Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  The small plastic bag falls from my pocket.

  “What the—”

  He swipes it off the floor, eyes burning. The room goes dark.

  “You fucking liar!”

  “I didn’t ask her for it.”

  “But you were going to keep it, weren’t you? Dammit, I’m so sick of this!”

  Parker storms toward my room, and I rush after him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “How much is there?”

  “What? There’s nothing in my room!”

  “Stop lying! What else are you hiding?”

  “Nothing!”

  He rips through the contents of my desk, scattering papers and supplies. Frustrated, he shoves it away from the wall, burying my notebook in a grave of debris.

  “Stop it, Parker! You have no right to touch my stuff.”

  “No?” he shouts back. “Then who’s supposed to keep you alive?”

  On to my dresser. The pile of clothes on top hurtles to the floor. Another wave crashes from the first drawer. Then the next.

  “Parker!”

  I lunge and grab his arm, but he sends me staggering to the floor. My dresser is a skeleton when I look up, empty drawers hanging like broken limbs.

  When he goes for my closet, I’ve had enough. I charge him, and he lands against the wall with a thud. A second later, my own face explodes with pain from a hard fist. I fall back, and he’s on me, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. I block the first blow but can’t bring myself to fight anymore. It’s Parker. It’s.

  Another strike. And another. And—

  I cough painful air from my lungs, and the weight suddenly lifts.

  Parker’s expression shatters as he stands over me, gaze scouring my bloody face.

  “Shit, Jess.”

  He reaches down to help me up, but I push his hand away.

  “Just get out of my room.”

  My arms tremble as I brace them against the floor.

  “Jess…”

  “Leave!”

  His eyes make one last pass at the damage before he stalks away. By the time I push myself up, only Mila remains.

  Only disappointment. Fear. Regret. Pity.

  “He had no right,” I say quietly. He had no right.

  She shakes her head, eyes dark. “You promised.”

  “I’m no god, just a piece of hell. Here to tell you how it is.” My throat closes around the lyrics as they seep out.

  Tears veil her eyes. “I hate your choice, Jesse. I hate it.”

  My chest throbs from more than a misplaced strike when she backs away. Footsteps down a hall can hurt just as much as a fist.

  This is why no one wants you, you little shit.

  Nausea sweeps over me when I stare at what’s left of my room. Is it even worth piecing back together? I drop to the floor by my closet and rest my head on my knees. My closet. Inviting images flash through my brain. Hiding. Safety. Just—

  I burst to my feet and pull open the door. Hazy memories return. A shelf. A strip of tape. I tear through clothes and old shoeboxes.

  Peace. It’s right here. I know it, sense it, even if I can’t remember.

  My fingers slide over edges and cracks.

  Where is it? Think.

  There! I rip the bag from its hiding place and soak in the contents. Six pills in this one.

  Just enough.

  ∞∞∞

  I wake to a dark, empty house. It takes a moment for the swirling to steady enough to navigate the switch on the lamp by the couch where I finally passed out. Light breathes life into the room, and I squint at the shadows. The demon screams are muddled, giving me the freedom to swing my legs to the floor and pull out my phone. Eleven twenty. Maybe everyone’s in bed? Parker, D, Reece—Mila!

  No no no. Please no.

  My pulse picks up as I force my knees to straighten. The walls continue to shake, and I stumble toward the French doors separating the living room from the kitchen. After a few seconds of forced breathing against the frame, I inch along the wall, through the kitchen, and into the hallway toward my room.

  There are no sounds from upstairs so the guys are either sleeping or out somewhere. I wonder if Parker ever came back. I check my phone again, but there are no messages from my brother. Funny how you come to miss the things you hate when they disappear.

  The air thins the closer I get to my door. What if she’s there? Oh god, what if she’s not?

  It’s all right in the—

  No. Because there’s no candlelight if she’s gone.

  Pain sears along my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s just my bruised ribs.

  “Please be here. Please be here.” Even in the croak of a whisper I hear the naked fear.

  You’re Zeropower Jesse Everett.

  A slave.

  A joke.

  An assassin.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  My eyes burn. The mass in my chest becomes a pulsating tumor, pushing up, up until I can’t breathe. I press my fingertips into the wallpaper.

  Please be here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Everyone’s sorry. No one’s really sorry. Sorry is a tool.

  No! I am, I am.

  “I am. Mila, please. I’m sorry. I need you. I need help. Please be here. Don’t leave—”

  I stagger through the open door, and…

  Everyone leaves.

  No one wants you.

  Everyone leaves because you’re a piece of shit failure not worth the air in their lungs.

  Everyone leaves because you’re the traitor, faker.

  A fucking promise-breaker.

  I collapse against the wall, hug my arms around my knees, and let the demons have me.

  ∞∞∞

  They howl in the darkness. Old memories, new accusations. They show no discretion in their attack. I cover my ears—a useless habit I picked up in a basement ten years ago. Pain works better. Bloody fingernail arcs in palms or scalp-tearing grips on hair.

  I’m not a pushover. I fight. I endure. I even have enough strength to open the message from Mila on my phone. It’s only when I can’t take anymore that I shove the rest of my secret stash in my mouth.

  Four pills. Just enough. Not enough. Too much. I just need the screaming to stop.

  I curl up on the wood floor, drifting in and out of my cloud. It’s peaceful there. Serene and hopeful, until I’m jerked back to the chaos. Screams and pain. Then, the cloud. Then hell. Then cloud. Then.

  Then.

  ∞∞∞

  This time I wake to familiar and strange.

  Familiar: my ceiling, my sheets, the rustic smell of our 19th century surroundings.

  Strange: the face leaning over me, the restrictive pressure on my arm, the light that penetrates still-foggy pupils.

  “Vitals look good. He should come out of it, but…” The stranger transfers her focus to someone else.

  “We know. Thanks for your help, Meg. We owe you.”

  That voice. I know that voice. My stomach churns from another familiar.

  “You’re welcome, but I’m not doing it again. Next time, he gets admitted. Get him help. Got it?”

  “Got it.” And that familiar voice settles my nerves.

  “Parker?”

  “I’m here, brother.” A second later he is, his face hovering close, his hand warm around mine. “You scared the shit out of us.”

  I look past him toward the familiar intruder. Every muscle in my body tightens.

  Parker follows my gaze. “You have him to thank for the fact that you’re alive and out of the tabloids with a hope of a career. Meg is his doctor friend.”

  “Former doctor friend if you ever call me like this again,” she warns.

  The intruder nods. “I understand. Thanks again.”

  She stops for a hard look as she passes him. “You of all people know where this road leads if you don’t get him help. He was lucky. This time.”

  Now the familiar man turns strange. I don’t recognize
him with that expression. Afraid? Conflicted? Guilty?

  “Get him help, Jonas. At least get him to group with you. Introduce him to Chris.”

  He must have lied to her about who I am. She probably thinks I’m his son. That he cares, that I listen to him.

  “We’ll do our best. Thanks, Meg.”

  Parker’s assurance is harder to shrug off.

  “Your best may not be good enough,” she says, eyes resting on me as if for the last time. She knows the difference between temporary and permanent goodbyes. I don’t know which kind I want this to be.

  Her exit brings no relief.

  “I thought you weren’t using anymore,” Parker says.

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  He drops next to me. “Really? Then how’d you fuck yourself up to the point of needing a doctor?”

  “It’s complicated.” My voice is weak.

  “Complicated? No, Jess, it’s not. You’re an addict and you need help. You’re going to kill yourself one of these days, and—”

  “Parker?” The intruder’s voice is calm. A hand reaches out and compresses on my brother’s shoulder. A strange hand. “Why don’t you go grab us some coffee or something?”

  Parker glares at the man. Then me.

  The silence after Parker leaves is eclipsed by the sound of a desk chair dragging along the floor to my bed. The man lowers himself into it and studies me.

  “I don’t care what Parker says. I’m not thanking you.” My voice is starting to come back.

  “I don’t expect it.”

  “This changes nothing.”

  “I don’t expect that either.”

  “And don’t think for a second I’ll ever—”

  “Jesse, please.” That unfamiliar hand now rests on my bed, and even stranger, I don’t smack it away. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since the beginning. I’m not here for forgiveness. You owe me nothing, and I wouldn’t accept it even if you tried. I failed you, son. I failed in every way a father can fail. I’m only here to do everything in my power to make sure you don’t end up as the same pile of garbage I was. I want you to have the future you deserve, not the one I forced on you.”

  Strange.

  So fucking strange this scene.

  I close my eyes and pretend it’s not.

  ∞∞∞

  I keep my eyes closed until I hear the creak of a chair and click of a door. When I look up my room is empty but not dark. Sunlight streams in through the window, and I pull out my phone. That change makes me less afraid to face Mila’s messages. There are two.

  I start with re-reading the first.

  Jesse,

  What can I say that will make me walking all right? It rips my heart out to leave you, but I can’t stay. You think I don’t understand, but I do. I’ve seen the pain, the battles you fight, and although I may not suffer the same pain, I’ve suffered its effects. When I was seventeen I attended a charity dinner with my dad. Within five years, four of those in attendance had died of an overdose and two died by suicide. When I saw you passed out on the couch again, I saw your choice. I’ve seen the path you’re on too many times. I was willing to fight with you to change course, but I won’t stand by as an escort. You can’t afford an accomplice, and I deserve better. You will hate me for this, but I care about you too much to leave without a last fight. I had a long talk with your father before I left. Jesse, I believe him. All he wants is a better future for you. Let him help you.

  Yours,

  Mila

  There’s another waiting for me, sent after the first. Bold and bright it warns me of coming pain. Warns and entices. It’s Mila. Her words. Her link to my shattered heart, and I have to open it. It’s Mila.

  Jesse,

  I still haven’t heard from you. Parker told me you OD’d. God, I’m scared. Please at least let me know you’re okay. Ring me?

  Mila

  My heart races. Ring me. Call her and what? Tell her I’m okay? But I’m not. So call her and lie? That’s the right thing to do.

  I message her back.

  Mila,

  Got your messages. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I understand why you left. Good luck with everything.

  Jesse

  It might be the biggest lie I’ve ever told.

  The first thing I do after pushing send is find my notebook.

  Overrated, garage-band wasted, talent-jaded

  They said

  Destined for rejection, binding imperfections, nothing but objections

  They said, they said

  Attractive fraud, where’s your army now to defend the legend that only exists in

  Could have beens

  Would have beens

  Should have been vapors assaulted by the wind

  Attractive fraud, where’s your army now?

  Could have been,

  Would have been,

  Should, should, should have been

  Too hazy for a spotlight

  They said

  Couldn’t be

  Shouldn’t be

  Would, would, wouldn’t be if not for helping hands that cower under streetlights

  You’re special she said

  A fucking god beneath the fraud she said

  Could be

  Should be

  Won’t be

  Unless she collects

  the lies she tells

  I’m no god, just a piece of hell

  Here to tell you how it is

  I grab my guitar and start strumming through the progression. The melody crawls through my brain, the lyrics scratching against the sides now that Mila’s gone. Still, I play, gaining confidence in my creation with each pass. Somehow it brings her back.

  Parker pushes through the door, eyes wide.

  “Is this the Sunday song?”

  I flinch, startled. “Yeah.”

  “Play it again?”

  The look in his eyes. I can’t say no. But Jonas hovers behind him. I blink and stare at my notebook. My fingers start moving on the frets. Lyrics pour out, and Jonas moves into the room.

  The music ignores him, tells him he’s not important enough to destroy it. It tells Parker I’m a disaster, but I’m worth the pain. It tells me there’s a future I didn’t see until this moment. That the only person I need to hear my song has fled to Manhattan.

  It tells me I’m blowing it and it’s time to fight back.

  I’m no god, just a piece of hell

  Here to tell you how it is

  It’s good but not finished. I fish a pencil from the pile on my floor.

  I’m no god, just a piece of hell

  Here to tell you how it is

  That I could be, should be.

  And I will.

  ∞∞∞

  People like to say stuff like, if you’d told me when I was fifteen that I’d one day be having coffee with Jonas Everett I would have… But I never played that game. No, my only future with Jonas Everett was as a reluctant guest at his funeral. Unless he was a guest at mine. Our lives were on a race to self-destruction.

  I don’t know the man who’s sitting at our table, sucking the edge of a steaming mug. I certainly don’t know the appropriate response, so I watch him navigate Parker’s terrible grasp of beans-to-water ratio.

  I ask the only safe question for this scenario. “Where are the guys?”

  “Reece is with Gina. Not sure about Derrick. The gym maybe?”

  I nod and sip my own steaming cup of sludge. God, it’s awful. I put it down and take pleasure in Jonas’ gallant attempt to prove himself. If he survives Parker’s coffee, I’ll have no choice but to hear him out.

  “Who’s Chris?” I ask next. Jonas nearly chokes, whether from my question or the liquid mud, I don’t know.

  “You mean, the Chris that Meg referenced?”

  I nod. Parker stops fussing with creamer and looks at me like I just proposed a father-son camping trip.

  Jonas plays it cool. “The leader of my support grou
p. Chris fronts a band called E-Z Kings.”

  “A musician.”

  “The entire group is made up of musicians.”

  Interesting. “How long have you been clean?”

  “Two years, seventy-three days.” He looks at his watch. “Six hours.”

  “What have you been doing that whole time?”

  “Getting stable.”

  “When did you and Parker start communicating?”

  They exchange a look, and I wait.

  “I contacted him six months ago. I wanted to contact you too, but figured you wouldn’t accept that.”

  “You figured right.”

  He pushes a folder across the table.

  “What’s this?” I try to keep the alarm from my voice.

  “My plan.”

  I cross my arms and lean back. “We already told you, we’re not interested in any more of your plans.”

  He shakes his head. “Not for that. My plan for how I’m going to pay back what I stole from you and get you and Parker back to where you should be. At least financially.”

  More strange words from the strange man. I open the folder and stare at its contents. Spreadsheets. Graphs. Official-looking documents and business cards.

  “My financial manager thinks we can have you restored within two years. I have the first payment set aside and ready for you as soon as I get your account information for an EFT.”

  “I’ll get you that,” Parker says. Glad one of us can still form words.

  “Great. It’s small. I’m sorry. I’m still selling assets and moving things around, but hopefully it will help you with your new direction. Parker said Mila Taylor has agreed to represent you?”

  My heart twists at the name. “Well—”

  “She is,” Parker interjects. I glance over at him, and he gives me a nod. “She had to return to New York, but she’s working on our strategy from there. She’s setting up a showcase at a club in the south.”

  Another thing I’ve never seen: a genuine Jonas Everett smile.

  “She’s a golden ticket, boys. I’ve never heard of her representing talent before. She’s mostly known for shooting it down.”

  I still don’t have words for this, and Jonas clears his throat.

  “Anyway, I should get going, but send me that account info. I’ll have Brian transfer the twenty-six thousand as soon as I get it.”

  Parker and I both choke.

  “What?” Parker spits out.

  “I know. It’s not much, but it’s something, right? I’ll get you the rest as soon as I can.”