by Mj Fields
Why now, at this stage in my life, do I feel the need that I have long since clothed and packed away like a treasured piece of memorabilia? A need to feel the connection that I have long since turned my back on, a need that poets, painters, wordsmiths, and people of a different intellect are called to display to the masses? The multitudes recognize and feel its pull, as well, yet don’t believe its truth until they see it elsewhere.
When she jumps off stage, my heart leaps along with her, and I almost miss the fact that mi cielitos are being pushed forward by the crowd behind us.
Wrapping them in my arms, holding them in front of me safely, I see Tris being shoved, as well, a barrier broken, and somehow, we are pushed toward one another.
With the girls safely in front of me, I reach out for her, and her to me, finding strength that I long since felt and pulling her toward us.
“I’m so fucked,” she breathes into my ear.
“You will be all right.” I search for a way out of the masses surrounding us and spot her bodyguard, her father, the manager, all fighting to get to her.
“Ever crowd surf?” I ask, and she looks up from the girls caught between us. “Your loved ones are near. I’ll lift you.”
“How many?” she yells as she grips my elbows, stopping me from lifting her, and we fluidly seem to form a parameter around the girls, who are grinning from ear-to-ear like this is something fun and not frightening.
“Listen to me, you stubborn—”
“Oh, shut up. You’re not the one getting groped.” She jumps to look over the crowd.
“Three!” I yell.
“Perfect.” She looks down and smiles. “Your uncle is so cool that he’s going to let you three crowd surf.”
They haven’t a clue what she’s saying but smile, anyway.
“Who’s first?”
Catalina, the eldest, shocks me by immediately saying, “Martina.”
Although not the time, the place, and certainly not under these circumstances should I feel anything but an overabundant need to get them all—including Tris—to safety, yet I do. I feel a wave of calm that one of my biggest worries—them growing up and apart—may not be a burden I need to carry.
Hoisting Martina up and handing her off to the manager, he scowls.
“Tricks, get them out of here!” Tris yells.
And I tell my niece, “I’m very proud of you, Catalina.”
“Who’s next?”
I look down and see Tris’s father somehow managed to get to her by, apparently, crawling on the floor, as he stands.
Tris laughs even in the face of imminent danger. “Are you freaking insane?”
“Genetics.” He winks.
Catalina smiles, as though she’s excited, and says, “Elena.”
After Elena is off to safety, Catalina is next. And, as she is passed to the bodyguard, squealing in delight, both Tris’s father and I maneuver ourselves so that the little rock star with the big attitude is safe as we push our way through the crowd, shielding her so that those still pushing forward can no longer see her.
Tris halts her movement and looks up at me, yelling over the crowd, “You better kiss me.”
“Not now, Tris!” her dad scolds.
“It’s my show, Daddio, and my show ends with a kiss!”
He growls—yes, growls—like an angry animal may in this situation. “Tris—”
She looks back at me. “Are you going to kiss me or—”
It’s not as if I don’t remember how to kiss a woman who sparks emotions and desires, I do, but it’s been too long yet not long enough. Kissing her last time was to ensure my nieces didn’t see their despicable father kissing a woman other than their mother.
I take her face delicately and brush my lips over hers. “Is that good enough?”
She blinks, and as she looks up, she licks her lips. “How about we try—”
She’s hoisted up by her father as she laughs out, “Again?”
“Let’s go, lover boy,” he snaps. “Keep that to the stage. She’s seventeen, for fuck’s sake.”
“Almost eighteen. And, newsflash: I’m not a virgin, Dad,” she says, laughing as she looks back at me and smiles.
How intriguing that, in the midst of chaos, she seems so much more in control.
Almost eighteen, I think as I follow them. Almost…
“I think we can forgo the VIP greeting after that shitshow,” the man she referred to as Tricks snaps at everyone around him.
“Not gonna happen. We’re fine.” She grins down at my nieces, who are on clouds that far surpass nine. “Aren’t we?”
Still grinning, all three of them with stars in their eyes, nod.
Tricks glares at her, and she gives him an almost obnoxious smile.
He narrows his eyes. “It’s not, and—”
“Tricks,” a man I saw at the hotel in Paris calls to him. He nods to the other side of the stage. “Need your help, kid.”
“Dad, I’ve got this.” He tries to keep it together, and he does so, but barely.
“Cool,” the man who I now know is his father says with concern.
“Twisted T, what in the actual fu … dge”—A different man, holding a guitar, covers his blunder when he sees my nieces—“happened out there?”
“Tú eres Memphis Black!” Martina screams when she recognizes who he is.
He holds up his hand for a high-five. “Little surfer girl. You’re a star now.”
“You okay, Tris?” the drummer, also from the headlining band, as distastefully named, asks.
“Right as rain.” Tris winks at her fellow bandmate.
My head begins to ache a bit as I try to keep up with translating their conversations.
“Picture with these old dudes?” Rain asks the girls.
“Age-ism? Not cool, kid, not cool.” Memphis Black chuckles as he stands behind the girls. “We don’t say cheese for this picture. You answer a question for me, got it?”
They all nod.
“Cool, look at the camera and tell me …” He pauses as he holds up his hands, displaying devil horns, I believe, then asks, “are you ready to get rocked?”
They mimic him, and answer a roaring yes, and Martina sticks out her tongue.
Click.
After Tris insists on a different pose to take a picture with Catalina’s phone, and they are loaded up with merchandise from both bands, exhaustion creeps up on me like a bull in a china cabinet.
Hoping still to remain on the top ten list of their favorite people, but after today, I am sure my spot will lower, I inform them, “We have a flight to catch, and Tris has fans to meet.”
Elena smirks. “Ask her on a date.”
“I think she’s a bit busy.”
“Not now, silly.” She rolls her eyes. “She lives in Italy, and you go there all the time for your art.”
“Elena, it’s part of the—”
“He lets us eat dessert twice.”
At the sound of Martina’s voice, I glance over and see that she’s dragged Tris over and wonder just how much of the conversation she understood.
“Told you he’s the cool uncle. Xavier is my cool uncle.” She points to the man I now know is Tricks’ father. “He’s also kind of my boss.”
Martina looks at her and holds up two fingers. “Twice.”
“Girls, I’m sure Tris has a partner at—”
“No partner. Single.”
“And seventeen.” Her father appears beside me.
“Dad, seriously?” she huffs, and I can’t help but find amusement in her revealing her age as she objects to its truth.
“If she’s still single at eighteen, I’d be honored to take her to dinner, if that pleases her padre?”
She narrows her eyes at him.
“We’ll discuss then. Let’s go, Tris. You have fans waiting.”
“It would please him more if you waited until I was eighty.” She looks back at the girls. “It was an honor to meet you all. Thank you so much for loving
the band.”
They hug her, and then she looks at me and takes a deep breath, summoning the courage to flirt … I think. “Don’t wait too long now. A girl like me won’t stay single forever.”
Her dad grips the back of her neck. “A girl like you, with a father like me, will not be dating a man his age until you’re at least eighteen.”
“Oh my God, really?” She rolls her eyes as she looks at her phone and walks away with him.
Catalina giggles, and I look down to see her staring at my phone that was used for one of the many pictures. She holds it up. “She sent you a message. Can I read it?”
“How did she get my number?” I ask, attempting to sound stern, as I take the phone and fight the urge to read it.
“I gave it to her because you like her, and you haven’t dated anyone except internet girls since Isla,” she says as I take Martina’s hand and she takes Elena’s.
“What’s wrong with internet girls?” I joke as we make our way toward the exit.
“You can’t love them, but you could love Tris, and Tris could love you. She already likes to kiss you.”
“No internet girl, but a rock star is okay?” The moment I ask the question, even if it were in jest, I realize how inappropriate it is to ask dating advice from a child.
“She won’t be after the family money,” Elena pipes in.
“Elana,” Catalina shushes her.
“What? Dad says if he marries—”
That bastard, I think.
“Money isn’t for you to worry over at your age. You should spend your time laughing, playing, and loving.”
“Papa says be nice to you, because you hold the family purse,” Elena says matter-of-factly. Before I have a chance to get angry, she smiles. “He’s so stupid—”
“Elena!” Catalina gasps.
“What? He is. Doesn’t he know we’re nice to Uncle Matteo because he’s nice to us?”
“Graci, Elena. And I’m nice to you because I love you girls very much.”
Las amo mucho chicas.
As the girls slide into the waiting vehicle, my phone vibrates again, and I use the opportunity to open Tris’s message and two pictures; one from the show in Paris where she and I are kissing, and the other just this evening in London, showcasing, again, our kiss.
The internet loves us. X ~ Tris
The message she just sent reads: You should never keep a sure thing waiting. X ~ Tris
I tap out my reply, seeking clarification.
What is a sure thing?
I hover my thumb over the screen, unsure of how to sign off, and when the girls call my name, I hit send.
“Un momento, por favor,” One moment please, I say as I watch the dots jump about the screen.
A picture pops up of her biting her bottom lip and, for a moment, I allow a part of me to take pleasure in its promise, one not needing translation.
Me, of course. XXX ~ Tris
I do the responsible thing and do not reply.
Fucked Up Again
Tris
“She’s sleeping,” Mom whispers in the darkened room.
“You sure about that?” Patrick huffs.
Annoyed and sick of them talking, I sit up. “I understand I’m frustrating to you all. Newsflash: no one is as frustrated with me any more than I am. I wish I could be all sweet like Brisa, or as focused and solid as Amias, but I’m not them.”
“No one said you were, kiddo. And newsflash: no one was as frustrating as your dad was as a kid, so—”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Dad cuts Uncle Xavier off.
He smiles, he always smiles, and waves his hand toward me. “This, right here, is a mirror image of you when Bekah came back from her old man’s after you professed your love. You did it a little differently, though. You holed up at Momma Joe’s place, and we had to come check your pulse. If I remember correctly, we even offered to get you a hooker to help you get out of your—”
“Xavier, how is that even helping?” Aunt Taelyn cuts him off real quick.
“Irish, she got fucked over. Both her and Tricks did. And—”
“I’m not going out,” Patrick cuts him off now, “getting drunk and getting splashed all over social media as some sort of wild child when my fan base is tween—”
“Oh, you’re all over social media.” I laugh irritatingly. “Different celebutante every city and one of your own artists.”
He glares at me. I glare back.
“I finally find a set of lips that don’t taste like a rubber chicken, and you all drive him off with your bullshit threats and ‘she’s only seventeen.’ Who the hell are you all? Winger?”
“Righteous.” Xavier holds out a fist at my old-school rock reference.
I tap it. “Uncle X, do me a favor?”
He nods. “Anything you want.”
“Hire me a hooker.”
He laughs so hard as he flops on the bed and pulls me into a stupid hug while giving me a noogie. “Seriously, my favorite.”
“Seriously, not joking.” I wiggle away. “I’m ready to get back in the game, and you’re all twat-swatting.”
Xavier laughs, Taelyn holds a laugh back, Ranger scrubs a hand over his face, and my parents look mortified.
“Fine, no hooker then.” I grab my pillow, fluff it, and lie back down. “Please just let me sleep. We have a show in the morning. Then a ten-day break, followed by the biggest show in Forever Fours history, and then it’s back to the Shore for some much-needed tormenting by the locals and more suffocating by the fam.” I pull the covers up over my head. “Can’t freaking wait.”
“Can I have the fucking room?” Dad’s voice shakes in an anger that nearly vibrates the room.
Xavier pops a kiss to the blanket covering my head. “Love you, Trouble. Send up a flare if you need me.”
“Dad!” Patrick snaps.
“Tricks,” he mocks, pushing up off the bed. “Love you, kid, but in this family, we deal with things with humo—”
“Not everything’s a damn joke, you know.” Tricks’ voice fades as he walks out of the room.
Once the room is clear, I lie here, hoping Mom tells Dad that she thinks I’m sleeping, because she always seems to know when I am about ready to nosedive off the tight rope of insanity.
I should tell her that. I should thank her for that. Then again, that will only open a door that I’ll someday slam shut in her face when I lose it again. Even I’m not that cruel.
The covers are ripped off me and Dad seethes, “Sit. Up. Now.”
Mom gasps. “Zandor, I think she’s tired. Maybe we could discuss this in the mor—”
“Love you more than my next breath, Bekah, but this gets dealt with now, because our daughter obviously has a drinking problem.”
I roll to my back and cross my heels as I clasp my hands behind my head. “Let’s have it, Zandor.”
He hits himself in the chest, pretty hard, too. “I’m Dad. I’m your father.”
“No denying that, huh? We share the same kinks.”
His face starts turning red. “If I had the foresight to know what seeing that very private photo album would have done, I would have—”
“You would have burned it,” Mom interrupts him, which isn’t at all normal. “You wanted to, and I stopped you. It was my fault, and—”
“No, Bekah, it—”
“I never liked myself much. I didn’t have a family like this. I had a controlling father and a mother who left that situation.”
“And she left her kids in it,” Dad hisses.
“Your father wanted me to see myself differently than I did.”
He looks at her almost sadly. “See you how everyone but you did at the time. See you how I see you. A stunning woman, then and now.”
I can tell she still struggles with her poor self-esteem, and it pisses me off, but so does this whole damn nightly intervention.
“Look, I get that you two are being dragged into your ‘uncomfortable place’ because of m
e, and I apologize, even if you think it’s insincere or whatever. But here’s the truth, I would have eventually seen porn, the same dirty little desires would have opened the proverbial box, and my freak side would have cartwheeled out of it. So, let yourselves off the hook. I’m going to be eighteen soon, and then this—”
“You’ll always be our baby,” Mom whispers.
“And if you think for one minute that I wouldn’t—”
“What do you want me to say? I have a drinking problem? If so, then I also have a pill problem. Oh, and I’ve done coke, too, because slamming five-hour energies was making me sick to my stomach.”
He sees red. Hell, he sees it so much that he’s turning a deeper shade of it. “I know that all makes some sort of sense to you, but dumb it down for me. Now.”
“The pills you basically force-feed me—”
“To help with your depression,” he states as Mom sits beside me and takes my hand.
“Yeah, well, they make me more depressed. And I read the labels and side effects; it’s not an excuse, Dad, it’s not in my head. It actually happens to a lot of people.”
He sits down as I roll over and open the nightstand, pulling out my little clutch. Then I sit up and continue as I dump out all the pills that I have cheeked in the past few weeks.
Mom sniffs back what I assume are tears.
“They make me depressed and tired and unable to feel anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Dad’s concern is evident.
I run my fingers in circles through the pile and tell him the absolute truth. “Because you would have made me try something else, and I like being on the stage more than I like sleep.”
“Why can’t you sleep?”
I shrug as I mess with the pills, in all variety of bright colors, not wanting them to know what my body, mind, and the internet are telling me I am, yet the shrink won’t, and they will trust her. “Because, after I’m on stage, it takes hours and hours to come down from that high.”
“Coke?” Mom whispers it like saying it softly would make it less real.
I hold up a finger. “Once, and I got busted by Zoey, and she won’t shut up about it.”
“And Zoey didn’t tell anyone?” Dad huffs.
