by Tyler King
“Josh! What the hell? He’s bleeding!” Hadley yanked on my arm, the only thing that kept me from landing a second blow.
“Keep your fucking hands off her, you son of a bitch. I swear I’ll break your fucking jaw if you ever—”
Corey and Trey grabbed me, one of them wrapping their arm around my neck. “Back off, man. Let’s go. Leave it.”
“Try me, asshole.” I struggled against the arms restraining me, reaching for the kid somewhere under the blood-soaked napkins stuck to his face.
“Shut it, Josh! It’s done. We’re leaving.” Corey pushed me toward the front door.
He outweighed me by about thirty pounds, so I didn’t have much of a choice. Once outside, he kept his arm around my neck until we hit the curb by my car.
“Can I let you go, or am I going to have to tackle you to the ground?”
“I’m fine. Get off me.”
“Say it nicely.”
“Damn it, Corey. I’m fine. Okay?”
He released me, smiling like an idiot. “That was badass. You dropped him with one punch.”
“Are you kidding me?” Hadley shoved at my chest, shoulders high and tight around her neck. “What do you think his parents are going to say when they find out? Shit, Josh. What about your parents?”
“What? You’d rather I leave you in there to get groped by that date rapist?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“He touched you! He grabbed you. I won’t put up with that.”
“And I could have taken care of it myself! You didn’t have to hit him.”
I shrugged. “It felt good.”
The guys laughed. Hadley whipped around, eyes sharp and fierce.
“Boys are so stupid. Seriously. You’re all animals.”
“Aww, come on, Punky. You can’t stay mad at me.” I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her into a hug. “I was just trying to protect you. Me man. Me take care of little girl.”
“Shut up, stupidhead.” She pressed her cheek to my chest and hugged me tighter.
“Come on. This party blows. You ready to head home?”
“Sure.”
By the time we got to Hadley’s house, I had been forgiven for going all caveman on her. I parked in Hadley’s usual spot in the driveway. Her car was in the shop again. Though she had an inheritance from her birth parents, she refused to spend the money to get a new vehicle that didn’t leak oil and stall going uphill.
Hadley’s godfather, Tom, was a truck driver. He worked odd hours hauling up and down the state. When he couldn’t be home at night, Hadley used to stay at my house when we were little. Since we’d gotten older, I’d go to sleep on the couch at her place. It made Tom feel better that Hadley wasn’t left alone all the time, and I had an excuse to see her at night.
“You’re staying, right?” Hadley flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV.
It was only 11:00, still early for a Friday night.
“Yeah.” I went to the DVD shelf and scanned through her collection. We’d seen almost every one of these at least three times. “Funny, scary, explosions, or sappy chick crap?”
“Um…something Stephen King, but not It. Anything but that one.”
Hadley had been terrified of clowns ever since Tom made her watch the movie when she was ten. Not a great parenting move, but it wasn’t like he knew any better. Growing pains. I pulled The Shining off the shelf. Last time we’d watched this was during a wicked storm. Just to pass the time, I’d chased Hadley around the house with my best Jack impression.
After making popcorn and pouring a couple of sodas, Hadley and I settled on the couch. I pulled the throw blanket off the back cushions and tossed it at her. She swatted it down before it landed over her face.
“I’m not cold.”
“That’s for hiding under.”
“Whatever. You’re still afraid of Cujo, so don’t start with me.”
“What? It’s not weird at all that you’re scared of Drew Barrymore. Firestarter is a scary movie, and Never Been Kissed is terrifying.”
“Shut up.” Hadley shoved at my face.
Well, I couldn’t let that stand. I pinned her arms to her sides and dragged her over my lap. She landed with her back against the arm of the couch, her legs draped over my thighs.
“Behave, Punky.”
“Shh. The movie’s starting.”
I took the blanket, draped it over her legs and mine, and settled back to watch.
Throughout the film, Hadley jumped at every scare. She had most of the blanket up to her nose with her fingers gripping the edge for dear life. The more she squirmed, the more my dick noticed how not-terrible it felt to have her legs writhing in my lap. When Scatman Crothers took an ax to the chest, Hadley jumped again, grabbing my arm and burying her face in my shoulder.
“You’re so predictable.” I wrapped my arm around her back and pulled her closer. “You know it’s coming, but you still get scared anyway.”
“It’s the anticipation. I can’t stand the waiting. It makes me nervous.”
“Chicken.”
She smacked my chest. Again with the hitting.
“Really, you never learn.” I grabbed both her wrists and pinned them to her sides. “Be good. There are consequences for bad little girls who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
Her lips twisted into a dangerous smirk. “You don’t scare me.”
“Wrong move, Punky. Never tease a man who knows where all your ticklish places are.”
Hadley writhed and struggled to get away, laughing and threatening me with all manner of bodily harm as I tormented her.
“I swear. Josh. You are. So dead!”
“Say you’re sorry.” I didn’t let up, following as she fell backward on the couch, my fingers playing against her ribs and stomach. “Just say you’re sorry, and I’ll stop.”
“Never!”
I saw stars. Hadley kneed me right in fucking balls. I groaned and released her, grabbing my battered manhood.
“Shit, Punky. Fuck.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry. Crap. I didn’t mean to.” Her words came out as the staccato breaths of laughter with a big, delighted smile. Evil ball crusher. “I’m sorry. Really.”
Rolling over, I was pinned between Hadley and the back of the couch. “Stop laughing.”
“I can’t help it.”
She tried to turn toward me, and it made me flinch. I was justifiably dick-shy now. That only made her laugh harder.
“What can I do?”
Nothing, you vile woman. Or kiss it and make it better. But I wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud. “Nothing.”
“Aww.” Hadley ran her hand through my hair and down the side of my face. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” After a minute or so, I caught my breath. Rather than move, I just closed my eyes and wrapped my arm around Hadley’s back. “You suck, you know that?”
“Bad Hadley.”
“Very bad Punky.” I tightened my grip around her back and tugged her closer. “You should make it up to me.”
I had no idea what she might do. But when Hadley’s soft, tender lips pressed to mine, I knew what I wanted. I kissed her back. Our first. No hesitation. Not even a second of apprehension. I took her bottom lip between mine and kissed her like she deserved, purposefully and with complete devotion. Hadley threw her leg over my hip and dug her fingers into my hair as she rolled over to straddle me. My hands found her hips and latched on, holding her on top of me as if I wouldn’t continue to breathe if she pulled away now.
Hadley wasn’t timid. She held me down like a woman on a mission, kissing me cross-eyed. Since I didn’t know where I was allowed to touch her, I just kept my hands locked to her hips and let her have her happy way with me. Sporting a hard-on that was determined to dig right through my jeans to get into hers, I tried to think about baseball or Corey in a bikini, but nothing was enough to quiet the fuck-fantastic feeling of Hadley on
top of me.
“You can touch me,” she whispered against my lips. Hadley ground herself against my cock.
I was so fucking done for.
“It’s okay,” she encouraged.
I worked my hands up her ribs and hesitated a moment, just to make sure and give her time to say stop or slap me. I’d never felt a girl up before, so I gave up trying to concentrate on kissing and let Hadley do as she pleased while I focused all my attention on feeling the pliable weight of her tits in my palms. As I brushed my thumbs over her nipples through her bra, Hadley moaned and pressed down on my dick. Fucking hell.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.
Because I wasn’t a complete tool and I had a pulse and pocket full of wood, I did as the lady commanded.
Hadley and I lost our virginities that night. We were awkward and clumsy and had no fucking clue what we were doing, but it was perfect. She was perfect. I’d always loved her. That night, I fell in love with her.
But even Hadley couldn’t stop the panic attack that followed. As I climaxed, my body was gripped with tension, not relief. Horrifying memories flooded my mind. A cold tremor shot down my spine. I wasn’t in Hadley’s bed anymore; my head was trapped in the musty master bedroom of our old foster home.
I ran like hell, leaving Hadley naked and crying, screaming after me as I slammed the front door shut.
* * *
For a few brief moments, I’d experienced perfection. Making love to Hadley was the single greatest experience of my young life. Better than performing at Lincoln Center or the first time I picked up a guitar in Vaughn’s shop. What followed in the aftermath of that night in high school was the worst week of my life.
A perfect storm of heartbreak and tragedy washed my foundation out from under me. The levee collapsed, the seawall was breached, and the once sturdy ground beneath my feet became a quicksand that pulled me into a debilitating darkness.
I had spent most of my childhood in therapy. By seventeen, I had thought I was doing well. My psychiatrist had not informed me, however, that my first consensual sexual experience would completely fuck with my head.
Chapter 3
Session 4
“She became a bad memory,” I said, shoving a chopstick into the cast around my broken hand to dislodge the severed end of the plastic knife. “A living reminder of everything I wanted to forget.”
“Why?” she asked, her head tilted to the side. Something about that posture felt condescending.
“Seriously?”
“Because Hadley was there when it happened?”
Was this woman being purposefully obtuse? Like the real mission of our time together was to watch me unravel. Provoke me to madness. See the moment when the switch flipped and I lost all ability to function on a rational level.
“Damn it!” The chopstick splintered inside my cast, and I now had a burgeoning collection of broken utensils stuck in there.
“Josh?”
“What? For fuck’s sake, what?”
“Hadley.”
I breathed out a gust of air as my chest constricted. “I was five years old when it started. Living in my third foster home. That’s where I first met Hadley. And every night after he finished with me, I went to the room she shared with two other girls and cried on the floor beside her bed.”
“Did she know?”
“That our foster guardian was molesting me?” My tongue piercing flicked between my teeth. My clenched fists turned white in my lap. “She understood as much as a five-year-old can.”
“She became someone you trusted. Someone who made you feel safe.”
“Hadley helped me survive that place. We were only there for a few months. A year at most before her godfather adopted her. But that foster home felt like a fucking nightmare that wouldn’t end. She was the reason I finally got out of there. It was because of her that the MacKays came to adopt me.”
“Simon and Carmen.”
“Yes. As far as I’m concerned, they are my real parents. They took me in, gave me everything I have. Hadley made that happen.”
“But after the panic attack...”
“I couldn’t stand to look her in the eye. I looked at her, and I saw him. I thought about being with her and knew that meant forever reliving those nightmares of what that man did to me. No girl wants a guy who can’t finish without turning into a paralyzed little shit shaking on the floor.”
My life was like a web attached to Hadley on all sides. From the moment we landed in foster care together, we became inextricably linked. I couldn’t escape her. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, despite what she represented.
And I could have lived with all of that—the girl I loved within sight but always just out of reach—if I hadn’t so thoroughly shattered Hadley. Because whatever happened that night after I peeled out of her driveway, she suffered so much worse.
For that, I didn’t deserve her.
Chapter 4
By the time Hadley and I got back to the house from running our errands, my bandmates were already tuning up for rehearsal in my garage. We had a weekly gig at a college bar in the city. Nothing spectacular, but it gave us a hobby and a little extra money. For me, it was an excuse to keep writing music.
Corey played a double paradiddle at his drum kit while I pulled a couple broken strings from my guitar. He had no great musical aspirations beyond dive bars and the occasional street festival. Though he was proficient enough, Corey’s first concern was attracting the attention of women who fawned over musicians.
“Where the fuck is Scott?” I had energy to burn and there were changes to the set list that we needed to practice. There was just one problem: We were short one rhythm guitarist.
“He had a date.” Corey laid his sticks on his tom and cracked his knuckles.
Scott had always been a bit of a flake, but lately he’d been a stranger. Skipping rehearsals, never answering his phone. He would show up ten minutes before a gig, looking hungover and like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I thought he broke up with Tori,” I said, pulling a broken E string off my guitar.
“He did.” Corey leaned back against the wall behind his kit, thick arms bent behind his head. “I think he’s out with that chick from Saturday night.”
“Getting his dick wet is not a good excuse.”
“Speaking of which...” Trey, our bassist and resident buzzkill, walked in from the house and sat on a road case. “I heard what happened with Stephanie.”
In our collective of misfits, Trey was an oddity. Two happily married parents. Never arrested or institutionalized. No addictions or personality disorders. Had we not become friends, I would have hated the prick.
“Spare me the lecture. I got enough of it from Hadley.”
“What the hell were you thinking? You can’t fuck Scott’s sister and then hide from her.”
“Hey, she came on to me.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to pull your dick out for every girl who flirts with you.”
“The way things are going, Josh might have to leave the country. Or marry her.” Corey eyed me with a stupid grin. “Stephanie’s been posting photos of you from our shows on Instagram.”
“She keeps calling Hadley. Someone sent me half a dozen tit pics since last week.”
“Maybe it says something about your lifestyle that you aren’t sure who,” Trey said.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t mind if you want to throw a groupie my way.”
“Piss off, Corey.” I rubbed my hands through my hair, tired of the subject. “She’ll get bored and move on eventually.”
“I get it.” Corey barely contained a laugh. He was built like a linebacker but gossiped like a pubescent girl. “She’s been after your dick since high school. But she’s straight-up psycho. You know she keyed Clint Holmes’s car at prom in eleventh grade because he took Lisa Libby instead of her, right?”
“Clint was an asshole.”
“Senior year Michael Falk fou
nd his cat dead in the driveway after he broke up with her.”
“You don’t know it was her. Could have been a raccoon or something.”
“Sure.” He stood, placing the covers on his drumheads. “But it makes you wonder.”
“This is why I don’t date.”
* * *
There was a time I could fill a concert hall, one kid at piano performing to an audience of thousands of well-dressed patrons. Something about a child in a tailored tuxedo created a spectacle. They called me a prodigy, an oddity worth paying for. To me, playing was fun and composing was easy. The music was all in my head; all I had to do was write it down.
Standing onstage Saturday night, I sang to a couple hundred inebriated college students at the Nest. And Scott, my inept rhythm guitarist, was doing his best to ruin it.
I was going to kill him, or perhaps maim him a little. Nothing would please me more than to wrap a steel guitar string around his neck and tighten my grip until the life left his eyes. I’d strip Scott of his guitar—he’d clearly forgotten how to play the instrument and therefore had no further use for it—to demonstrate my best Babe Ruth impression, pointing to the audio booth before taking a swing at his head. The crack would be satisfying, as would the thud when the decapitated former member of my band collapsed to the floor.
By the end of the first song, it had become apparent that his body had been possessed by some unholy creature bent on destroying music as we knew it. Scott was out of tune and falling behind on the rhythm. He kept his eyes on his fingers, like it was taking all his concentration to suck this badly. I was so fucking done with his punk ass.
When the set was over, I walked right the fuck off.
Kicking through the flimsy door to the greenroom, I set down my Les Paul and picked up the first thing my eyes landed on. Scott’s guitar case went flying across the room to put a nice dent in the graffiti-covered wall. The greenroom was just a dingy little space with a bathroom attached. There were two disgusting brown couches and a counter with a mirror that spanned the distance from one wall to the other. Not fancy digs, but it matched the motif of the college dive bar where our band, Mad Electro, played on Saturday nights.
