Fearless

by Priscilla West

  That fucking did it. I snarled a stream of profanity into my mic and ended the song with a bang. That should've been enough, but I couldn't stop myself.

  "So this is Ventura, huh?" I shouted. "It fucking sucks!" The crowd howled with anger. I looked over at Sky, who mouthed "what are you doing" at me. I shrugged and turned my attention back to the mic. After a few clacks from Chewie, we were into the second song.

  But then I saw something terrifying. Fire.

  My palms began to sweat. Fuck, was I hallucinating again? Like the morning after I sleepwalked?

  That was when I caught Darrel out of the corner of my eye. He was at the edge of the crowd, and it was only for an instant, but I saw him.

  Or thought I saw him? Was I losing my mind?

  I blinked and refocused myself on the song, strumming my guitar with vicious strokes. But I could still see fire out of the corner of my eye. I took a deep breath. No way was I letting my fucking PTSD ruin this show by freaking out on stage.

  My eyes scanned the crowd and saw a mosh pit developing in the front. To the left, I saw something that scared me.

  Riley.

  Her eyes were wide with panic and she was pointing at me. At the stage. The crowd around her was totally fired up, churning into a frenzy.

  My stomach dropped. God, Riley, get out of there.

  The heat behind me was blazing. I saw some flames down by my feet.

  Sky screamed something at me. Distantly, I heard the rest of the band stop playing. But I couldn't stop. My fingers kept flying across my fretboard, pulling out note after note.

  As I played, my eyes flew back up again to where I'd seen Riley. I was just in time to watch her fall in the crowd. She was immediately surrounded by a herd of people. They had their backs to me.

  Wait, what? My fingers came to a sudden halt.

  "Jax!" Sky yelled from somewhere, "Get off the stage! It's burning!"

  I swiveled my head over my shoulder and somehow everything snapped back into focus. Fire tore at the ceiling and down the sides of the stage. This was no hallucination. The stage really was on fire.

  A sinking feeling shivered through my body. What the hell was going on with me? I shook my head and looked out into the fleeing crowd.

  Riley was in there somewhere.

  I needed to get to her. With a start, I unslung my guitar from my shoulder before tossing it aside and hopping off the stage. Riley—I couldn't let her get hurt. Gritting my teeth, I forced my way through the crowd. If I lost her, I'd lose everything.

  ***

  Five minutes ago

  My heart thundered in my chest as I scanned the area frantically. She wasn't there.

  It had taken me a few minutes to shove my way through the crowd to where Riley had fallen, and by the time I had gotten there she was gone.

  Now I didn't know what to do.

  In a panic, I made my way toward a security guy in a yellow jacket.

  I grabbed his arm. "I saw someone fall when I was on stage. Have you seen her?"

  The security guy tore his arm away from my grip. He opened his mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but something in my face made him stop. "Strawberry blonde?" he said gruffly. "Yeah. She should be headed to the medical tent."

  "Is she hurt?" I asked breathlessly.

  He shrugged. "Don't think so."

  Without another word I turned and began making my way to the medical tent. With the huge crowd of people to fight my way through, it took me twenty minutes to get there. Every minute of it was pure torture. What if that guard was wrong and Riley was seriously hurt? If she was, it was all my fucking fault.

  My brain went into overdrive as I walked. I needed to get myself together. Pissing off that crowd, knowing in the back of my mind that Riley was there, had been stupid. Idiotic. Insane.

  Why did I keep doing all these fucked up things?

  My head felt like it was tied loosely to my body. What if the next thing I did was something even worse? Who would get hurt?

  A chill went through me. This was it. I was losing my mind. Going crazy. Or something. How would I know?

  Fuck.

  I approached the medical tent feeling like I had a gun to my head. Something had to change. If I kept going like this, the next crazy thing I did might be something I'd regret for the rest of my fucked up life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DISORIENTATION

  Riley

  When I fell in the crowd, I thought I was going to die.

  It was a minute that felt like an eternity. I caught a few kicks as people stumbled over my prone body, but thankfully no one stepped on me before a security guard cleared people away so I could stand up.

  My eyes flew to the burning stage, but it stood empty, with Jax nowhere to be seen. I grabbed the security guard and asked if he'd seen Jax leave the stage, but he said he'd been too busy handling the crowd to notice. I stood there, not knowing what to do. The security guy kept urging me to go to the medical tent, and in my dazed mind, a light went on—maybe they'd taken Jax there too.

  The security guy led the way to the big white tent that stood near the entrance gate. Inside, I looked around but couldn't see Jax anywhere. I quickly asked an older guy with gray hair who seemed to be in charge whether anyone had seen Jax. When he said no, my stomach churned. Was he okay? Or was he lying in an ambulance somewhere?

  A nurse had me sit down on a cot. As she patched up a scrape on my arm, I tapped my feet impatiently against the floor, desperation growing in my chest. Watching him stand on that burning stage had been horrible—but not knowing what had happened to him after was even worse.

  As soon as the nurse finished, I jumped up and hurried to the exit. I stepped out into the fresh air and paused, unsure of where to look for him next.

  Then I heard Jax's voice shouting "Riley!" His voice came from somewhere on my left.

  I turned around, my heart beating wildly.

  There he was, making his way through the crowd of people. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over me. He hurried across the grassy area separating us, and my eyes raked over him, looking for signs of hurt. But except for a smudge of soot on his cheek and a cut on his hand, he seemed okay in spite of what had just happened.

  When he drew near, he pulled me into his arms for a bone-crushing hug. "Are you okay?" he asked desperately. "Tell me you're okay."

  "I'm fine," I gasped, running my hands along his back. "Are you?"

  The muscles in his shoulders tensed underneath my fingers, as if he had just remembered something. "Yes," he muttered, pulling away from me.

  "God, I'm so glad," I said, reluctantly letting go of him.

  He didn't say anything, and kept his eyes cast on the ground. His shoulders slumped. I looked at him intently.

  "Jax," I said, my voice tinged with concern, "What happened out there?"

  He winced and took a step back, furthering the distance between us. When he lifted his eyes to mine, his haunted expression shocked me. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, his voice hoarse.

  My heart thudded in my chest. Something was wrong. How could there not be, when he'd stayed on that stage, playing his guitar as everything burned all around him?

  And whatever was wrong, this wasn't the place to deal with it. Not surrounded by all these people. "What if we went back to the bus?" I rushed out. "Maybe you'll feel better there. We can be alone."

  His mouth set in a thin line, like he was suppressing some kind of hurt, for what seemed like a long time before he finally nodded. A deep uneasiness settled in my chest. Instinctively I reached out and took his hand, not sure of who I wanted to comfort more—him or me. He hesitated, then his fingers curled around mine in a tight grip. A flash of his old tenderness awoke in his eyes.

  But then it was gone, and his eyes filled with pain again. Swallowing, I kept his hand wrapped tightly in mine as we made our way through the throngs of people.

  We walked together through the fairgrounds in silence, each lost in o
ur own thoughts. Every now and then I caught a glimpse of his anguished eyes resting on mine and a pain shot through my heart. He hadn't always been this way, not when I'd first met him—he'd been troubled, sure, but not this dark. Never this dark.

  When we got back to the bus, I followed Jax into the common area and sat down nervously. He stayed standing, eventually beginning to pace up and down the bus, clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyes were distant and unfocused, as if he was trying to untie a knot in his mind.

  As he paced, my anxiety grew.

  "What is it?" I blurted out, unable to bear the sight of him in pain any longer. "Please talk to me."

  He stopped, and gave me a look that was part fear, part misery. "I don't know what to do," he said, his voice wracked with anguish.

  A chill wrapped around my spine. His face was wild in a way I'd never seen before. Why was he looking at me like that? "You're scaring me," I said. "Tell me what's wrong."

  He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes widening. "When I saw you fall . . ." He stopped, his jaw clenching. "You could've been hurt," he went on, a tortured look on his face. "And it was my fault. All mine."

  I stared at him. "How was that your fault? You didn't knock me over."

  He shook his head. "No. Before that. The crowd was pissed and I just gave it right back to them and made it worse. And you were in there!" He grimaced. "I'm just . . . I'm not thinking right, Riley."

  He began pacing again with quick, agitated movements, as if by doing so he could escape whatever tormented him.

  I watched him with uneasy eyes. "This was a one time thing, Jax. And I'm fine."

  He pressed his hands to his temples. "It's not just one time!" he groaned. "This has been happening. It will keep on happening."

  My heart sank at the frustration in his voice. "We don't know that."

  "I know that!" he shouted, his eyes wide with panic. "You're not safe around me."

  The conviction in his voice scared me, even more than the tortured intensity in his eyes. "Jax," I pleaded, "Stop."

  My words bounced off of him, not slowing him down for a second as he kept on pacing up and down the room. "Why do you keep putting up with my shit?" he growled, glancing at where I sat huddled on the couch.

  "You know why," I said, my voice unsteady.

  That made him stop in mid-step. "Yeah," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I know." His jaw worked as he struggled to find more words. "That's what makes this so fucked."

  The oppressive weight in my chest grew heavier. "What do you mean?"

  A pained expression flashed across his face, then he lowered himself slowly to sit next to me, his mouth set in a grim line. Reaching out, he touched my hand for a second, then looked down at the floor. It was a moment before he spoke. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he said in a quiet voice.

  My stomach clenched with a sudden sickness. "No," I cried, "You can't mean that. Not now."

  His shoulders hunched, and he rocked forward, still not looking at me. "I don't know, Riley. I don't know what to think about anything anymore." He picked his head up swiftly, and his desperate gaze pierced me to my core. "But I can't see you get hurt, and I don't think I can promise you that won't happen."

  Tears welled up in my eyes. "But why? I don't understand. Why can't we fix this?"

  His jaw tightened, and the stubborn look in his eyes was one I knew all too well. "This isn't something you can fix."

  "So it's a problem with me, then?" I said in a small voice. "I did my best to be there for you, Jax."

  He winced. "No, it's not you . . . but it is. Fuck, this is so fucked up!" He slammed his hand against the couch.

  A fresh wound ripped open in my heart. So that was it—he just didn't want to be with me anymore. "So it's me," I said, grimacing with pain.

  His eyes widened. "No, Riley, I didn't mean that. Not that way. You're the best girlfriend, everything I ever wanted. Everything I never dreamed I'd have." He stopped, his voice choking. "You've been so good to me. God knows I haven't deserved it."

  I looked up at him, and read the truth in his eyes, and in the firm line of his lips. My head swam with confusion. "Then why?"

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked defeated. Hopeless. "I have PTSD, Riley." His voice sounded bitter. "Post traumatic stress. From that night with Darrel."

  My eyes widened, and I pressed my lips together, unable to speak as my mind reeled. PTSD, like the Iraq War vets got sometimes. Of course—it all made sense now. Since that night with Darrel, he'd been acting totally differently. Like someone still trapped in hell.

  I dashed away a tear, a small sensation of hope growing in my chest. At least now I knew what we were fighting against. "But that's something you can get better from, right?"

  He nodded, but defeat still hung around his slumped shoulders.

  I touched his arm, making him turn and look at me. I gazed deep into his eyes, searching in their wounded depths for some way to make this right. "Then why not let me help you? Why are you doing this to me? To us?"

  He exhaled a shaky breath. "I don't want to!" he cried. "But you've been with me the past few weeks, you know what it's like! I can't control myself. Damn it, I'm even seeing things that aren't there! I'm sick. And if you get hurt . . ." He trailed off with a wince. As if of all the things that had ever hurt him, that would be the worst.

  I gripped his arm as anger suddenly flared in my chest. This was all Darrel's fault. I couldn't let the pain he'd caused drive us apart—I just couldn't. "I don't care if you hurt me," I said with heat in my voice.

  He rubbed his forehead. "How can you say that? After all I've put you through?" His mouth drew down into a grimace that frightened me with its determination. "No, Riley. This has to end."

  My heart wrenched, and I shook my head stubbornly. "I'll do whatever you need. You know that." My lip trembled. "Just don't push me away."

  "You can't help me with this," he said, his voice rising in frustration. "Even the doctor thinks so."

  "What?" I cried, my voice sharp. "What does he know?"

  He scowled, as if he were angry at what he had just said. "Forget it."

  My grip tightened on his arm. "No, Jax. I want to know. What does the doctor say?"

  His scowl deepened. "My PTSD. He thinks since you were there that night, that seeing you triggers all my symptoms. He already had me get rid of my bike. And now . . ." He hung his head.

  The full weight of his words hit me like a punch in the stomach. "God, no. He wants you to get rid of me?"

  He didn't look at me. "Yes. And I'm starting to agree."

  His words shook me to my core, sending a deep hurt pulsating through my entire being. I was the one causing him pain? All this time? A shudder wracked my body. "No," I managed to get out. "No matter what the doctor says, I can't believe that you want this."

  He brought his head up, giving me a piercing look that told me everything about the agony every hurtful word was costing him. "It's killing me," he said, his voice rasping.

  "Then there has to be another way," I cried.

  The desperation that sprung in his eyes made me shiver. "But don't you see?" he said, his voice dropping lower, "I don't care if you're triggering all this shit. I would live with PTSD forever if I could just have you. But you're going to get hurt. And if there's one thing I can control about this shitty situation, then I'm going to do it. I'm going to make sure you're safe."

  My throat choked as tears streamed down my face. He had it backwards—the only place I'd ever felt safe was with him. "This isn't right. You know it isn't. I love you."

  He pressed his hands to his forehead, as if those three words had cut him deeper than any wound he'd ever revealed to me in our time together. "Riley, don't. You're making this harder than it has to be. Please."

  I shook my head as a sob caught in my throat. "I won't give up on us. Not now. Not ever. You mean everything to me."

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he pressed his lips tog
ether. His shoulders shook as he took a deep, shuddering breath. Then he sat up straight, opening his eyes and giving me a look that almost broke me with the intensity of his anguish—for what we had together, and for what we were about to lose.

  "You mean everything to me too," he said, reaching out to stroke my cheek. His touch electrified me, as it always did, even through my sadness. None of it made any sense. How could he let go of what we had together?

  I brought my own hand up to his, and pressed it to my cheek, holding him there. Keeping him with me.

  His tortured eyes looked deep into mine, piercing my soul. "But don't you see—" He bit off his words, his brows drawing together as frustration struggled across his face.

  I looked at him, my eyes filled with mute appeal. My hand clasped tighter on the warmth of his. Please, Jax. Don't do this.

  Suddenly, Jax tore his hand away like I'd burned him, a scowl forming on his face. I couldn't tell if he was angry at me, or at himself, but another stab of hurt rocked my body nevertheless.

  With an abrupt movement, he stood up. "Fuck. I have to get out of here. I can't do this right now."

  I leaned towards him, every fiber of my being aching with the need to be near him. "Stay, Jax. Please."

  He clenched his hands, frustration still hanging over his dark brows. "No. I've . . . I've got to go find the band. You should rest. If you need me later, I'll be sleeping on the deck tonight."

  "I want to talk about this more," I said, my voice trembling.

  "I'm sorry, Riley. But I can't." He turned and walked away from me. Each step he took was like a spike through my heart.

  At the door though, he paused. "See you in the morning," he said. His voice was so soft I almost didn't hear him.

  Then, with one last anguished look at me, he left the bus. I sank back down on the couch, overwhelmed and heartsick.

  Is this really how it ends? I didn't want to believe it, I couldn't believe it. But what if I really was bad for Jax? I'd been afraid of this before, because I was the one whose insecurities had led us into our run in with Darrel in the first place. And now Darrel—and the pain he'd caused—was tearing us apart.