Fearless

by Priscilla West

  I sat down next to him, and rubbed his back. "Hey," I said softly. "C'mon, let's go to the roof. It's a little stuffy in here, don't you think? Some fresh air would be good."

  He picked his head up and looked at me with a haunted expression before nodding. "Yeah, okay."

  We quietly headed up to the deck, taking care not to disturb the rest of the band.

  Up there the night air was cool, with just a hint of breeze. Jax threw himself down on the edge of a lounge chair, and I dragged another one for myself next to his.

  He didn't say a word, but he took in big gulps of the refreshing air. From his unusual pallor and the deep furrows in his brow as he stared at the deck floor, I could tell that the demons from his nightmare were still gripping him tightly.

  I kept my gaze trained on Jax, uneasily watching his signs of distress. He sat rigidly in the chair, his hands flexing and clenching on the armrests, his face still unnaturally pale.

  He was trying to keep his composure in front of me, but I could tell he was hanging on by a thread. I wanted to help him, but I didn't know what to do. I felt helpless. And whatever helplessness I was feeling, I knew Jax was feeling a hundred times worse.

  As the moments stretched out in silence, I could see by Jax's tense posture that the deep breathing wasn't helping him calm down.

  I reached out and covered his hand with mine. He jumped, and looked at me with startled eyes.

  "Sorry," I murmured, drawing my hand away.

  He exhaled slowly. "Don't worry about it."

  I settled back in my chair, my brow furrowed. It hurt to see him so tense and miserable. There had to be something I could do to help.

  My eyes roamed around the deck, looking for a way to distract him from his pain. I squinted at the bar behind him. Bernie kept it stocked with every kind of liquor Jax liked.

  Then my eyes fell on a ceramic ashtray resting on top of the bar. Inside was resting a half-smoked joint.

  Perfect. This could be just the medicine he needed.

  I scooped it up and held it out to Jax like I had found a prize. "Look," I said as I snapped up a lighter that was next to the ashtray. A few quick puffs and the joint was lit.

  I leaned back in my chair and took a big drag. "Damn," I said, coughing as I exhaled. I was still a relative newbie when it came to smoking pot. "Chewie outdid himself. Want to try?"

  I held out the joint to Jax. He stared at the glowing tip for a second, then reached out and plucked it from between my fingers.

  He took a deep, long drag, and a cloud of smoke curled around his head as he exhaled. His eyes squeezed shut briefly, and he nodded a thanks before offering it back to me with shaking hands.

  Our fingers brushed, and the image of us sharing a smoke like this outside of Denver flashed before my eyes. The connection between us had been so simple back then. Just a guy getting to know a girl. And now we were locked in a battle against Jax's past.

  I took another quick puff on the joint before passing it back to Jax.

  He sighed deeply and took one more slow hit. His back was hunched as he sat on the edge of the lounge chair, and suddenly I had another idea.

  I stood up and moved over to Jax, softly placing my hands on his shoulders as I lowered myself behind him. From this position I began kneading his neck with firm movements.

  He groaned a little and hung his head forward as I worked him over. Other than that, he stayed quiet, and I cast about for an amusing story to distract him with.

  "Hey," I said in as upbeat a voice as I could manage, "did the guys ever ask you to settle their debate?"

  Jax opened his mouth slightly, then paused and licked his lips. "No," he said in a thick voice.

  I moved my hands in small circles, easing the knots as I found them. His body slowly started to relax under my touch.

  "Hmm, well, you might want to get in on this. You are the band leader, after all."

  He took another long drag on the joint, holding it loosely between his fingers. "What debate?"

  "The guys went to a strip club a few days ago and saw a show."

  I adjusted my rhythm and increased the pressure of my movements on his back. He groaned a little in relief as I touched a sensitive spot, then nodded his head, indicating that I should go on.

  That encouraged me, so I continued with more enthusiasm. "It must have been good, because Chewie came back with the brilliant idea to hire a couple of girls as background dancers for the Hitchcocks."

  A shadow of a smile hinted around his lips as he turned his head briefly. His muscles relaxed a little more under my fingers as I pressed into the small of his back.

  "So what do you think, would that amp up the show?" I asked.

  "I like the show the way it is," Jax said with a slight shrug.

  I moved my hands back up to his shoulders, glad to find that most of his tension there had evaporated. I lifted a hand to gently brush his tangled hair behind his left ear. "Then you'd better tell that to Chewie. He's got Kev half convinced that Amber and Coco would be a great addition."

  Jax sighed. "Maybe next tour."

  He was quiet after that, and I didn't know what else to say. I guess it hadn't been enough to get his mind off his problems. I focused instead on really digging in and kneading his neck. Well, at least I can do this.

  Then Jax shifted under my hands. "But I guess I wouldn't mind doing a few interviews," he said in a quiet voice.

  I stared at the back of his head. Was that a joke?

  From the trace of a smile that haunted his lips as he turned to me, I had to say yes. I swallowed, then gave a throaty laugh. "You still have a fondness for lining up women."

  He shrugged, and I moved my hands to his shoulders. "They can try out solo."

  "Well, I'm sure the guys won't mind that."

  This time the conversation really was over because Jax didn't follow up on my comment. But his body under my hands had relaxed, and I felt confident I'd dragged him away from his troubles, at least for a bit.

  Jax turned slightly as he took another puff on the joint, and the shadows played across his face, hiding the new marks he'd made on his forehead.

  But even if they were hidden, I knew they were there. The image of Jax in torment, banging his head on the wall, leaped back into my mind. There was nothing stopping Jax from hurting himself again if he was caught in the throes of a nightmare.

  I frowned in concentration as I continued my kneading. After our San Francisco trip, I'd thought that I'd really been helping him, but maybe I could only provide temporary relief. I had to face the problem squarely—it wouldn't go away with a couple of puffs and an amateur massage. The truth was, even if I had been named the best girlfriend in the world, I wouldn't be able to fight his demons for him. So how would Jax get through this?

  My fingers involuntarily tightened on his shoulders as an idea occurred to me. Deep problems like his were never fixed with an instant cure. They required time, and lots of hard, personal work before any progress could be made.

  I sucked in a breath. When I began to speak I forced myself to sound casual. "You know, I always wonder how you do it."

  "Do what?"

  "You're a cocky son of a bitch," I said with a teasing laugh, "But you're also thoughtful, romantic. That's what I like about you, how you can mix it up like that. I never want you to change because I like the whole package."

  "That's good."

  I paused a moment. "When I was going through my stuff over Connor, it was really hard to accept the good and the bad stuff about myself. I thought it was all bad, unfortunately, and I was having a hard time because of it. I tried to get over it on my own, but I couldn't. I needed help."

  He didn't respond, but shifted under my hands. I could feel his muscles tense up a bit.

  I chose my next words carefully as I kept my fingers working, dropping down to his lower back. "That's why I went to therapy. I was confused and I needed to hear a new perspective." I swallowed. "It helped me so much. I think it might help yo
u too."

  While I was talking my hand had paused to rest on his waist. Jax placed his hand over mine, pressing it to his body. He gave it a tight squeeze. The touch wasn't a yes, or a no, but I knew at least he'd been listening.

  I released the breath I'd been holding and squeezed him back.

  Jax leaned forward and stubbed out the remains of the joint on the deck floor. Then he sighed, and leaned back, stretching out on the lounge chair next to me. He closed his eyes.

  I curled up next to him, and he rolled over onto his side, facing away from me. I put my hand on his thigh and drew him into the curve of my hips, enjoying the smooth warmth we created together.

  He sighed again as I cradled his body against mine. I could feel his shallow breathing, but his body was relaxed, and after a few moments he had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  I pressed my cheek into his shoulder, grateful he was getting a momentary respite from his pain. But I knew we had a long road ahead of us. His demons had crept into the Fortress of Solitude during the night, attacking Jax at his most vulnerable. Even though they were gone for now, I knew they'd come back.

  Staring up at the sky, I resigned myself to gaze at the unfamiliar stars that dotted the darkness above. Sleep for me would be a long time coming.

  Chapter Ten

  STORM

  When I woke up, stiff and sore from being camped out on the deck chair, Jax was gone.

  Confused, I rubbed my eyes and blinked. In the morning daylight, I could see a glimpse of ocean surf through the palm trees that lined Reed's driveway. So this is Malibu.

  But I didn't really care about scenery at the moment. What I wanted was to find Jax, and see how he was doing after last night's ordeal. At least I knew he'd gotten a little sleep, up on the deck with me, and that must have helped.

  Yawning, I got up and stretched before heading down to the Fortress of Solitude, expecting that Jax had woken up earlier than me as usual and had gone back to the room. But when I opened the door, I found he wasn't there either.

  "Jax?" I called out, looking out the window for any sign of him as I started down the stairs. As I got to the bottom, I heard murmured voices. Chewie, Sky, and Kev sat on the black leather couches, talking in hushed, low tones.

  Sky's eyes were red and puffy as she said something I couldn't hear. "It's not so bad, sis," Chewie said, his voice more soothing than I'd ever heard it before. "He'll be better in a few hours. You know that. He always is."

  I knew with a sinking feeling that they were talking about Jax. Sky's voice trembled, but this time it was loud enough for me to hear from my perch on the stairs. "But what if he's not? He seems so much worse this time . . ."

  From the lowest stair, I decided to make my presence known. "What's going on?" I asked, trying to sound more nonchalant than I felt.

  The band looked up at me, and I suddenly wondered if I'd said something wrong. Chewie muttered something under his breath, but the only word I could make out was "guitar."

  Kev snorted. "Jax thinks none of the guitars sound right."

  That's weird. Jax had been a bit of a musical perfectionist, but I'd never heard him complain about his instruments before. "What, like they're tuned wrong or something?"

  "Hell if I know," Kev said, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "They sounded fine to me. But according to him, everything he plays sounds like shit."

  My brow furrowed. That doesn't sound like Jax at all. "Where is he now?" I asked.

  "Still playing, I think," Sky sniffled. "We just couldn't deal with it any more. I tried to talk to him about it, but . . ."

  "But you know how big Jax is on talking," Chewie concluded.

  "He's just being a drama queen," Kev said, sounding sure of himself. "He needs to pull himself together. What happened to him on stage could have happened to anyone."

  "But it didn't happen to anyone," Sky said, sounding dismayed. "It happened to Jax. And we need to be here for him! But I don't know how, when he's acting like . . . like . . . " She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  I frowned with concern. Nothing the band was saying made any sense—I needed to figure out what was really going on. "I'm going in there," I said, making up my mind as the words came out.

  "I wouldn't if I were you," said Kev.

  Chewie nodded. "Yeah, leave it to work it out on his own. Why do girls always gotta make guys talk about everything?"

  Sky shot him a glare through red eyes. "I think it's a good idea," she said to me. "Just be careful, okay?"

  I nodded and opened the bus door, stepping out into a cool morning breeze. Reed's house was a sprawling glass-and-steel mansion in a super-modern style cantilevered from the cliffside—as spectacular, and as gaudy, as the man himself. Last night, I'd been wanting to see the inside, but now I took slow steps, each more nervous than the last. Was the band right? Was talking to Jax just a waste of time? I'd spent last night talking to him, but it hadn't seemed to help at all.

  As I approached the door, a flurry of notes came through. I recognized the tune: it was the first guitar solo from "Glass Brick," one of the biggest crowd-pleasers at Hitchcocks shows. I stood just outside the doorway, closing my eyes and taking in the music with a deep breath of salt air.

  If this was really about the instruments sounding bad, he'd clearly found a way to fix the problem. The song was one of my favorites from the band's set list, and Jax's guitar sounded better than I'd ever heard it in concert. I couldn't keep visions of Jax out of my head—the way he looked during a solo, the concentration, the sweat, a sexuality and urgency in his playing that no one else could match. The music built to the climactic solo crescendo, the riff growing louder, faster, rougher, harder . . .

  BAM! With a huge crash, the flow of notes stopped and exploded into a brief, tuneless twang that made my heart stop.

  I flung the door open, terrified that Jax had somehow injured himself again while playing.

  What I saw scared me even worse. Jax was nowhere to be seen, but the aftermath of his playing was everywhere: tuning knobs scattered like marbles next to smashed fretboards, curled-up strings streaming limply from splintered wood. My stomach churned. If Jax had started this guitar massacre while the band was still in the house, it was no wonder they'd decided to leave.

  Stepping gingerly to avoid the wreckage, I made my way through Reed's massive living room. As I walked past a curved wall covered in a large painting with a huge rip running through it, I spotted Jax standing in the furthest corner of the room, still holding a guitar neck in his hands.

  When he saw me, he froze, the anger in his face mingling with a sudden flash of pain. He said nothing, but looked down at the pieces in his hand and threw them dismissively into a corner. His eyes looked haunted, like they had last night.

  I swallowed hard. This was clearly about something more than guitars. Something had pushed him over the edge, and now he was destroying Reed's house, upsetting the band, and tormenting himself. Whatever the reason, it had to stop.

  I took a deep breath. "Need any help smashing stuff?" I asked, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets as I tried to force my voice into nonchalance. "I've got a pretty good arm."

  He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before responding, and in the tightness of his jaw I could see he was fighting to let go of his anger. When he opened his eyes again, the fury in them had diminished, but the pain still lingered. "It's all such shit," he said with quiet intensity. "I can't fucking stand it today."

  "What happened?" I asked, hoping half-heartedly that maybe there was an easy explanation for this carnage after all. "Did the roadies mess the guitars up?"

  "No, I messed it up," he said, gritting his teeth. "Every time I play, I sound like shit."

  I looked into his eyes, and saw fear suddenly mixing with the pain. Was I wrong about Jax not being broken by his dad? He was a survivor, it was true, but somehow at that moment he looked just as broken as the guitars on the ground. I could tell he needed help. But ho
w could I possibly give him what he needed when I had no idea what it was?

  I walked over to one of the unsmashed guitars and ran my hand over the neck before picking it up. "Maybe you just don't remember what sounding like shit sounds like," I said, trying to stay nonchalant as I slung the strap over my shoulder. "Now, me, on the other hand. . ."

  I gripped the frets awkwardly and strummed my fingers over the pickups, creating a noise that sounded like squealing tires, only less pleasant.

  Jax flinched at the discordant notes, but he didn't say anything.

  Looks like you need a little more convincing. "Compared to me, your worst day is like Clapton." I started playing air guitar and did my best impression of the guitar riff from "Layla." "Doodle-deedle-doodle-dee, deee doo doo doo dooooo . . . see, that's you."

  He closed his eyes and swallowed, as if making another effort to get hold of himself. "You're not even holding that right," he said at last.

  I raised an eyebrow. "Not all of us can be rock stars."

  "Here, just . . ." he stepped toward me and adjusted the position of the guitar neck in my hand, moving my thumb until it was under the neck instead of over it. "If you hold it the way you were, you'll never get a good sound."

  "Oh," I said, relieved I'd been able to make Jax think about something else, even for a minute. "So now I just . . ."

  I strummed once more . . . and immediately winced. This time, the sound wasn't quite as horrible—but it wasn't exactly music, either.

  Jax cringed, clearly unready for how bad it sounded. "Have you really never played a guitar before?"

  "Is that really so surprising?"

  He shook his head as if the thought had never occurred to him. "I guess I've just been in the industry too long."

  I suddenly felt a little embarrassed. It was easy to forget, sometimes, what different worlds Jax and I lived in. If anyone at my office had ever so much as picked up a guitar, it would have been news to me. "I know you're not going to believe me," I said, grimacing, "but I'm not even a hundred percent sure what a chord is. I'm musically hopeless."