by A. M. Jones
I back away. Hunter scoffs behind me. “Some mission.”
The singer spins. I can’t take my eyes away from her. Mascara runs under her eyes behind my glasses, and she needs a new coat of lipstick. Being able to touch him so casually the way she’s doing has always been out of the question, because he’s never been mine to touch whenever or however I want. And yeah, I know the times I have touched him are way worse than what she’s doing. I blink spots away when I realize I’m jealous. It goes to show how volatile and uncontrollable emotions can be when love is involved.
“Taylor?” Eli’s voice carries an insane amount of happiness on whether I’m really here or not.
I’d never allowed myself to think about a situation like this because being with Eli seemed so far off and impossible. It appears as though we have more going against us than his marriage to Madison. With Tainted District growing in popularity, we haven’t even scratched the surface.
Then Eli’s words float through my mind. What she did doesn’t matter because when I was supposed to be working through it with her, I was falling for you. I know it doesn’t matter because I’m still a cheating bastard.
It reminds me I’m still the other woman. I have no claim to him. The only person who can and should be jealous is Madison. Not an ounce of guilt shows on Eli’s face, which tells me he’s not doing anything wrong in the first place. This trip has served a purpose in letting me know what it’d be like to be his other half, standing on the outskirts.
Not to mention, their month-long tour. I’ve familiarized myself enough with the indie music scene enough to know a band will usually tour with another. Will they be touring with this one? Is that why they’re so cozy? Oh fuck, I can’t do this. I’ll drive myself insane, possibly becoming a serious psycho stalker in the process.
I snap out of it, straightening my shoulders and trying to regain poise. Finally looking him in the eye, I give him a tight smile. “Great show.”
Eli’s face falls. He hops off the counter. I step back, bumping into Hunter. He puts his hands on my shoulders and that stops Eli from approaching. Awkwardness settles in, and it’s all I can do not to fall apart or run away. His eyes narrow as they move between Hunter and me before remaining on Hunter—who’s just some guy that doesn’t matter. The tension threatens to choke me.
“What’s going on here?” Crockett pushes past us. Savannah is right behind him. The tension dissipates.
“Just telling Eli he played a great show, but I probably should be going.” I glance to Savannah. “We, I mean.”
Savannah shoots me a disbelieving look and Crockett narrows his eyes as he takes in the blonde wearing my glasses. He has no qualms about giving it to her straight. “Why are you wearing those? Take ‘em off, they’re sacred.”
Her eyes widen at his drama queen tactics. She removes them, glancing at Eli. “Ah, I see. My bad.”
I rub my forehead and turn around, marching toward the open space of music lovers. Clipboard man appears, and Hunter says, “Yeah, yeah. I’m on. Give me a sec.” He grabs my wrist. “Stay for the show.”
I stop walking, keeping my focus on the exit. “Sorry Hunter, but I’m with someone.”
“You mean the dude that was about to get it on with Kayla in the backroom?”
A violent turn of my stomach makes me clutch it tight.
“Yes, the dude in the backroom,” Eli spits at Hunter, stalking down the hall. He grabs my arm, never stopping his angry stride. He drags me outside. People are everywhere, but he seems to know where he’s going. When we reach a parking lot, I recognize Milo’s van as Eli spins me to face him. “You’re mad.”
“Why would I be? You haven’t done anything wrong.” I cross my arms.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Then why did you walk out like that?” The alcohol fumes hit me in the face. His eyes flash and they’re a bit red. His jaw grinds something fierce. When I say nothing, he scoffs—an incredulous sound. “You’re jealous?”
Again, I keep my words to myself. I’ll only make it worse.
“Or are you mad because I interrupted you and that guy?”
“Really?” I snort and snap, “I’m not the one who’s married.”
A mocking laugh rumbles from his throat. “Do you know how it feels to be okay one second, insanely euphoric the next, and then fall into a despair so deep, you’re not sure you’ll ever climb out?” He boxes me in with his arms, supporting himself against the van. His face inches closer.
“You hide under all that ink. But you’re not fooling me. You can tell yourself whatever you need to keep this locked tight.” He traces a heart shape on my chest. “That’s why you don’t like Ink Slapped.”
I close my eyes.
“You know the weekend of the convention? Madison wanted me to get you out of my system.”
My body’s so tense I wonder why I don’t break in half.
“I don’t think it’d be that easy,” he whispers. Almost like it was more to himself than me.
I shake my head. Not disagreeing with him, I don’t know what to say to diffuse the situation. I don’t know how to make things better. A few moments tick by. “You’re not gonna say anything?” When I don’t respond, he pushes from the van, spinning away from me. “I don’t need this. I don’t fucking need another woman driving me fucking crazy.” He stops and hangs his head. “Maybe you are like your mom.”
I feel my chest expand like my body wants to start sobbing. I clench my hand, knowing the truth of his statement. “You’re right,” I whisper. “Go live your life and chase the dream. I’ll break your heart eventually, anyway.”
He links his hands behind his neck. “Don’t you think that’s for me to decide?” His head turns so I can see his profile, and he drops his arms. “But like I said, Taylor, whatever you gotta tell yourself.” He cuts his eyes sideways before shaking his head and walking away.
A few days later, I step out of my comfort zone and do a writing activity I hate—poetry. It sucks, but no one will ever see it. The good thing about it is, it stimulates ideas that I jot in my notebook. My laptop dings with a new email, and upon scanning it, it seems I have another agent hounding me—one I recognize. Tom Porter represents an author acquaintance of mine. Right here in Nashville. I roll my eyes but make a note to contact the author to see if he might know anything about this. I certainly have not solicited him, but with Mr. Porter based in Nashville—and the timing, I’m wary.
I’m reading over the poem again, changing words around here and there when a knock from the door echoes through my apartment.
I stand to open it, but Crockett walks right in as if he lives here. “What happened? Eli delayed all of our shows for the next week.”
“Hello to you, too.”
“You know there was nothing going on in that back room, right?” He plops down on the couch, stirring dust that floats in the streaming sun. I need to do some cleaning. I might do that before Brenna and Camden arrive.
“Yes, I know that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Lowering myself beside him, I look him in the eye. “Nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re giving me whiplash, doll.”
I try to smile, but I’m sure it’s weak. “He was drunk and angry, so we didn’t really hash anything out.”
Putting his elbows on his knees, he leans forward and bites his lip for a moment. “He wants us to leave you alone.”
Heaviness tightens my stomach. I blink my eyes to keep the levees from breaking. I nod. I guess what I said to him sunk in. “Whatever he wants.”
“Fuck, I hate it, but we need Eli to keep his shit together. When we leave, he needs to be on top of the game, so I’ll do whatever he thinks will help.”
“He’s sick of my neurotic behavior.” A weak attempt at a joke. I look at the piece of paper on the desk. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe Eli needs time. Maybe he needs to ascertain what he wants.
Spreading his arms across the c
ouch, Crockett scrutinizes me with a pensiveness uncharacteristic for him. “Neither one of you are perfect. I admire you for not making it easy it on him and I don’t blame you for having reservations. I can’t imagine how it feels.”
The lump in my throat seems to get bigger. He kisses me on the cheek before standing. “Hope to hear from you soon. And, lush?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make him wait too long.”
When I open my door, Brenna and Camden peer at me. She purses her lips. “Nice hair.”
It’s her way of saying it looks awesome, but she can make anything sound sarcastic. It runs in the family. “Uh, yeah. I washed it,” I joke and wave them in.
Camden’s the designated pack mule, hauling their bags. I grab one and place it beside the couch. “Looking good, sis.”
“Thanks. Both of you look good, too. Sorry I couldn’t grab you from the airport. You know, side job to pay the bills.”
Brenna eyes my photography bag. “Why don’t you bite the bullet and write full-time?”
“Because I don’t have room for a roommate. Case in point, I arranged the small closet for your things and each of you have a drawer in the bedroom.”
Brenna struts around my decluttered living room. Her long brown hair flows behind her. It’s big and fluffy like a woman would wear in the late 60s and 70s. Luckily, I did some cleaning to keep busy, so they don’t trip over anything. She takes in drawings, books, and movies. “What’re the sleeping arrangements?”
“I figured you could sleep with me, and Camden can pull out the couch or pump the air mattress.”
Camden opens the closet door and dumps bags. Brenna glares but he ignores her while closing the door. “I’m starved. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Awesome, but I think I should set rules.” I point to the floor.
They glance at each other, probably doing weird twin ESP. Finally, Brenna nods.
“It’s not much. Just don’t leave without telling me. I’m not trying to be nosy, but I don’t want to worry. That means tell me if you’re planning on staying out at strange hours. I’ll also do the same.”
“Sounds fair,” Brenna says breezily. “I don’t plan on doing much but sunning at the pool. Maybe a little Nashville shopping—you know I love that vintage boutique.” Of course, Camden says nothing. There’s no point. Brenna’s always spoken for the both of them.
I lock the apartment and we stroll a few blocks to the taco place. People bustle about on their weekday missions. Cars honk as a gaggle of corporate players cross the street. Brenna sashays as if she’s on a runway and Camden slinks beside her. We pass a group of girls and they giggle at the sight of Camden. He follows them with his eyes, checking out their butts.
Brenna rolls her eyes. “Whores.”
“Just the way I like them.” Camden runs his bottom lip under his teeth. I sigh. This will be an interesting summer.
We go into Crockett’s favorite taco place. Brenna orders a chicken taco salad, and Camden orders two huge burritos. They pick a table and Brenna almost runs into a guy who apologizes and moves out of her way.
“I forgot how nice people are here. If we were in Eureka, I would’ve gotten bumped,” she muses as we sit down.
“You would’ve gotten bumped and your seat stolen in Santa Ana,” Camden adds.
“Don’t let us fool you. We love to tell you how nice something is when we really mean, good fucking for you. Southerners think that’s what manners are—being nice no matter what you think.”
They both laugh. “Hmmm… I like that. Kind of like, kill them with kindness?” Brenna stuffs a forkful of lettuce in her mouth.
“Exactly,” I say, taking a bite of taco. Camden inhales his burritos and proceeds to eat half of Brenna’s salad. How the hell am I going to keep food in the house?
He sweeps his brown hair down as if it feels out of place somehow. I don’t see any flaws. They both have impeccable style—put together like a magazine ad. One reason I’ve been nervous about them visiting. I can only wonder what they might think of me, my apartment, my appearance, or—someone help me—my car. I might not have been in the same household, but my childhood was spent looking a certain part just the same. I don’t begrudge them for keeping on that path, but it makes me anxious to wonder if they’re thinking I’m below their normal standards.
We walk back to the apartment in the early evening sun. They both seem a little jet lagged, so I make an offer of ice cream and a movie.
“Make it wine and you have a deal,” Brenna says. I scrunch my nose.
Camden’s signature faint smile makes dimples appear. “How about ice cream, wine, and a movie?”
Brenna shrugs with a lifted brow, but I give him a grateful smile. We detour toward a corner liquor store, which they groan over. “How inconvenient. What’s the point? Just put the shit in grocery stores already,” Brenna complains but smiles. “Wait. They don’t sell wine in grocery stores? How nice,” she jokes in an exaggerated southern accent.
I laugh. “Dead on. But a law is getting ready to pass, so that’s good.”
After we finish our errands, Brenna asks, “Is there any chance we’ll get to hang with Tainted District?”
My stomach sinks to a new depth I didn’t think was possible. A slow burn begins behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
Brenna and Camden exchange a look. That’s going to get old fast—not because it’s irritating, but because I’m jealous of that bond. Maybe if I had a sibling, I wouldn’t be so standoffish and finicky. Brenna and Camden are my siblings, but I only know them through annual family gatherings and long-distance communication. We’ve only been physically around each other, at most, a year out of our entire lives. Not to mention, we were always with our father and their mother, so I doubt they’d really been themselves.
“Because we’re big fans.” Brenna says. I guess they would be. They’re heavily into music. I think they would be even if they weren’t majoring in it.
I shrug and trudge the three steps to the door of my apartment building. “They’re getting ready to leave on a small tour for several gigs.”
“Maybe we can go to one of the shows.” We step into the elevator. “If any are close,” she adds after seeing the look on my face.
“Maybe.”
They both nod—satisfied for now.
When we arrive at the apartment, Camden goes straight into the bedroom. For some reason, I follow behind him. His lithe form is already at the bathroom door.
“I know it’s a pain you have to walk through the bedroom to get to the bathroom. Sorry about that.”
His whole body stays still as he inspects the bathroom for a moment. Then he spins taking in the bedroom. I have a feeling the past few hours he’s been collecting his thoughts on what he wants to say or add about my ground rules spiel.
“Are you good with the ground rules?” I meet his blue gaze, something we share from our father.
“I might have a few questions.”
I figured since I didn’t cover everything that is important to a twenty-two-year-old male. “Shoot.”
“Booze?”
I could give a rat’s ass if he drinks, obviously. “Buy your own.”
He raises both his eyebrows. “Girls?”
“Their place only. This is a one bedroom, for crying out loud. I’d rather not hear my little brother getting it on with a screamer.”
“Can I borrow your car?” He backs against the bathroom doorframe and waits for my answer.
“We’ll work something out.”
He leans toward me. “Emergency condoms?”
I point to my nightstand. “Top drawer, bedside table.”
He seems to take in every inch. “I’m not gonna find any gigantic dildos, am I?”
I smirk, knowing he’d find much more than dildos. “Just don’t go looking too deep and you’ll be fine.”
Cracking his fingers, he contemplates in silence. After a long minute, he snaps. “
I think I’ll like it here.”
Touché. I think I’m going to like them being here.
The next day, I meet with the persistent agent. My author friend vouched for him with nothing but great things to say. I’m not meeting with him to accept any offer but maybe I can get a clue at who keeps throwing them my way and why.
I order spinach enchiladas while Mr. Tom Porter orders fajitas and drinks sweet tea. I smile and pretend to listen attentively to what he has to say. When his phone vibrates for the sixth time, he picks it up, answering whatever message is on the other end.
“Why are you interested?” I interrupt his spiel. His fingertip follows the edge of his eyebrow even as it raises. He puts his phone on the table. Bingo.
“I’ve read Turmoil and I think it hits all the right cultural points to make a seller, that’s why.”
Cultural points? What the fuck is he talking about? I stifle a laugh and sip a drink of water. Strategically placing it near his tea, I push it over. It’s dominoes and his tea spills toward him. He jumps up.
“Shi—”
I stand, too. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”
His lips form a tight line. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
I watch him until he’s out of sight and grab his phone. It’s still lit up from when he put it down. I grin wide on my smooth moves, opening his messages. The waitress rushes to get towels. She says something, but I don’t catch it as I go to the top message.
Is she interested?
The number isn’t a contact so there’s no name attached. Without reading, I forward as many as I can to my own phone while keeping an eye on the direction he went. After several minutes, he lumbers over the patrons and I delete the evidence.
When I get home, I scour the texts and gasp. I skip over the blatant affair as one catches my eye.
