Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Setting him apart with a little shake, in a serious voice Andy asked, “Does GeeMa know where you are?”

  With shaking hands, he pushed his shades to the top of his head. Time to lie outta my ass. “Yeah, yeah. She’s the one who told me about you being in Fort Wayne, where to find you. I started looking for gigs out this way, and then heard about this place.” Andy wrapped his arms around Ben again, hugging him tightly at the affirmation he’d talked to their grandmother recently. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  At odds with himself, ready to both get away from the brother he hadn’t seen in years and stay close, Ben chose the path of least resistance, saying, “I gotta get to the stage, man. You gonna come watch us?”

  Andy frowned at him, looking puzzled at his words. Lifting an eyebrow, he asked, “What the fuck you mean, ‘get to the stage’?”

  Ben stared at him a minute, disbelieving. Annnnd, we’re right back to how little I count in the lives of those I love. “You really didn’t know, bro? Even after I talked to you on the phone, you never, like, Googled the band to listen to some of the music?”

  Andy was slow to respond, holding his gaze for a long minute. Caution colored his voice when he did speak. “Know what? What don’t I know? What’s going on, Benny?”

  Rather than assume Andy meant the insult, he decided to adopt a teaching tone. “Andy, Occupy Yourself is my band; we’re playing here at Marie’s for the next week.” I am so over this shit. He sighed. “Enough talking for now—I need to get to the stage.” He assumed a theatrical listening stance, exaggerating the fact he heard the crowd in the main room, the growing rumble of conversation music to his ears, a group that would welcome him with open arms. Unlike my own family. “Because the crowd is getting restless, and believe me when I say drunk, pissed-off people can get really ugly. We’ll talk after the show, Andy. Okay?”

  Even in this, Andy had to correct him, letting him know his brother had moved farther from their family than ever before. “Slate…that’s what everyone calls me now—Slate, not Andy.”

  “What the fuck ever, bro, just come listen.” Ben laughed, the sound rough and jangling in his own head, his anxiety ratcheting up a dozen notches. A fucking drink would smooth those edges. He shook the thought off, again trying to push down the need.

  Striding to the stage, he was mollified to see Blake on the stool at his kit, scowling but clearly ready to go. Danny and Dmitri were in their spots, angling towards the front on the small stage. In his head, Benny ran through the show changes they’d put into place during sound check. This venue didn’t lend itself to some of the larger movements, so he would have to dial it back, be more controlled.

  Mentally he reminded himself of the set list, unchanged for the past dozen shows. Tomorrow they’d have a different lineup, but this was the first time in weeks they’d booked into the same venue on back-to-back nights. Glancing down, he read Benita’s neatly written list taped to the stage near his microphone stand, and after checking with the guys, grabbed ahold of the stand and whirled in place, greeting the crowd with a shouted, “How the fuck are ya, Fort Wayne?”

  Listening with half an ear to the screamed responses, he leaned over to pick up his water bottle. In his head, he saw Andy’s face again, questioning why anyone would want to listen to him sing. Fuck it. On the fly, he changed trajectories, grabbing the glass of unwatered whiskey Benita had set out for him during sound check. Already half empty, he drank down a slug, once more thinking of the stash in the van and how easy it would be to pry open one of the packages. Just a little bit, he thought, then slugged another drink of whiskey back instead. Only a taste. “I said, how the fuck you doin’, Fort Wayne?” Louder than before, the roaring response came, and he grinned at Danny.

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Dipping to a conversational tone, he said, “My first time here at Marie’s, but I’m looking forward to our time with you fine folks.” Shifting back to a roar, he leaned backwards, face lifted to the ceiling, microphone to his lips, shouting his question, “Are you ready for some rock and roll?” With that, they were off, and the first half of the set went by quickly, every man on the stage in sync and rolling, playing like they hadn’t done for a long time. Shoulda threatened to can Blake a long time ago, he thought, waiting for the next intro to play him in.

  Looking down, he saw his whisky glass was empty, so he grabbed the still-full bottle of water, downing more than half of it in one go. Lifting the tail of his shirt to wipe his face, a gaggle of girls at the front of the stage glanced up, giggling and grinning, and he smiled back, pushing his rock star grin as he launched into the next song. There was one, a pretty Hispanic chick, who smiled at him and he held her gaze, singing to her as if they were alone in the greenroom. A private show. He watched as a dark blush crawled up her cheeks, but she kept the connection, her brown eyes bright as she sang along. Beautiful.

  A scowling leather-clad guy came from behind and latched onto her arm. Benny stumbled into the next verse, watching as she followed the guy old enough to be her father to the back of the bar. Just my luck.

  Lifting his gaze, he caught Benita’s attention across the crowd and raised his empty glass, waiting until he received a nod in response. Setting it down, he continued on with that song, then the next, and the next, earning two more glasses from Benita. At least, she loves me, he hazily thought as she was bringing him another drink. Anger filled him when Danny met her at the edge of the stage and sent her away with it. “The fuck?” Benny questioned Danny as he walked past, fingers working hard on the thick strings of his bass.

  Danny leaned in, mouth close and yelling over the music he continued to play, “You’re drunk, asshole.”

  “Fuck you,” Benny said, turning to face the audience again. Three more songs, he thought, and we’ll have a chat about his motherfuckin’ motherin’ techniques. Mouth to the microphone, he shouted, “What’s a man gotta do to get a drink in this place?” As he knew would happen, a dozen hands lifted half-full glasses of beer or liquor towards the stage. Grabbing the fullest container within reach, he slammed it back, four forced swallows later he was handing the empty glass back to the owner with a grin. “Thanks, man. Vodka’s my favorite. Wets my whistle. Y’all ready to go?”

  The crowd roared and laughed, and Benny took a step backwards, that step turning into two before he caught himself. “Let’s fuckin’ go!” A bit more patter for the crowd and he turned to Blake, mouthing, “One more time.” With a nod, Blake counted them down, and they started their final songs of the evening.

  That was the last thing Benny knew for a very, very long time.

  ***

  Voices sounded far away but seemed to be appearing in the air right over his head, the sound waves of their words compressing unbearably against his skin. “He gonna die?” A different voice, softer, smooth and sleek where the other had been ruined with pain. Mountains of emotion in every word. “He’s stable for now, Mr. Jones, but things are still very uncertain at this point.” Clouds of agony swallowed him whole, white-hot electricity shooting through his body, fusing his bones into glass, grinding him into dust. Mists and wisps of him lifting on the swirling words surrounding him. “He’s seizing again.” Shouts. Blood in his mouth. Wrenching grunts that held an immense depth of misery, his chest rattled in a complex rhythm of sympathy. Catch the beat, man. Follow the sound. “Clear.” Urgent movements, jerking him this way and that, then a sudden and profound blessed silence, disconnecting from everything weighting him down. Soundless harmony. Words came to him, dropping into his mind like crystals falling from a ballroom chandelier. Look at me now. There’s nothing left to lose, only a leap away from forever, castaway. Ruby lips sang along with him, brown eyes sinking into him, forcing the verses rushing through his head to shift course as he made room for her. Look at us now. We’ve got everything in our arms, holding tight onto forever, masquerade.

  Ten

  7 weeks later

  “I don’t know? Why don’t you tell me why I�
�m here?” The doc scribbled something on the paper in front of him, and Benny knew it was probably a buzzword of the day like denial, or noncompliant, or combative. “Jesus. I know why I’m here, doc. We’ve only been over this a thousand times.” Shaking his head, he lifted a trembling hand to swipe across his lips. “I’m a drunk and an addict, and my brother doesn’t want to see me die.”

  When he came to after the show, tied to a bed in the hospital, every muscle screaming at him, the first person he’d seen was Andy. Looking like he hadn’t slept, his brother was seated right at his side, waiting to tell him those exact words. A rushed, one-sided conversation informing him that Andy had once again cleaned up after his mess, the anger in his brother’s voice telling him how close it had been. Benny found out Benita had been keeping secrets, talking to the Mexican biker gang he’d borrowed the money from, talking to the drug cartel, talking to everyone, helping all those folks he’d fucked over to keep tabs on him. She’d fucked that up, and pissed people off even more, making it so the whole band was a target.

  Andy, though? Benny scoffed at the idea, Super Andy—he fixed everything. He knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who peddled the heroin out to the gang Benny had borrowed the cash from, that gang who then used the product to fuck the cartel in the ass. Now Benny was free and clear, escorted from the hospital and put on a plane for Arizona. Fucking Phoenix. For at least ninety days.

  He wanted to spew threats every time he talked to Andy on the phone, hating those twice-weekly supervised calls spent on his brother. Family calls, but Andy was his only family now. GeeMa was done with him. She’d seen his mom travel the same path, had no desire for a repeat session, and Andy told Benny he wouldn’t be going back to Enoch. As in, ever.

  The first time he heard the phrase sober companion, he’d laughed. Men had drinking buddies; they didn’t have non-drinking buddies unless they were twinks. Andy didn’t seem to be joking around about this, though, and Ben realized this when the first three contenders were shipped out to meet him only a month into his stay in rehab.

  None of them was a fit, and not only on Benny’s side of things. He suspected they all took away a different view of him. He had been first an asshole, then a flirt, then a flirting asshole, based on the attractiveness and gender of the candidate. Now, he knew he was stuck at asshole, because even after more than a month clean and dry, he still regularly got the shakes like he had right now. And the need? Yeah, even with chemical assistance, that bitch was still gnawing a hole through his head, calling and calling, teasing him with ideas on how to find oblivion that never came.

  “Is that the only reason you’re here, Mr. Jones?” This doc steadfastly refused to call him Benny, even after repeated requests. Always Mr. Jones, like Benny was an old man.

  “I can run through the list again if you want, Doc.” Benny looked down, shaking his head. “I’m a habitual liar. I lied and stole from family, lied and stole from a gang, then stole from a drug gang, then lied to my brother. I lied to my band, my friends, my lover. I’m in danger of self-harm. I nearly killed myself unintentionally a dozen times over the past five years, the most recent of which was less than fifty days ago, when I made my brother watch as I took a nosedive and face-planted off a stage, drunk off my ass.” Benny shook his head.

  “I can’t go home. Don’t have a home anymore. Hardly have a family, except the brother I already mentioned. The band I worked for years to build is disbanded, which is a terrible play on words, and you should shoot me now for letting that slip out.” The joke fell flat, and he took a breath, then another. Consciously slowing his words, realizing the rapidly increasing speed of his speech was telegraphing his anxiety.

  “My career is in ruins, and even the music, which has been my saving grace whenever things got bad, has now abandoned me, too. I can’t write my way out of a wet paper bag these days.”

  Holding up his palms, he reached out, exposing small, non-descript red marks on each wrist. “Fifteen days ago I got a pair of scissors from the nurses’ station and tried to cut my wrists. I did a shit job of it because I’m stupid and didn’t think about dismantling the scissors first, but there you go. I’m a suicidal alcoholic homeless junkie loser.” He laughed. “And yet, my brother claims to love me.”

  “I spoke with your grandmother yesterday, Mr. Jones. I’d like to know why you think you don’t have a home.” Implacable and unmoved, the doctor looked at him with a carefully level stare.

  “My own brother told me I’d never go back to Enoch. I don’t have to talk to GeeMa to know how she feels.” Rolling his eyes, he flung himself backwards in the overstuffed chair, resisting the urge to sling a leg over the arm like a child in the grip of a tantrum. “I know.”

  “Mrs. Jones indicated you would always be welcome in your childhood home.”

  Benny exploded from the chair, walking to the door with fast steps, leaning his heated forehead against the cool wood. With closed eyes, he stood there a moment, waiting. Sure enough, the question came at last.

  “Why did that statement upset you, Mr. Jones?”

  “Can you stop it with pretending I’m an old man? Can you? Huh? Stop pretending you give a shit? Can you stop? Jesus, you pick and pry until you find something so you can scribble a note down, make sure your time is well spent in here with the drunks. Can you stop it? Just stop with the lies.” He didn’t move, head bowed.

  “Why do you believe I’m lying to you? What part of my statement was a lie?”

  “Jesus.” Twisting in place, he leaned his shoulders against the door. “Everything. If you knew me, you’d know better. That’s what tipped me, man. Lies.”

  “What’s a lie?”

  “Her house isn’t my childhood home!” Teeth clenched together, his jaw ached painfully with the pressure. “My home doesn’t exist anymore. It got wrecked by her.”

  “Your grandmother wrecked your house? I don’t understand. I was under the impression she still lives there, Mr. Jones.”

  “Fucking shit. Can you just call me Benny?” Shaking his head, he twisted to one side, turning his back to the doctor as if that would hide his reactions in the too small room. “GeeMa lives in her house. My home got sold, and then seven years ago, it burned to the ground. Burned and gone. Wrecked and ruined. If it weren't for her, we’d have lived out our days on that place.”

  “Who?”

  “HER!” Benny jerked his body around, facing the doctor again, and seeing the fucking compassion in the man’s face unraveled his control. “HER! She ruins everything she touches. Always has. Daddy, then Andy. My whole fucking…life. She…my entire life.”

  “Tell me who, Benny.”

  It was the use of his name finally that did him in. One word, two syllables, and when the doc said it, completely took his legs out from underneath him. Back to the door, he slipped to the floor, sobs racking his body. There were noises in the room, footsteps scarcely audible over the rushing breath in his ears, then arms around him, a solid chest under his cheek. It reminded him of Andy and all the times his brother had held him in the middle of the night. Back when he would wake in the grip of a nightmare and two boys far too young to be alone were the only people in the house because she was out whoring around. “Mom. My mom.”

  ***

  “Heard you had a breakthrough, man. Congrats.” Beans, the resident long-timer, greeted him at supper. Mortified, gaze fixed to his plate, Benny didn’t respond. The man leaned close and quietly, for Benny’s ears only, said, “No, man. This ain’t me raggin’ on you. We all advance at our own pace and I’m envious. When you know part of what’s fucked-up in your head, you can find a way to fix it, man. That’ll lead to you figuring out more, fixing more. Before you know it…” He sighed. “You having a breakthrough, and nobody knows what it was but you and Doc, is a thing to celebrate.” Straightening in his chair, he said, “When you’re ready, you’ll find the person to celebrate with. Until then,”—picking up his fork—“congrats.”

  Through supper and beyond,
Benny turned Beans’ words over in his head. It seemed absurd. First, to assume he could fix himself by uncovering things in his past that might have had a hand in shaping who he became. Second, to believe he wanted to be fixed.

  The need never stopped. That bitch was riding his shoulders every day, pointing out how much easier this or that situation would be with a drink in hand, or a spoon at the ready. Some days worse than others, like today. Every time he thought about what happened inside Doc’s office, he cringed and reached for a drink that wasn’t there.

  Tossing and turning, his sleep was restless, and he spent most of his time staring up into the darkness. Thinking. Remembering. Scenes playing ceaselessly through his head, underscoring every failure. Full color, on repeat, Coach couldn’t have done a better job putting together a highlight reel of fuckups. He knew daybreak was waiting and for once, he prayed the night would speed by, but like with most things in his life, his desires had no place in reality.

  When the afternoon rolled around, he was early, waiting in the hallway well before appointment time. Doc had to note this change in routine, but didn’t point it out, simply unlocked the door and invited Benny in. Even before they took their seats, Benny had started talking. Asking questions about how this worked, why it worked, how he could speed it along if it was working. Before Doc got an answer out, he had already segued into a story about Benita. Dredged up in the middle of the night by his restless brain, it was something he’d never told anyone. One of the sessions where she basically pimped him out to her girlfriend while he was so wasted, if he’d been older than fifteen, there was no way he’d have stayed hard.