Twisted Hope: Bad Boy Second Chance Romance

by Kayley Cole

  Jake

  The last time I was in Saffron at eighteen years old, I felt trapped in a life that would never belong to me, and I'd never have any power in. My parents were both surgeons, but they had given up on me following in their footsteps by the time I was ten. They were happy to give me some money to create a film because they hoped it would stop me from making trouble.

  But still, even in the beginning of my career, the desperate need to be successful bit at my heels. There were days I'd go without sleep. Exhaustion became my best friend, and I gained a familial bond with stress.

  Tip of the Flame was born out of two and a half years of struggling to come up with a perfect screenplay, and after another two years, it became flesh and bone to me. I didn't need the Academy Awards for me to decide it was worthy or successful, but they look damn nice on my mantel.

  Sitting at Andrew's table across from Ellie, all that tension and desire for success feels like child's play in comparison to now.

  Ellie sits in a recliner, her back turned toward me and her 12-string guitar resting on her lap as she plucks away on notes, occasionally falling into a pattern before straying into something new. I can imagine her thoughts rippling like the notes and switching to new notions as her mind gets bored. It was one of the things that first attracted me to her— like me, multiple ideas built in her mind and with the right amount of concentration and passion, she could entertain them all at the same time.

  If she had left this godforsaken town, she could have been recognized as the talented artist she is.

  "Your friend let me listen to that band you write songs for," I say. "I think they'd work well for my project."

  She stops plucking strings. "I suppose that means you already got ahold of them and they rushed to agree to work with you."

  "Yes. They'll need a song. About Saffron. About surviving through tragedy."

  She turns, leaning against the recliner's armrest to look at me. "It must be nice to pretend to care about things when it's convenient for you."

  "As nice as pretending to care about things even when it cuts you off at the knees?"

  She stands up, her fury so evident, for a second I believe she will throw down her guitar. But she keeps a tight grip on it as she storms toward her bedroom.

  I race ahead of her, the awkwardness of holding onto the guitar preventing her from beating me to the door's threshold.

  "Come on, Ellie. You can dish it, but you can't take it? You know who I am. You don't think I'll defend myself? Aren't you the one who refers to me as a lion in your lyrics? Are you going to prod a lion and not expect him to bite back?"

  Her cheeks turn bright red. "That…that song isn't about you. The lion is just a metaphor."

  "You've always been a liar. Worse, you're a terrible one."

  She punches me in the chest. There's a radiating pain, but I doubt they'll even be a bruise.

  "That's the last insult you get to say about me," she says, her voice harsher than I've ever heard it. "You talk to me like that again, I'll tell everyone the truth."

  "Ellie," I grab her arm, my teeth nearly grinding against each other. "Look. It was a long time ago. We've both grown up. We've changed. Let's leave the past in the past."

  "You're the one who keeps bringing it up!"

  "I trusted you." I let her arm go like her skin burned my palm. "I won't make that mistake again."

  Her arm lurches forward like she's going to hit me again, but she must think better of it because she spins around, slipping into her room before slamming the door shut.

  A few seconds pass before I hear chords seeping out from under the door. She's humming to herself, but I can hear the anger even in that.

  There's a flash of lights against the wall, and I hear the sound of car wheels against rocks. I lean against the wall. I wait.

  When I hear the rattle of the doorknob and the door swing open, there's a split second of tension— when I'm certain the person at the door is Ellie's stalker— but Andrew's face appears, followed by his police uniform that's a size too big.

  "Hey, man," he says, placing his duty belt on the kitchen island. "Where's Ellie?"

  "In her room." I push myself away from the wall. "You didn't mention she was sleeping here."

  "Oh, yeah, she's got some crazy stalker," he says. I move over to his dining room table, my hand folding into a fist as I wait for him to continue his explanation or express some level of concern, but he just unbuttons his uniform. An off-white shirt is underneath it. He sits down across from me. "Is that your stuff in the kitchen?"

  I nod. "What about Ellie's stalker? Have you figured out anything yet?"

  "No. She's not being too helpful either."

  "She doesn't know who it is."

  "Or maybe she does and she's trying to keep it from me." He shrugs. "She could have gone on a few dates with some freak, and he's having a hard time with the rejection. I don't know. Right now the department is focusing on an armed robbery. Do you remember that armed robbery that happened at my parent's house?"

  "Yeah, you were at that graduation party," I say. "They never found the robbers. There were two of them, right?"

  "Yep. The robbery today just reminded me of it. My mother was always scared of people after that."

  "I'm sorry," I say. "But I don't think that's more important than Ellie's stalker."

  He glances at me. "I also think Ellie knew more about that robbery than she let on."

  I snort. "Come on. Ellie wouldn't get involved in that kind of thing. And you, your mother, and Ellie were always close. If she knew something, she would have told you."

  He shakes his head. "I don't know. She seemed to change after that. She just stopped talking to my mother and me. She lost weight. She stopped hanging out with her friends. She and Natalie only started talking again in the last year."

  "Maybe she started acting differently because she was scared like your mother."

  "She wasn't even home that night," he says. "And she was pretty normal for a couple of days— trying to comfort my mother and help the detectives— but it was like something shifted in her head a week after it happened."

  "Maybe because she didn't feel protected. Like now."

  Something dark passes through his gaze. "She's here, isn't she? She's safe in my house. The stalker will slip-up. We'll find him."

  I should tell him about the package, but now I know I won't. He doesn't think Ellie is under any threat. Even if I had been dealing with a hundred armed robberies, I would still be committed to protecting a little sister.

  "Yeah," I say, rubbing my jaw as the tension finally gets to me. "We'll find him."

  Ellie

  I watch the butter melt on top of the bread. I flip the sandwich. The other side of the bread is perfectly golden. Nobody here will care about how perfectly it's done, but these are the tiny thing I have to feel accomplished about or else I've accomplished nothing.

  "Nicely done."

  I turn. Jake stands a few inches away from me. He must have entered the school's kitchen by jumping over the checkout counter.

  "I don't remember you being so creepy," I say. He picks up my spatula, spinning it in his hand.

  "I called your band. They're interested, but they can't come out until tomorrow. I need your help coming up with some music video ideas."

  "You've been perfectly capable of coming up with ideas on your own this whole time."

  "I do better if I have someone to bounce ideas off of," he says. "We've worked together before and you've always been good as a collaborator."

  "When we did that, you were the one who always came up with the big ideas. I just added details, and you pretended to think they were all fantastic."

  He sets the spatula down. "Fine. I'll find someone else to help me. Where's your friend? That overly enthusiastic girl?"

  "Natalie is at home," I say. "She wouldn't be helpful anyway. She's a great person and creative on her own, but she thinks you're a god. She'd be too timid to tell you that y
our ideas are derivative or stupid."

  "You clearly don't have that problem."

  I straighten the spatula, so it's parallel with the stove. "And you didn't tell my brother about the package."

  He shrugs. "I have my reasons. I'll be outside. Come out when you're finished."

  "Jake," I hiss as he walks away. "I'm not going to…”

  He's already disappeared out the kitchen doors. Arrogant prick. I flip the grilled cheese. If it had gotten burned during that conversation, it would make logical sense. But it's golden perfection.

  Forty-one minutes later, Jake is still outside the school.

  I watch him from a distance. He's on his phone with his back turned toward me. He's wearing black slacks with a Saffron High School sweater. The sweater is a little small on him, so it must be my brother's because he has a swimmer's body-broad shoulders and chest and a body that is predominantly muscle. I'm a bit curious if he still has narrow hips or if time has changed his body like it hasn't changed his mind.

  I approach him, stopping a few inches behind him.

  "I don't care," he says into his phone. "I don't care if his whole family died from a drug overdose. If that tabloid ogre talks shit like that, I'm going through every avenue I have to discredit him. If I let him take these false shots, then everyone is going to come for me. I just need them to know that if they come for me, I'm not going to sit and smile while they attack."

  I run my fingers through my hair, hoping the steam from cooking hasn't completely ruined it.

  "I don't care if it makes me look like the biggest asshole in the world. They already think that. Megan, just call up our people. They'll get it done. I'll foot the bill. I have to go." He hangs up and rocks on his feet. "You know it's not polite to listen in on people's phone conversations, Ellie.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. "How did you know I was behind you?"

  He spins around. "Would you believe me if I said you smelled like grilled cheese?"

  I cross my arms over my chest. "I wouldn't care."

  "You don't. You smell like vanilla…and peaches. It's better than that floral perfume you used to smell like."

  "It's lotion," I say, trying to not focus on the idea that he remembers the perfume I used to love. "You said you wanted help coming up with ideas. Should we head back to Andrew's house?"

  "We should stay here. Being near all these people who lost their homes will be good inspiration."

  "And we know how you love to suck inspiration out of people."

  "Who were you writing songs about again?" he shoots back.

  "I'm allowed to tell my side of the story," I say. "You said we should leave the past in the past. Let's do that so that we can finish your project. Knowing your mind, you must already have six hundred ideas."

  "Four," he says. "But I assume you're going to write the lyrics, so I need you to spout some ideas of what you're thinking for that."

  "I can't just make up lyrics on command."

  "You used to."

  "Those weren't on command," I say. "And that's because I had a lot of feelings about you."

  "You don't have a lot of feelings about your town being destroyed?"

  I shove him. Or I try to. He barely sways.

  "You're an asshole."

  "Everyone keeps saying that to me," he says, touching a strand of my hair that swung in front of my face when I pushed him. "I get it. I don't deny it. It doesn't change the situation. I still need a general idea of how the song is going to go."

  "Hurricanes. Houses. Trees getting ripped out by the roots. I told you, I can't write songs on command."

  He shrugs. "That beginning was pretty decent. Focus on the trees and roots part. Focus on why you decided to stay here instead of building on your career."

  "Maybe I didn't want to meet assholes like you in other places."

  He hums a few notes. "This song feels like it's going to be called Assholes at this point."

  "I need my guitar. I can't write without an instrument."

  He walks over to a red SUV-it must be a rental-and opens up the backdoor. He pulls out my 12-string guitar.

  "Did you steal my guitar?" I accuse, walking straight over to him. I take my guitar from him.

  "I've stolen a lot more," he says.

  If I wasn't holding my guitar, I'd hit him again, but having it back in my hands after being separated from it all day brings me some comfort and, just like last night, being right beside Jake with my guitar reminds me of all those times we filmed our stupid little music videos and he convinced me that not only would I become famous, I would be his star.

  I move past Jake and sit down on the grass. I cradle the guitar close to me, plucking a few notes as I try to remember all of my emotions during the tornado.

  Jake sits down next to me. All my thoughts turn toward him, circling around how that sweater barely touches the top of his slacks, how he used to kiss me like I was both precious and unbreakable, and the way his five o' clock shadow would feel against my cheek.

  I strum a variety of notes until I find a few notes that feel rough and uncertain in my mind.

  "When the wind takes everything away," I half-sing, half-murmur to myself. "We know it's coming, but we pray for the wild to change its mind. Isn't the future a minefield? We'll get blown away, blown away, blown to tiny pieces floating in the wind. Or…blown to tiny shrapnel."

  I stop.

  "It doesn't even rhyme."

  "Maybe it's better that way. I liked it. Keep playing."

  I keep strumming, switching to chords. I stare out at the parking lot. There's such a hard, concrete need to impress him that all my words feel like they're weak and reliant on overused phrases. I used to live for his praises because I knew he was smart and uncontrollably creative. After he left, I had to build myself back up. I had to learn to decide on my own if my art was good or worthless.

  I open my mouth to sing, but Jake suddenly stands up. He's staring out at something in the parking lot. I follow his gaze to one of the men I've served food to here at the elementary school.

  "Who is that?" he asks me.

  "Bass Rossum. I'm not sure that's his real name, but that's what he tells everyone."

  "You don't know him?"

  I shake my head. "No. Not really. He gets food from here sometimes. Why?"

  "He was just taking a photo of you."

  Before I can react, Jake is storming toward the man. I set my guitar down. As I rush to catch up with him, I watch Jake yank the man's camera out of his grasp. The man has to be in his late thirties or early forties, but he falls after he loses the tug-o-war with his camera's strap. I grab onto Jake's arm, trying to yank him back, but he doesn't budge.

  "What the fuck were you doing?" Jake demands to the man. I dig my nails into Jake's arm.

  "Jake. He was just taking a photo. It doesn't mean anything."

  He looks at me like I'm crazy. "You have an insane person stalking you. Anytime anyone acts strange around you, you should be asking questions."

  He turns to the man, who is still sprawled on the grass.

  "And this man hasn't answered mine."

  The man slowly sits up, pulling on his knitted sweater. "Donut with sprinkles?"

  "What?" Jake lowers his arm that's holding onto the camera.

  "Donut with sprinkles. Six of them," the man mutters. He grabs onto the laces of his shoes and pulls on them. "Two coffees. One with cream and sugar. Donut with sprinkles. Six of them. Two coffees. One with cream and sugar."

  "He's mentally ill," I mutter into Jake's ear. "Give him back his camera."

  Jake lets the camera drop out of his hand, catching it by the strap right before it smashed against the asphalt. It catches the man's eye, and he grabs onto it. Jake releases the strap, turns around and strides back to where we had been sitting. I follow him.

  "You didn't need to go crazy like that. We do have some homeless people around here, in case you've forgotten. This is likely a sanctuary for him, and you just turned it
into an unsafe place."

  "I'm not going to apologize for being the only person who cares about this stalker," he snaps without turning around. "Do you know how many people have died because of their stalker? A shitload. Mark David Chapman killed John Lennon. Dimebag Darrell was killed by a fan. John Hinckley Jr. attempted an assassination to get Jodie Foster's attention. Selena was killed by a woman who founded a Selena fan club. And I'm not even talking about the everyday murders that nobody cares about because…”

  "I get it," I say, snatching my guitar back up as we stop where we had been sitting before. "But you can't go off half-cocked like that. I volunteer here. My boss volunteers here. I know people that come here all the time."

  "Except that guy." Jake scowls, shaking his head. "I know, I know. I overreacted. It was stupid. It won't happen again."

  I watch him, his whole body tense and his eyes still looking around us like some threat could pop up at any moment. "Why didn't you tell my brother about the package?"

  He doesn't look at me, his gaze now following the strange man, who seems to still be talking to himself. "You didn't think it was a good idea."

  "You've never done anything just because of my opinion on it."

  "That's a lie. I tried plenty of things when we were dating that I didn't want to do."

  "But you weren't completely opposed to it. You wanted to tell him about the package. You were afraid he'd get angry if he found out we dated, weren't you? Then he'd kick you out."

  "I'd just stay at a hotel. You know how much money I have. It's not a big deal."

  "But you wouldn't be able to keep an eye on me. That's why you drove out here to meet me before my shift ended. You wanted to keep an eye on me."

  "You're making a lot of assumptions."

  I shake my head. "You're an asshole."

  "There we go, back to the asshole accusations," he mutters, shaking his head. "Is it so bad for me to watch your back?"

  I play a Gm chord. "It depends on how many more people you're going to attack."

  He places his thumb on the top string of my guitar and strums the rest of the strings. I shiver, almost feeling it against my own skin.