega high to a bad low.

  He loved his guitar and lifted it with care. The design on the body of the custom made instrument looked like cheese curls. Jonas was inspired when he saw one that looked like ramen noodles. The guitar stood out and it sounded great. It didn’t look quite as awesome when it was smudged, so Jonas polished the finish after every gig, before putting it back in his case.

  “Hey,” a male voice called out to him.

  Jonas turned and his eyes cast down to the glass placed on the corner of his amp. A shot’s worth of dark liquid in the rocks glass. “Don’t put that there.” He told the man.

  “It’s for you.”

  “Nah, thanks, though.”

  “Come on,” the guy said. “A peace offering. Sorry my friend decked you.”

  “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  Only because Jonas didn’t want to get into another confrontation, he took the drink. It was just a shot, and Jonas’ tolerance to alcohol was pretty good. That shot wouldn’t do anything. He lifted it to the guy, “Appreciate it,” Jonas said, then downed it. He lowered the glass to the floor and the guy took it.

  “I got it. Good show. Nice guitar.” The man pointed, turned and walked away. He waved to the few remaining patrons at the bar before leaving.

  To Jonas, it felt like a strange encounter, then again, the entire night had gone off the rails. He finished packing up his stuff. He folded his guitar stand, tucked it under his arm and lifted his amp.

  He carried them from the stage, calling out to the bartender that he’d be back in for that six pack.

  The old beater car he had borrowed for the gig was parked in a spot in the lot not far from the building. Only three other cars remained, and they were near the door. He put his amp and the stand into the back seat then returned to the bar.

  He walked straight to the stage, grabbed his guitar case and it was when he lifted and shouldered his gear bag he felt it.

  A tingling ran across his forehead and a quick dizziness hit him as if he stood up too fast. Shaking it off like a cat, Jonas walked to the bar where he saw the brown bag waiting for him.

  He set down his guitar case so he could reach for his wallet, but his fingers stumbled, and he dropped his wallet to the floor. Bending down to get it, he swayed some.

  The woman bartender asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Um, yeah, I just got dizzy for a sec.”

  “Are you alright to drive?”

  “Yeah, I had like one shot in the last three hours,” Jonas replied as he opened his wallet. Suddenly there were two wallets, his fingers fumbled for the debit card before he slid it to her. He blinked several times to clear the double vision.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Maybe you should call for a ride.”

  “Nah, I’m. I haven’t eaten all day. The hotel isn’t far.
”

  That was it. The food factor. Jonas could feel his stomach twitching and his hand shook. The bartender handed him the card and a slip with pen. Jonas scribbled a tip and his signature, placing the card back in his wallet.

  After saying, “Goodnight.” He grabbed his bag of beer and haphazardly tried to shove his wallet back in his rear pocket, so much so it dropped right from his pocket to the ground the moment he walked out the door.

  TWO

  Cate Truett had a connection with her son. With both her children actually, but mainly her son. Most mothers have it. A gut feeling, a worry that creeps up letting her know of something happening. A fine-tuned mother’s instinct that was a blessing at times, and at other times not so much.

  No one could deny Cate’s instinct, not even Jonas, even though he tried. It was there, and sadly, it tended to only kick in where there was a problem or trouble.

  Unfortunately, with Jonas for the past several years it was constant.

  When he was a boy, of course, she worried. Normal stuff. How did he do with studies, with other kids in school, would he look both ways before he crossed the street?

  The bumps, the bruises, broken bones and stitches, all the trips to the emergency room were Jonas being a boy. Where his sister Jess rarely caused worry, Jonas made up for that. Yet, it wasn’t anything major, nothing that would foretell of things to come.

  Cate remembered her grandmother telling her, “When they are little, they break your things. When they’re grown up, they break your heart."

  And that was nothing short of the truth.

  When he was little, despite his misgivings, he was a good kid, he would never do anything to hurt anyone. However, somewhere along the lines of his life, when he was old enough to know better, Jonas decided he didn’t want to follow those rules any longer.

  How? Why?

  Maybe Cate missed the signs, viewed her children so much through rose-colored glasses she didn’t see it coming. How could the boy who would never say a mean word or hurt anyone, suddenly stand up his high school sweetheart turned wife, on their anniversary, and take off with some girl he met at Subway days earlier? Because she ‘got’ him, connected with him.

  No one could have predicted that.

  Well, almost no one.

  Jessie did.

  She told her mother Jonas hadn’t been happy for a while, that he married, got a responsible job too early in life.

  Hurting others was no excuse.

  No excuse for the path he decided to take. He was fired from his job as a music teacher, left his wife, dropped the clean cut look and transformed into something emotionally, mentally and physically unrecognizable.

  Cate had known her son to have a beer here or there, and never did she know him to do drugs.

  His ‘flip of the switch’ change was something she never would have expected.

  He played in two or three bands, stayed wherever he could, drank day and night, slept very little, ate less and fueled his lifestyle with a destructive cocaine habit.

  A drug habit, Cate found out, that started before he left his wife.

  He had spent all their money, lost his job over it, and he just … didn’t care.

  Cate did. He was her son and she loved him.

  Every time he was in a fight, arrested, or found in some sort of ‘rage’ episode, Jonas would swear he was done. Finished. Over.

  Cate would say the same. Never again. Tough love.

  Then he would get in trouble again, call Cate and say, “Mom, I need you.”

  She would be there.

  Every time he said he wanted help, Cate and her husband, Grant, would do what they could.

  They exhausted what they could of Grant’s 401K, took a loan against the house, set him up with the best rehabs, only to have him leave days later.

  Jonas was addicted to the lifestyle as much as he was the drugs and alcohol.

  Eventually, Jonas stopped the drugs, more than likely because he couldn’t afford it. He still drank and behaved badly.

  There were moments of hope, a spark of the Jonas he used to be would emerge and he’d go through a spell of staying out of trouble. He’d pay his fines, stay in line … only to fall again.

  She joined support groups and the other women in those groups, the mothers, they understood, they were the same way. Overly worried, anxious.

  It scarred Cate, made her grayer than she should have been.

  It made her neurotic and despise those mother instincts because they were right most of the time. She always knew when a call would come about Jonas. Just like she did on this night.

  Something was wrong.

  It started with a twinge in her stomach early on.

  She dismissed it at first, it was a weekend, she always worried about Jonas on the weekends.

  Then she justified her worry was he was going out of town for a gig. He was fine, she was just overreacting again.

  She searched her gut for an answer and every time she reasoned herself into a calm state, something would set her off.

  The last time was a car insurance commercial.

  She wasn’t good company for Grant and couldn’t focus enough on the movie. She told him they started watching it too late, she was tired and was going to bed.

  Cate did go to bed. Just not to sleep.

  With a heavy sigh, back propped against pillows in bed, she set down her book and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

  Nothing.

  She opened up her messages and he hadn’t even read her texts.

  Her fingers hovered over the phone debating on sending one more text when the bedroom door opened.

  Grant stepped in and paused. “I … thought you were going to sleep.”

  “I said I was going to bed. How was the movie?”

  “Good, you should have watched it.” He walked over to the bed, pulling down his side of the covers. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you think Jonas is alright?”

  “Yes.” Grant climbed into bed.

  “But he hasn’t read my texts or replied.”

  “He had a gig.”

  “I know but …”

  “Cate.”

  “I was thinking of texting Jess to see if she heard from him.”

  “Stop.”

  “Grant, I’m worried,” Cate said.

  “You’re always worried.”

  “But I feel it. I do.” Cate ran her hand on her stomach. “I have this gnawing feeling. This horrible doomed feeling.”

  “You really need to stop. It’s all the time. Cate, he’s fine. You need to learn how to let things go.”

  “He’s our son.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Grant said. “We may not like how he lives or what he does, but it’s not for us to say. You drive yourself crazy, not to mention me and Jess about this.”

  “You know … you know I pray so much and so hard for him that I swear God is probably tired of hearing it.”

  “That’s not how that works and you know it. Maybe you’re just not hearing the answer. Go to sleep. It’s late.”

  Cate leaned back, staring at her phone. “I’m not going to be able to. I know I’ll be looking at this thing all night. Waiting for it to ring. I feel it, Grant. I just …”

  “Okay, alright, stop.” Grant slipped from bed. “Give me the phone.”

  “What? No.”

  “Cate, I mean it, give me the phone. I’m going to take it downstairs, put it on the charger there and make you a cup of chamomile.”

  “What if it rings and he needs us?”

  “Then he’ll call my phone.” Grant held out his hand. “I can’t have you do this to yourself. Because, Cate, no matter what happens, you can’t control the outcome.”

  “You’re right.” Cate placed the phone in his hand. And she knew he was right; she just didn’t say the words. She couldn’t control things, and some days she accepted it, but tonight was not one of those days.

  She knew he was concerned, too. He didn�
��t say it. He didn’t have to. His actions spoke louder than words when he took the phone, walked to the door and paused to look at it before stepping out.

  THREE

  Things turned fuzzy fast for Jonas. Not even a blast of early summer, cool air helped when he walked out the door. A weird pressure built on his forehead and it seemed like his surroundings moved every time he shifted his eyes.

  His feet scuffed against the gravel of the parking lot as he made his way to his car. The back door was open from when he put his amp in there. He didn’t even remember leaving it open.

  The way he felt, Jonas would have sworn he was drunk. But he was far too much of a professional drinker and knew he hadn’t consumed enough booze to get him to that state.

  It had to be something medical.

  He was coming down with something.

  He put the guitar and gear bag into the back seat, closed the door, and keys in hand, dropped in with a sloppy slide into the driver’s seat.

  He pulled the door shut and jumped from his skin when he saw the man in the passenger seat.

  “You’re in the wrong car,” Jonas said.

  “No. I’m not,” he replied.

  The man looked tired, around the same age as Jonas, his hair shoulder length and dark. He wore a gray shirt, a uniform or something, and he was already buckled in.

  “You’re not with that guy, are you? Like here to try to kill me or beat me up?” Jonas asked.

  “What guy?”

  “The guy I got kicked out for doing this.” Jonas pointed to his bruised cheek.

  “Ah, no. I’m not with anyone from in there.”

  “What do you want?” Jonas asked.

  “A ride. I thought I’d take this ride with you.”

  Jonas’ head swayed as he put the key in the ignition. “To the hotel?”

  “To wherever.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me David,” he replied.

  “I’m Jonas.”

  It was surreal, almost dreamlike, a part of Jonas wanted to tell the guy, “Dude or David, if that’s your real name, get out of my car.” But he didn’t.