My phone’s been buzzing in my pocket the entire time I’ve been sitting here, but I’m afraid to look with Parker hovering so close. I’m sure it’s Natasha apologizing, asking if I’m alive. Maybe even a full-on I-told-you-so since now, in retrospect, she definitely did. I don’t blame her.
“We should talk about what happened to you.”
“What’s there to talk about?” I hide my eyes behind the ice again.
“This is major shit, Jess! You need to share it.”
Right. He’d have a whole other opinion if he knew what really happened.
“Jonas stopped by when you were gone,” I say.
Parker flinches, and I’m somewhat comforted that he wasn’t part of the follow-up invasion. “You’re kidding. What did he want?”
“Same as before. To talk.”
“And—”
“I didn’t. That’s why I went out for a walk.”
Guilt for someone else’s guilt? That’s a fun one.
“I’m sorry, Jess. I thought you were ready. I thought—”
“It’s over, okay? Just leave him out of our lives.” I force myself up from the stool and limp toward my room. “I’m gonna lie down for a bit.”
He nods. “Let me know if you need anything.”
∞∞∞
Sure enough, my phone is stocked with messages when I check. A few from Natasha, but it’s the one from Mila that catches my interest.
Mila: NEC Children’s Home, eh?
My insides constrict as always at the mention of that place.
Jesse: You did your research.
Mila: It wasn’t easy. I had to dig deep and call in some favors.
Jesse: Yeah, it’s not exactly public knowledge. I’d like to keep it that way.
Mila: I’m sorry, Jesse. I didn’t know.
Jesse: Most people don’t.
Mila: Your father lost custody three times before you ended up in NEC.
Jesse: No one wants the teenage son of a drug addict.
Mila: How long were you there?
Jesse: Two years. I ran when I was fifteen and lived with Parker.
Mila: I bet that was hard.
Jesse: You wanted to know what being the son of Jonas Everett got me. Now you do.
Mila: What was it like at NEC?
Jesse: Right. Like I’d tell you anything.
Mila: This isn’t an interview.
Jesse: No? What is it then?
No response. Yeah, because it’s bullshit like everything else.
∞∞∞
Two AM and I can’t stop shaking. The scene replays through my head with fresh clarity. I see every detail of the gun, every fiber of the carpet scratching against my face. The muffled thud of a boot in my ribs and the spray of saliva landing on my skin. Natasha’s screams. The paralysis, the terror of waking up in a vacuum.
My eyes squeeze shut on their own, a rebellious attempt to block out the ghosts in my head. But my eyes are weak. Nothing stops the shouting once it starts.
Thud. Thud. Searing pain. Cold, dirt floor that catches me at the bottom of the stairs.
“Stop your goddamn crying! You want a beating too?”
I suck in a ragged breath and force my lids open again. No basement anymore, but the suffocating darkness is the same.
It’s all right.
No it’s not all right. I’m alive for no reason I can comprehend. I should be dead or worse. I should be…
My brain is shrieking now, so loud I’m afraid it will wake Parker. I bolt up, sweat breaking out over my body. Air filters into my lungs in short gasps. Numbness spreads over my limbs. A gun. A prison. I can’t get enough oxygen. Too much oxygen. Oh god, I’m having another panic attack.
I hold my breath and close my eyes.
Another night in the candlelight
Not bright enough to see my scars, just enough to
Fight, Fight
Hold tight tight
Just a spark.
Another night.
It’ll be all right.
Just. Breathe.
Breathe.
Sensation starts to return to my hands. The room stills. I grab my phone. 2:17am but…
You awake?
Mila: Yep.
Jesse: NEC was hell.
Mila: I know.
I close the chat and lower my phone to the floor. I just needed someone to know I’m alive.
∞∞∞
I begged Parker not to tell the guys about the attack and let them enjoy their trip, but that’s not how the dude rolls. I’m not surprised when our house is full again hours after the message goes out. My follow-up assurance that I’m fine had no effect.
I repeat the story at least three times and it gets no more interesting with each recitation. I was jumped. I had no money. They took my twenty and let me go.
Not your phone?
No. Guess they didn’t see it.
That’s good.
“Dude, did you know it’s Groundhog Day?” Derrick announces while scanning his own device. “We should celebrate.”
“Who celebrates Groundhog Day?” Reece asks.
“How about we work on ‘Jonas’ instead?” Parker says. “You up for it?” His gaze traces my injuries before locking on my eyes.
“I’m fine. Let’s do it. You wanted to mess with the orchestration right?”
“Ooh strings?” Reece perks up, already heading to the door.
“Want to lay down a track today so you can play around with it?” Parker asks me.
I nod and shrug on my jacket. “What else would we do on Groundhog Day?”
∞∞∞
I get a big brother stare-down when we take five. Reece and Derrick are comparing notes about the turns and pre-chorus, giving Parker a chance to hunt me down by the mini-fridge in our practice space.
“What’s going on?” He accepts the bottle of water I hand him but doesn’t open it.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“I know you, dude. We lost you for that entire take. You were completely gone.”
“I was in the zone. That’s a good thing, right?” I wipe the sweat off my face with my shirt. Despite the February chill outside, our little practice room never does well at managing the body heat of four high-energy musicians.
“It would be good for anyone else. Not you.”
I shrug and attack my own water. “I got jumped. What do you fucking expect? At least I’m dealing with it.”
“You’re not dealing with it. You’re hiding it in the music like you always do.”
The muscles in my shoulders tense. “I’m not hiding.”
“No? What really happened, Jess?”
“I told you.”
“You got mugged. Right. In broad daylight on Germantown Avenue?”
“What can I say? Thugs don’t respect schedules.”
“Know what I think?”
“Not interested. Are we going to run another recording or are we happy with the first one?”
“I think you were rattled and went looking to score. I think it didn’t go well.”
“Fuck you, Parker.”
All gazes rest on me as I pull my coat on.
“You’re not going to be happy until your dead, Jess,” Parker shouts after me. “Don’t be selfish!”
∞∞∞
I answer on the third consecutive attempt, mostly to make her stop.
“What do you want, Natasha?”
“Thank god! I was so worried. Why didn’t you answer my texts?”
I close my eyes and imagine myself sinking into the mattress until I disappear.
“Why do you think?”
“You’re mad.”
“That your boyfriend drugged and kidnapped me, then beat the shit out of me? Yeah, I’m a little pissed.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And I warned you never to come by. I always went to you for a reason.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t responding.”
“You said you were done with m
e.”
“I said I didn’t love you.”
She quiets, and I wonder which part of this conversation she’s struggling with.
“Well, I’m sorry about what happened. As upset as I was, I never wanted that. I tried to stop them but…”
Yeah, I get it. I’ve replayed every detail enough to see it now.
“I don’t blame you, just… dammit.” I push my fingers through my hair.
“I was so scared, Jess. It could have been so much worse. You get that, right? I’ve seen it.”
“Do they know where I live?”
Her hiss makes its way through the phone and sucks the air from my bedroom.
“I don’t think they’ll try anything. They’re dealers, not criminal masterminds. Look, I’m going to drop something off. Just to say sorry, but that’s it then. You have to be careful, okay?”
“Sure.”
Careful is my effin middle name.
12: WINTER FEST
Her name is Candi. No, it’s not, but it should be. Becca, I think. I know this because she’s been hanging at the edge of the stage since sound check. I know a lot of things about Becca I don’t usually learn until after a show. She’s cute, maybe a little desperate, but it’s been a while for me.
I sing “Jonas” directly to her. It’s our first live performance of the new track, and the crowd at Crystal Casino’s Winter Fest is digging it. We are too, rocking an audience over a thousand for the first time since the NSB tour. It’s good to feel legit again.
“…Traitor, faker, promise-breaker,
Rearranger of the lies we’ve tried to bury
Hey hey…”
My eyes are deadly, saturated with a biting smirk as I rip up the chorus. Chew it up, spit it out—yeah, feels damn good.
“I’m looking at you, pretender, mender, truth-blender
Defender of the game I thought we ended…”
I’m looking at you.
No, she’s looking at me. They all are; this is what I was born to do. This is what record labels lose their shit over until Mila Fucking Taylor reminds them I’m a walking train-wreck off the stage.
Becca doesn’t care about that. Neither do the other twelve hundred souls we own for the ninety minutes of our stage time.
Sweat trickles from my temples. My t-shirt is soaked, but there’s no slowing my body when there’s a guitar in my hands and fire raging through my blood. It’s an extreme sport: thrashing and jumping, then rushing back to the mic for an assault on that too. I’m scary when I let go.
Becca’s hands run over her curves as she sways in sync with my voice. Eyes closed, body undulating to our sensual rhythm—god, I could take her right here. Right now. She touches and presses, manipulating my eyes and pulse to join her in the seduction. Yep, it’s been way too long.
Her lips move along with the lyrics when we rock our hits to close the set. Nice lips, definitely kissable, damn near suckable when they form around my words. The final note can’t come fast enough.
We draw it out for a full seven seconds. A thousand voices could be ten thousand with the way their roar fills the room. We’d already planned for an encore, but having it validated with such fury? Yeah, pretty epic, even if it means waiting longer for release.
“Thank you, Crystal Casino! Have a great night!”
The lights go out and we escape to the green room. Last fall our crew would be rushing out to start packing our gear while we chilled with some groupies and booze. Now? A bottle of water and snack from the deli tray until the crowd disperses and we can load up ourselves. Cable-wrapping and case-stacking: the life of an indie rocker.
“Hell, yeah!” Derrick shouts, banging his sticks on the doorjamb. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Even Parker displays the grin I haven’t seen in months. Dude definitely deserves it, and maybe it kind of feels good to see him happy again.
Security Joe pokes his head into the room. “Excuse me. There’s a woman out here, says she knows you? Becca Saunders?”
“Yeah, she’s cool,” I say before the guys can react.
Parker shoots a what-look as Derrick whistles. “Wait, is that the chick who was eye-fucking you the entire show?”
“Shut up, D,” I mutter.
“Knew it! Damn, she’s hot.”
God, I hope Becca wasn’t close enough to hear any of that. She appears sufficiently unperturbed when she steps into the room.
“Hey, rock star,” she purrs, homing in on me. I feel the amusement of our audience. Just as long as they keep it to themselves.
“What’s up? Enjoy the show?”
“Totally.”
Eye-fuck. Yep, that’s a thing. Those curves, too. I glance back at the guys who are pretending… no they’re not even pretending.
“I’ll be back down to pack up.” I take Becca’s arm amidst a chorus of farewells. If all goes well, they’ll each have their own girl by the end of the night. Well, except Reece who remains faithful to his imaginary lady. He’ll make a real woman happy one day.
Now I’m snickering.
“What’s so funny?” Becca asks as we board the elevator.
“Nothing. You cool with heading up to my room for a while? The guys can be a lot to take when they unwind.”
“Fine with me.” The flirty tone is back. She even takes my arm to reinforce it. “You guys were so so good.”
I manage a quick smile. “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Like, one of the best shows I’ve seen.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve seen a lot, too.” She supports this by listing every single one of them as the elevator crawls to the 9th floor. I clench my jaw while counting each number on the slowest climb ever.
“Did you know I bought the songs from your first EP? Even before you were big. I’ve been talking about you guys for years. Ask Rach.”
“That so?” Don’t know Rach.
“Yep. Omigod. Look.” She pulls down the neckline of her shirt to expose a tattoo on her shoulder. It’s the candle from the cover art of our Candlelight EP. “See? Toldya.”
I guess she thinks tattoos come with timestamps?
“I’m honored.”
Shit. I was hoping for an easy night.
The elevator finally finds our floor, and I motion for her to exit.
“Ooh! And polite too? Such a gentleman.”
Huh?
“Which is yours?”
“903.”
“Omigod. I love that number.”
Of course she does.
“You’re not gonna believe this but my dorm room freshman year was 907!”
I check my phone but there are no urgent messages to get me out of this.
“You want a drink?” I ask as we move inside.
“Really? Omigod! I can’t believe this is happening! My sisters are going to die!”
I force a nod as my brain runs through a quick inventory of recent groupie failures:
1. DEA Girl.
2. Regret and Bolt Girl
3. Natasha—Assault Girl.
With that track record, of course I’m about to hook up with Omigod Girl.
Maybe I need to try celibacy for a while.
I find her enraptured with the minibar when I tune back in.
“They’re so adorable! Omigod, look at this one. Ahh! What are you having?”
“Help yourself. I need a minute.”
I lock myself in the bathroom and lean against the sink. I can do this. I need this, just…
Shower. Perfect.
“I’m gonna rinse off,” I call out, unnecessarily I learn when her face appears in the crack of the door.
“Want some company?”
“Thanks, but it’ll be quick.”
I click the lock and soothe my head against cool wood. This is my life. These are my connections.
It used to be enough.
My phone buzzes. Wes Alton? Thank god.
“Hey, man. How’s life since the tour?” he asks when I answer.
I smirk at that. Tracing Holland’s leading man has also been in deep since our joint tour. “Better than yours. I don’t have a rap sheet.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t either. Mila Taylor, man.”
“Is any of it true?”
“Just that I left Tracing Holland. The band is still intact. Holland is hiring Sylvie’s new boyfriend.”
I lower myself to the edge of the tub. No freaking way. “Wait, Shandor?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. Met him at the Bahamas gig. Cool dude. Guy can play. Total flamenco vibe.”
“Flamenco? Holland will have fun with that.”
I laugh, trying to imagine the flamenco version of their alt rock angst. “I’m sure if he can play like that, he can manage the rock thing. Plus, she’s got Luke and NSB behind her.” Oh right. Luke and Wes despise each other. Nice, Jess. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s cool. I’m over that. Bigger shit on my plate right now.”
“Obviously. What’s your next move?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
I adjust the phone in surprise. Uh-oh. “You want in on Limelight?”
“Ha! No, dude. I wouldn’t do that to you. Remember my sister Sophia?”
“How could I forget? Did she like the swag?” Still can’t believe we have international fans, especially connected to rock legends like Wes and Holland. Maybe I kind of get why Parker’s pissed I shot us back down to the Englewood Pub.
“Loved it. Listen, I’ll save you the background drama, but can you pretend you’re playing her wedding in April if it comes up?”
Random. “Um… sure?”
“I know. Totally messed up, but she wants me to play and our family would freak. Everyone would with what’s going on right now. Better that they think it’s you, then we show up last minute.”
“Makes sense. We got your back.” My pulse picks up when I start to channel Parker-brain. “Hey, does she want us to play it for real?”
“Seriously?”
“Wouldn’t that be better? You can still do your thing, but we’ll play too. Then we’re officially booked.”
Waiting sucks. I press my fist against the wall.
“I’ll ask her. I have a feeling she will lose her shit.”
“In a good way?”
“In a ‘never mind, big bro, I only want them’ kind of way.”
Hell yeah! “Sweet. We’re in. I’ll talk to the guys.”
Limelight Page 7
