by T. I. Lowe
“You need to clean up the dumb mess you made last night.” Ben’s tight tone gave no wiggle room for Max to find an out.
Max looked back at his other manager, thin lips pressed in a severe line, deep lines marring his forehead. He wondered if Tate put his foot down and demanded Papa Bear Ben to handle the latest fiasco.
“Maxim,” Mave said in a quiet warning.
“Look, all I did was goof off a little bit last night. The world is going to think whatever they want. A statement from me ain’t gonna change it.” His eyes swept over the grey waves crashing onto the shore.
“I didn’t know you were Jehovamethaptist.” Trace scratched the side of his blond head.
“I’m not, Space Cadet. I made it up.” Max couldn’t stifle the eye roll before it escaped.
The group snickered, but Ben cleared his throat in warning before addressing Max once again. “You need to apologize for making fun of religion. That’s a vast community you slammed last night with the restaurant exorcism.”
Snorts joined the conversation from his bandmates, but cut off abruptly when Ben delivered a scolding look.
“Fine,” Max muttered, conceding to pay the repercussions for his stunt.
Blake pulled up the notepad app on his iPad to dictate Max’s statement. The young assistant had matured over the last few years, proving all the members of the band wrong, and completely proving Jewels right as always.
Max began once Blake gave his head a nod. “I made up Jehovamethaptist as a joke that I am now realizing was in poor taste. God is far greater than any title we like to slap on our relationship with Him.” He paused to let Blake catch up typing. Once Blake looked up, Max began again. “The only religious organization I belong to is the Dirt Roads Faith of Tiny Town Church where silicon fruit-loops are sacrificed as burnt-out offerings.”
Ben groaned loudly, but was drowned out by the raucous laughter overtaking the rest of the group.
Shoving his fingers through his grey hair, Ben leveled Max with a look of exasperation. “Well, you took it serious for all of two seconds. And that’s two seconds longer than I expected.” He moved his attention to Blake, whose hands hovered over the screen with needing direction. “Only keep the first two sentences and add, ‘I apologize if I offended anyone.’”
“Funny, man. You are a member of a Baptist church back home.” Logan pointed out.
“That’s not the point.” Max scowled at no one in particular.
“We get it. The chick made fun of your faith and it struck a nerve.” Dillon waved his hand to dismiss it. “Let’s move on.”
“Max, if you need a break, we are fine with it. Will can finish out the last few concerts for you.” Ben’s harsh features softened.
Apparently, the topic had already been discussed without Max. He glanced around the table and was met with understanding, steady gazes. He shook his head. “Nah, man. All’s good as long as you idiots don’t set me up on anymore blind dates.”
Trace huffed. “We were just trying to have your back. You and Mona just broke up and the chick is already out there flaunting a new guy—”
“No, we didn’t! I ended things last year. It’s all on me. Leave her alone!” His rage bellowed out of him, effectively silencing the group. Ashamed over his outburst, Max sucked in several deep breaths of the salty air to calm himself. The guys had his best interest at heart, he knew, and they didn’t deserve him taking his stress out on them.
“The media doesn’t see it that way,” Ben added.
“Well, the media can kiss my—”
“Enough!” Dillon interceded. “Get it together or head on back to Georgia.”
“It’s three gigs. I’ll finish. What else can go wrong in that little bit of time?” Max allowed his shoulder to shrug up in an arrogant twitch, full of attitude. He shoved away from the table and continued doing what he’d been doing all summer—running away from his problems. But this time, his pursuit of escape had him colliding with Kyle in the foyer.
“They done with your scolding already?” Kyle’s green eyes danced in tease as he placed a suitcase beside several other more feminine ones by the door.
“I set those punks straight.”
Kyle smirked. “Yeah, right.”
Sunshine time. Max looked between his friend and the large black suitcase thoughtfully before heading to his truck. Kyle and the girls were set to fly back to New York the next day, so Max focused on a parting gift for the newlyweds instead of his overwhelming life.
•♫•♫•♫•
“You should have known better than to say something as stupid as, ‘What else can go wrong?’” Mave growled, throwing the magazine on the driftwood coffee table.
“When are you going to learn that your dumb pranks always backfire?” Dillon muttered while thumbing through another magazine. “Massage oil, lingerie, fury handcuffs… Man, some of this stuff makes me blush too much to say out loud. Were you trying to embarrass Kyle or get him kicked off the flight?” He looked up with an arched brow, his indigo eyes hard.
Max shrugged, realizing he didn’t quite think this one all the way through. He had replaced all of Kyle’s suitcase belongings with a treasure trove of naughty items, thinking about how hilarious it would be to see the look on Kyle’s face when he went through the luggage check at the airport.
Kyle had text him—Thanks for making me look like a pervert. I’ll get you back for this!
The thought didn’t even cross Max’s mind that someone would find out about his little shopping spree. The clerk at the adult store happily shared a copy of Max’s receipt with several gossip rags. The guy also shared a few fuzzy pictures he snagged with his phone showing the guitarist hiding his face ineffectively under a cowboy hat while strolling down an aisle of inappropriate paraphernalia, causing a full force media explosion, so severe they were still feeling the aftershocks a few days later.
Maxim King from the legendary band Bleu Streak has had one wild week in Southern California. He went on record to profess his faith in God one day after making a mockery of the religious community, and was caught shopping for a gross amount of sleazy lingerie and sex toys the next. Photos have also surfaced of a glassy eyed King entering a bar after causing a scene in a nearby restaurant in Beverly Hills. Is he following in his father and brother’s footsteps? Will Maxim King be heading to rehab next?
“This is very damaging.” Tate shook his head while reading over the story.
Max shrugged again and muttered around chewing on his thumbnail. “I just wanted to have some fun at Kyle’s expense.”
“Well, your shenanigans have been considerably costly.” Ben looked at another headline Blake had just pulled up on his laptop and sighed heavily. It declared Max a drunk like his father. “What were you even doing in a bar in the first place?”
“The paparazzi were hounding me, man! I was trying to get away from them, so I ran in the front door and out the back to hide,” Max snapped.
Ben turned the laptop screen around to show Max the image of himself looking beyond wasted—eyes red and squinting with his cheeks flushed. It was taken at the moment he had been about to drop his basket and cry in front of everyone. If he didn’t know better, Max would believe the story the photo portrayed as well.
“And this is just as lovely,” Tate said, hitting the YouTube video of Max singing a garbled rendition of “Georgia On My Mind.”
“Dude,” Trace mumbled with worry, his face turning pale.
Max cringed with embarrassment, but anger pushed the shame aside and took over. His jaw flexed as the words charged out of his mouth. “If I was drinking, that’s my business, but I wasn’t. Truth of the matter, I was about to cry like a baby ‘cause I’m homesick.” He sniffed the recurring threat back and blinked several times to get himself in check. “I don’t think I have to explain the hatred I have toward alcohol, since all you punks know what I’ve lived through with my father and brother.”
Silence blanketed the group as they watched him
push out of the chair and stalked over to his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. The bang was so loud, it even made the commotion upstairs hesitate for a few seconds. Soon the children went back to their squeals and laughter while sounding like a stampede. Their jovial demeanor couldn’t have been more opposite of the somber crowd sitting around on the first floor. Each guy sat glaring at the floor while concentrating on how they could help Max out. One by one, they eventually meandered upstairs to get away from the tension.
The day crept by until night took over. Max was a no-show for a radio interview and a scheduled practice with the band, but no one dared to bother him. Mad as he was, his stomach wouldn’t let him stay hidden. As he shuffled out the door to find something to eat, he glanced at the broken iPad and iPhone where both laid crumbled along the bottom of the bedroom wall. Each headline of him being a nympho alcoholic riled him into a bitter rage until both electronic devices became victims of it.
The fact that he had never been drunk irritated the entire situation even further. On his way to the kitchen, he mimicked what he’d witnessed on TV and a few times in person from Martin as well as Mave. Zigzagging and staggering into furniture along the way. His arm even managed to sloppily turn over a lamp. It clanged to the floor in protest, but he didn’t even pause to pick it up since the thing somehow managed to remain in one piece. As he fake-groveled around to grasp the fridge handle, he heard steps come up behind him.
“Tell me you ain’t drunk!” Dillon demanded, his deep voice rumbled out.
Max turned to offer his best intoxicated impression, head bobbing around while wearing a toothy grin so wide it squinted his eyes to slits.
His giant friend dropped to the floor, wrapped his arms around his long drawn-up legs and began rocking dramatically. “Not happening. This is not happening,” he began to chant in time with his rocking.
Max snorted and motioned for him to get up. “You’re too big of a man to pull off that pansy act.”
Dillon stood, towering over him. “Yeah. And you’re too smart of a man to be pretending to be a drunken idiot.”
“Well, I’m being accused of everything under the sun. Figured since we’re in Hollywood I’d go ahead and play the role. Staggering drunk or invalid on my deathbed. Pick one.” Another picture of him leaving a follow-up appointment with his doctor had headlined that he was hiding another, more serious illness and only had a few months to live.
“I pick that you use the good sense God gave ya.”
“I’m just so sick of it, man!” Max threw his hands in the air, exasperated. A single tear rebelled against his demand to stay put and escaped down his bronzed cheek. As he swiped the tear away, he heard his mom’s voice trying to calm him as a young child. It was after she had finally dried her own tears and was trying to convince him to do the same. Your soul is much too beautiful to continue to cry. In the present moment, all he felt was ugly. Ugly heart, ugly choices, ugly consequences…
“This is our reality, especially while we’re out here in California.” Dillon pointed to the barstool and took one himself at the kitchen island.
A large coral sculpture rested in the middle of the new granite countertop Leona called Waterland Terra Aqua. It actually looked exactly like the ocean in motion. Both men’s eyes followed the undulating pattern in silence for a few beats.
Dillon continued after a while. “One, we’re celebrities whether we want to admit it or not. Two, our checking accounts tend to spawn enough jealously on their own. Three, we confess to be Christians. Max, that target on our back is so vast, a blind man with no aim could hit it.” He extended his arms wide, filling the space with his wingspan, to make his point.
Max eyed him, making no comment.
Dillon’s eyes gleamed with emotion as he spoke, “Let them say stupid stuff. Let their jealousy push them into taunting us. Let their simplemindedness dismiss our faith.” He clamped his large hand tight to Max’s shoulder. “But don’t let them rob you of your joy and peace. Jesus went through way too much for us to be squandering our freedom. This is a storm in your life. And like all storms, it’ll pass.”
Max shook his head. “I know… I just… This storm didn’t just plow through. It set up shop to stay.” Another tear silently trekked down his face, but he nudged it away with wanting to conceal it from Dillon. “I’m tired of the clouds. When am I ever going to feel the sun again?”
“’You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden,’” Dillon whispered one of his favorite verses to his friend, Matthew 5:14. “You’ve got that sun inside you. It’s up to you to let it out.”
“I’ve forgotten how.”
“I don’t know why you let your old man screw with your head so bad when he showed back up last year.”
“He didn’t mess with my head. He ruined my heart.” Max pressed his hand against the pain swelling in his chest. He sucked in several shaky breaths before he could continue. “I think it’s time to go home… I need to go home…” A sob stuttered from his damp lips, but he managed to hold the tears back.
“I understand. I’ll have Blake get you on the first flight out. Go pack.” Dillon nodded his head toward the stairs.
Max didn’t make a move. “I’m quitting y’all.”
“You’re not quitting. You know it’s time for you to move on from this and staying in California ain’t cutting it. You’re wellbeing is far more important than a few gigs. It’s only a week and we’ll be back home, too.” Dillon pulled his phone out and hit Blake’s contact. “Yo. Book Max a ticket home on the next available flight,” he spoke into the phone and paused to listen. “Thanks, man.”
Max pushed away from the island and walked to the stairs. Dillon was right. It was time to sort things out. Dillon called out before he descended the stairs.
“’For just as we share abundantly in the suffering of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ.’ Don’t forget to lean on Him. You’re not alone in this, Max.”
Max tossed his hand up in acknowledgement, knowing his voice wouldn’t be able to penetrate past the pain flooding him.
It was definitely time to go home.
TWELVE
“Broken”
-Lifehouse
“Tiny Town”
-Finding Favour
The red eye from LAX to Atlanta was swathed in an eerie calm after such an uproar in the airport earlier when Max was checking in just before midnight. The place had become a frenzy of fans wanting to know how Max was doing. Also, an elderly lady took it upon herself to scold him for his inappropriate prank, telling him he was raised better than that. It was a blessing and burden to be Maxim King. He had always opened himself to the fans, wanting to be personal with them. This made them all view him as a member of their own family. But their curiosity and concern was too much for him to handle, so Max upgraded his usual coach ticket to first class so he could hide.
Hiding became overbearing as the quiet cabin whispered all of the chaos of his life in a spinning cycle of confusing questions.
How?
Why?
How did this mess happen?
Why did I allow it?
How can I clean it up?
Why can’t I figure it out?
A fine sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, beckoned forth by the pounding of each regret to his gut. His breath caught from the stabbing in his chest each time he tried to inhale. Swiping the perspiration from his upper lip, his fingers discovered the tremble of grief.
I’m falling apart…
Drowning…
Sinking…
A choked sob fell from his mouth without warning. His head jerked up, scanning around the dimly lit cabin to see if anyone caught it before it clattered to the floor. Most of the leather seats were reclined at the late hour. Thankfully, Max found no eyes witnessing his meltdown, so he kicked the offensive display of emotion under his seat and focused on keeping the sobs mute as tears fell in a mournful procession.
&n
bsp; The realization hit him that he had not properly mourned the loss of innocence inflicted from the abandonment of his father. The fissure he’d been carelessly bandaging with whatever worked at the time finally rebelled and split wide open.
Unable to swallow it back down, Max’s knees hit the floor of the plane before he could register his actions.
“Oh… God… Please… Please take this from me… I can’t carry it anymore… It’s ruining me. Ruining my life. Please… I need to forgive him… Help me forgive him… Heal me… Please heal me…”
His whispered prayers kept on a repetitious procession until they switched to Max begging God to heal Martin, to forgive Martin, to take Martin’s burden of addiction away.
“Please… Please forgive and heal my dad of his sins…”
The hollow ache drained away, leaving a numbing sensation after a while. Exhausted and cried out, Max climbed back into his seat as sleep pulled him under. Dreams flickered like old home videos, conjuring images of a happier time when growing up in a tiny town with dirt roads was more than enough.
•♫•♫•♫•
“Eight is a good age as any.”
“Really?” Max asked hesitantly, unsure of his dad’s suggestion. He kicked a rock into the ditch as they walked down the dirt road that ran behind their small trailer. The humid summer had their chestnut locks curling tight and cheeks a bit flushed.
“Sure. Nothing wrong with a little mischief for a good laugh. Go ahead.”
“You ain’t gonna let Momma take a switch to me, are ya?” Max chewed on his thumbnail and looked up at the tree his dad pointed at.
“No,” Martin said on a deep laugh. “It’ll teach your brother a good lesson.”
Maverick thought it was okay to take Max’s fishing pole without permission, and thought it was even more okay that he broke it. It was an accident! He and Max had went around and around with the argument the day before, but nothing was resolved.
