When we finish the set and the crowd’s individual voices break through my consciousness, calling for “more”, I work hard not to let the others see me shaking all over. Remaining perfectly still is exhausting, but somehow I manage, because, at least for now, I haven’t thought about my parents at all.
Once we run through another set and Dom tells the crowd we’re taking a half hour break, this time I hand the guitar to Ivan, saying, “I’ve got to go. I have school tomorrow.”
He grunts, then nods and takes the guitar. I’ve just stepped off the stage when Dom hops down beside me. Pulling me to the side, he says, “Any time you want to perform with us, you’re welcome,” as he shoves something in my hand.
I frown at the two twenties and try to hand them back to him. “What’s this for?”
Dom curls my fist around the money. “Hell no, kid. You earned your keep tonight. Though next time…have a beer. It’ll help you loosen up sooner.”
I stiffen. “I don’t drink.” I’m messed up enough.
Dom shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Glancing toward the group of girls who’ve moved over to talk to the band, he snorts. “Seriously though, I know you can’t always practice with us because of classes and stuff, but your talent is phenomenal. Even Duke, who’s usually a total ass about accepting outsiders, can’t discount your skill. Tonight was off the charts.”
But it’s not my talent! I want to yell at the top of my lungs. Instead I calmly say, “Thanks for letting me crash, Dom. I really needed this tonight.”
He claps me on the shoulder and winks. “We all win. Keep the money, Adder. And we hope we’ll see you again next week. You can help turn the ‘e’ in Weylaid to an ‘a’.”
Laughing at his cleverness, Dom hops back on stage to address the fans crowding around. I turn to leave, but two college-age girls—a redhead and a brunette—are standing in front of me.
“Ohmygod, you were amazing! We heard them call you Adder. Is that your real name? So cool! We’ve never seen you here before. Did you just join the band?” the redhead babbles.
“I just fill in sometimes,” I say in a low tone. I’m starting to feel edgy and really want to leave, but these girls are blocking my way.
“When will you be here again?” the brunette, who’s wearing a t-shirt that reads Weylaid and hooked! tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and slides a sideways glance to her friend.
I shrug. “Not sure.”
“Well, here’s my name and number,” the redhead says. Before I can say anything, she grabs my hand and quickly scrawls the name Sheryl and a number on my palm. “Call me the next time you’ll be performing. I’ll come just to hear that sexy voice.”
For a brief second I picture the girl standing in my personal space, writing her name and number on my hand, with blonde, shoulder-length hair, brilliant green eyes and a wide smile. What I wouldn’t give to have Nara look at me this way.
Pulling my hand from hers, I say, “I’m glad you enjoyed the show. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.”
Would Nara be attracted to the music like these girls are? I can’t help but wonder as I walk out of McCormicks into the cool night air and stroll down the brickyard mall.
But it’s not real! I mentally argue with myself. It’s not me. I’m not even using my real name. I would never tell Nara about this. I want her to get to know the real me. Yes, my fingertips are still tingling, proving I’m the one who played the instrument, but I can’t get past feeling like an imposter. It’s sad that a talent I didn’t personally develop is somehow helping me cope. It doesn’t make any sense, yet I can’t deny how good it feels to escape from myself for a few hours.
At this pub, I’m an unknown. No one I know comes here, because they’re either not old enough to drink or they’re older than the college crowd. Since my old friends have been banned—knowing them probably indefinitely—it’s the perfect place to get lost.
On my way to the parking garage, I cut through the alley I usually do as I focus on the benefits of continuing to play with this band every so often. Not only can I make some additional cash, but if this helps me feel somewhat normal, maybe I can carry that off at school. My nights might’ve gotten worse lately, but at least things have been better during the day. I really want to get to know Nara—
Two guys jump me at once, throwing me against a brick wall. As I try to regain my equilibrium, one of them grabs me and pulls my arms back, while the other slams a fist into my face. My head snaps sideways and pain explodes across my jaw as the stocky guy with a ham fist snarls to his buddy. “Take his wallet.”
“Don’t touch me,” I wrench the words out and twist my hip to make it hard for the guy to get to my wallet tucked in my front pocket. I can’t see either of their faces. It’s just too dark.
I hear what sounds like a switchblade flipping open and the bigger guy rumble, “Have it your way, prick. We’ll leave you bleeding out then.”
I turn my head and listen past the guy holding me for the bigger guy’s movements. When he shuffles forward quickly, I sense the blade arcing toward me. On instinct I swing my foot wide, kicking hard. The sound of metal clattering to the street reverberates in the alley and my attacker yells, “Fuck you!”
As the stocky guy swings a fist toward my head again, the air seems to bend and shift, telling me his movements. I duck just in time and he hits his friend in the shoulder instead. The force knocks him back, ripping his grip from my arms.
“Sonofabitch, Ray! You hit me!” The skinnier guy yells as he pushes himself off the brick wall he’s fallen against.
I’m suddenly free, but I see the bigger guy’s outline coming toward me, fast and furious. Instead of running, I act on instinct and kick him in the gut.
“Stay back,” I grit out as he stumbles several steps, then rights his feet underneath him.
He howls and launches his hefty bulk in my direction at the same time the skinny one lands on my back. Even though I stagger under his weight tugging on my shoulders, a surge of pure adrenaline and self-preservation kicks in. I broaden my stance and plow my fist into the bigger guy’s oncoming face.
He flies across the wide alley, slamming into the opposite brick wall. As he slowly falls to the ground unconscious, his buddy wails in my ear. “Shit! You okay, Ray?”
The skinny guy hammers his fist on my shoulder, then snakes his thin arm around my neck in a chokehold. I snarl and tug hard at the same time I twist him away from me, intending to fling him off.
Something snaps right before his body sails down the alley to land hard in a rolling heap. I gape at the distance he lands; there’s a good thirty feet between us. My mind screams at the impossible distance I’ve thrown him, while my heart jumps in my throat at the reality I can’t blink away. The defensive strength and ferocity of my fighting shocks me. My breath saws in and out, while I clench and unclench my shaking hands, trying to calm myself enough to listen.
Please, please! I didn’t accidently kill him, did I? When I hear a low moan come from his direction, and then a pitiful whine saying, “I think my arm’s broken,” I exhale a relieved breath and bolt from the alley.
I break every speed limit on my way home. As soon as I reach my street, I force my foot to lighten on the gas pedal and finally pull into the driveway like I’d just come from the library. Shutting off my engine, I jam the heels of my palms against my eyes and try to calm my racing heart. Just when I think I might be able to act somewhat normal, this craziness happens.
You’re fine. Breathe. Breathe. Mothers have lifted cars off their babies before. Sheer self-preservation and adrenaline amped you up, that’s all. But no amount of rationalization can erase the fact that violence had erupted from me on instinct, like it had a mind of its own.
In my dreams, I accept the darkness that wells up in me, because my dreams are screwed up beyond measure. To experience that loss of control in the real world scares me more than anything. I really need to avoid fighting from now on. Otherwise, I might actually kill someone.<
br />
I take several more breaths and realize that the lights are on in the living room. My brother’s waiting up. Tonight I’ll probably have the mother lode of horrific dreams, so as much as I’d like to use the excuse that I’m tired, the last thing I want to do is go to bed anytime soon. With a sigh of grudging acceptance, I pull the keys from the ignition and open my car door. Suddenly, dysfunctional family drama doesn’t seem so hard to face any more.
Chapter Five
I walk into the house and my gaze instantly seeks my brother sitting on the couch. Beer bottle in hand, he’s flipping through the channels. The moment the door closes behind me, he clicks off the TV and slowly swivels my way. “Hey.”
It’s just one word, but it conveys a lot. He’s still in his work clothes and drinking a beer at quarter ‘til eleven. He rarely drinks, let alone this late. I sigh inwardly and stroll over to the living room, hands tucked in my jeans pockets.
“Want to talk about that?” Samson nods his blond head toward the phone’s pieces now displayed on the coffee table like some kind of abstract art.
“Not particularly.” I pull two twenties out of my pocket and set them on the table. “That should cover replacing it.”
Samson frowns. He wants to ask where I got the money, but sighs instead.
“Don’t worry. I got it legally.”
His blond eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t ask—”
“You didn’t have to.” I shrug and look away from his probing gaze. “I have a couple of jobs going right now.”
Samson smiles, his shoulders relaxing into the couch as he leans back to cross an ankle over his knee. “That’s great! Just remember to fill out the tax forms, okay?”
Shoving my hands back in my pockets, I rock on my heels. “One job’s volunteer and the other’s not official. Just cash when I chip in here and there.”
“Ah,” Samson nods, setting the beer bottle on his bent knee.
When a heavy silence descends between us, I start to turn, saying, “It’s late. I’ve got school tomorrow—”
“Eth…”
I turn back to him.
“What happened to your face?” Samson suddenly sits up on the couch.
I forgot to keep that side of my face hidden from him. I flash a confident smile. “You should see the other guy.”
“You promised no more fights.”
I hate the disappointed look on his face, so I wave as if it’s no big deal. “Was just goofing off with guys from my old school. I’m fine. What were you going to say?”
He eyes me doubtfully for a second, then nods. “Dad called me.” When I don’t speak, he continues, “I don’t blame you for being mad—”
I throw my hands out, my stance stiff. “Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because it’s the first time he’s called since you came to live with me.”
“And do you know what he said?” I grate. “He wanted to know why I hadn’t deposited his check.”
Samson blinks before saying in a quiet tone, “If you ever want to mend fences, sometimes you have to reach across to the other side.”
“Why should I make the effort? He hasn’t.” I fist my hands by my side. “Not once in two fucking years.”
Samson sets his mouth in a grim line. “I know exactly how much of an ass he can be, Ethan. I lived with him too. It’s because I know him that I’m asking you to consider making the first move. Prove that you’re not just as stubborn as him.”
“You barely speak to them yourself,” I shout.
Samson doesn’t react to my outburst, other than a stiffening of his shoulders. Ever since I can remember, his relationship with our father has always been contentious, which eventually affected his relationship with our mom too.
A memory of Samson storming out the front door during one of his rebellious teenage arguments with my dad flashes through my mind. The moment the door slammed closed, my father swung his pinched, disapproving expression my way. “Your brother will probably end up in jail before he’s twenty! Thank God one of you seems to have a level head on your shoulders.” My stomach pitches as the memory reminds me that I eventually disappointed them far more than Samson ever had.
Why is my brother defending him? As I watch Samson’s jaw muscle twitch, a sudden realization crashes over me, quickly followed by a heavy wave of guilt; my brother would never admit it, but I’m the reason their tenuous relationship is nonexistent.
How do you forgive someone for not believing in you? How do you get past the hurt and anger, especially when they refuse to take responsibility for their part? I stare at the muscle giving away Samson’s unease. You consider the possibility for your brother.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally say. When Samson starts to nod, I say in a gruff voice as I turn toward the stairs, “I said ‘think’. It’s late. I’m going to bed.”
After I lay in bed, I force my eyes wide open in the dark and stare at the spot of light on the ceiling coming from a lamp light outside in an effort to stay awake as long as possible. Eventually thoughts of what happened in the alley and issues with my dad start to creep into my emptied mind, so I distract myself by switching all my thoughts to Nara.
She’d find a way to forgive her father. She’s just that kind of person, always trying to see the good in others. Why do I always focus on the bad stuff? I hate zeroing in like I do. I can’t even see the good in my own father. The thought makes me frown and squirm against my bed. The movement sets off an itchy sensation along my shoulder blade. Must be from that scuffle in the alley. I did slam against that brick wall pretty hard. Probably irritated the skin there.
I scratch my shoulder and roll over, turning my thoughts back to Nara. She’d probably be a bit freaked out if she knew I sketch her in class sometimes. I can’t help it. She’s far more interesting to draw than the disturbing images from my dreams. The continued itching pulls my musings back to what happened in the alley. That whole experience depresses me the more I think about it. It proves I can’t be a part of Nara’s life now no matter how desperately I wish I could.
The knowledge sits on my chest like a hundred pound weight. As I sink deeper into my bed, my back starts burning. The sensation is so annoying I stumble out of bed and into the hall bathroom in the dark. Grabbing the cortisone from the cabinet, I slap a layer of the cream on my shoulder, then fall back in my bed where I finally close my eyes.
Since Nara can’t be a part of my real life, maybe if I fall asleep thinking about her, she’ll show up in my dreams like she did that one night after my first day of school.
* * *
Why is it when you convince yourself to stop thinking about someone, you instead hyper focus on her? It’s like the darker I see myself, the more attractive Nara’s lightness becomes. And now that my focus is razor-sharp, I’m starting to notice little things I never had before.
We’re in the middle of a history lecture, and I’ve spent most of the morning drawing. Unlike my strange new musical skills, sketching is a talent I developed over time. Embracing my comfort zone sometimes helps mute the noise in my head. Unfortunately, the gravelly voice has been incessant since I got to school.
Eeeethan, he whispers in my head, moving from one ear to the other in stereo surround sound. Why are you drawing so vigorously? You really don’t want to understand. I’ve told you the easiest thing to do. Why don’t you listen—
I glance up at Nara, thinking I might draw her to distract myself. The second I look at her, the voice cuts off. I blink at the surprising silence just as Nara moves her notebook and her elbow sends her pencil rolling to the edge of her desk. The pencil rolls off, but she never looks away from her notebook as she quickly reaches down and grabs the pencil mid-fall between two fingers.
When she starts flipping the pencil casually around her thumb over and over, like she didn’t just perform something as odd as catching a fly with chopsticks, my eyebrows shoot up. How many people could’ve done that? Sure, some people could’ve caught a fa
lling pencil in their palm without looking, but to snag a falling object between the tips of your fingers without looking took some kind of talent. I rub my jaw. Then again, it’s possible she just got lucky.
After class, while standing in front of my locker pulling out books for the next set of classes, I hear Nate scheming with Jake again about his desire to hook up with Nara.
“I’ve got a new ‘Nara’ plan,” Nate whispers to Jake after he flicks him on the back of the head.
Jake rubs his head as he shuts his locker. “Maybe you should give it up, bud. She’s pretty into her adoration of Jared. Heard her talking to Lainey just yesterday about him.”
“Jared’s an ass. The arrogant prick thinks he can have any girl he wants.”
I pull my chin toward my chest and curl my lips inward, mentally snarling my mutual agreement with Nate’s assessment of Jared.
Jake snorts and jams his shoulder into Nate’s. “He thinks that because it’s true, asswipe.”
The two guys scuffle for a couple seconds, then Nate says, “No, seriously, here’s the plan. I’m going to hang out and watch her practice. Then when it’s over, I’m going to praise her soccer skills and ask her for some pointers…you know goalie to goalie. You can come too and say similar shit to Lainey. We might get a twofer out of this.”
Jake snorts. “You could learn a thing or two from Nara. I’ve heard she’s pretty much unstoppable in the goal.”
“That’s ‘cause girls don’t kick as hard as guys.” Nate snickers and rubs his hands together. “But yeah, I think it’s a great excuse. I’ll stroke her ego and then later she’ll stroke mine.”
As he laughs at his own joke, a sudden urge to grab him and slam his head into my locker rushes through my mind. I clench my jaw and tamp down my anger when an ironic idea pushes past the violent thoughts, settling some of the coiled tension.
Ethan, YA Paranormal Romance Page 5
