Locked and Loaded (Bullet, #6)

by Jade C. Jamison

  “But...maybe soon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever heard of couples therapy?”

  She reached in her brain and found phrases like family therapy and marriage therapy. She could figure out what couples therapy meant by extension. But had she formally learned about it? “No.”

  “It’s, uh, a kind of relationship therapy. If you’d be up for it, my therapist thought it might be one of those things that would help us both. It could help you understand my past.”

  She knew it wasn’t meant to be that way, but it felt like going to therapy would be like punishing Jennifer for loving Zane in the first place. The problems weren’t hers...although, perhaps, the fact that she kept coming back for more again and again might indicate that maybe she too needed a little help. So, instead of outright dismissing the idea, she said, “Can I think about it?”

  “That’s all I ask.” After a short pause, he said, “Now...when can I come see you and my daughter? She and I have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  THE RECORDING STUDIO. Goddamn. That always made it feel so fucking real.

  It was real.

  That didn’t change the fact that, on many occasions, Zane felt like he was living a charmed life. Yeah, sure, like he’d been telling Dr. Harvey for weeks—hell, months—now, he’d had a shitty start, mainly due to an abusive father who was in and out of the house until he left entirely. But Zane was ready to let that all completely go and embrace who he was now. He had solid friends, a steady and awesome job that thousands of guys would kill for, a girlfriend with whom his relationship had never been better, and a daughter who was quickly becoming the apple of his eye.

  Yeah, he had it great, and life was looking better and better as the days went by and he cut the demons lose, one by one.

  He hadn’t been able to appreciate it much yet, but Jen was now working full-time as Val’s PA. It felt right—kind of keeping it all in the family. It made him wonder why Val hadn’t hired her years ago, but maybe Val had never thought she needed an assistant. Well, it wasn’t like working for Val would give Jen any more free time than she’d had working for the corporate dipshits she’d had a job with before; she’d just be closer by.

  And, right now, with him and the guys at the studio downtown, he’d see her even less. At least the studio treated them well and accommodated their long hours. They’d recorded the last Fully Automatic album at this place as well, and Zane didn’t think they’d ever record anywhere else again. The studio was a little pricier than other places, but they were extremely professional and did an excellent job. It didn’t hurt that they were close to home.

  However, being close to home didn’t ensure that recording would be a fun process. No, the part Zane enjoyed the hell out of was sharing the music with the fans and even the creative process—the part where they put it all together. There were so many people out there who thought the bassist was dispensable—in some music forms, that might have been true, but people might not have understood how a bass guitar gave a rock band a richer, deeper, more melodic sound. The bass was the butter to the guitar’s bread. Yeah, sure, a person could sustain himself with bread, but it could get a little boring. Add some butter, though, and it was a little richer, a little tastier. Figuring out just how to make the music together was fun, and then playing it live was a rush unlike any drug he’d ever loved, but recording sucked.

  But even though he hated the plodding, meticulous madness, the chance to play the same shit over and over and over in a short amount of time, he appreciated what the end product would be. And, hell, he was only kidding himself. He’d been so fucking blitzed out of his mind when they’d recorded the last album, it wasn’t even funny, so he was surprised he could even remember it. He was completely clean and sober for this one, and maybe he’d appreciate it more.

  The problem was it was all making him antsy. There was only so much internet shit he could do on his phone before he felt empty and bored. Yeah, sure, he’d chat with Ethan or Nick here or there, but they were all somewhat focused on the music and, therefore, distracted and not fully invested in any conversation that might occur. Brad was completely lost, because he observed every step of the journey. In fact, he invested so much time in working closely with the folks recording, mixing, and evaluating, he was basically off limits. Zane respected that, though. Brad had always—always—had a vision, definitely ever since Zane had joined the band and no doubt long before. The guy was driven and it had paid off. Zane had often wondered how much of Fully Automatic’s success had been luck and how much of it was due to the fact that Brad never gave up. He didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. And he was just as hard a worker now as he’d been back when they were completely indie and pressing cheap CDs to sell at tiny merch booths in small local venues.

  If Zane had had that much to do during the process, he wouldn’t have felt so anxious. Yeah, it was moments like these in the past where he would have smoked half a joint or popped a pill or even chugged a beer, something—anything—to fill the gap. And he asked himself why that was.

  He knew, though. It was because, in those moments of silence and lack of preoccupation, that he thought. Hard. And if he’d been thinking hard about music, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but he wasn’t. Nope. He was thinking about everything. From birth to present and on to death, about his life and monumental fuck ups, and, yeah, sometimes he’d think about the good stuff too...but it was usually the stuff that made him feel bad, the stuff that made his mind paint him as an epic loser. So, even though things were looking up and he was doing great, his mind was playing tricks on him, making him feel like shit.

  The only ray of light was hope that he’d see Jen during part of it. Val was doing some guest spot on this album—a duet with Brad—and, now that she was part of her own band (and Nick and Brad were part of that project as well), fans wouldn’t wonder what the hell was going on. It was a song that would probably never get any air time, but that was okay. It was a pretty mournful song, once more showing the versatility Brad had as an artist.

  But no luck. Jennifer didn’t accompany Val and Zane wasn’t going to ask why not. Val was the one paying her and it was none of his damn business why Jennifer came along...or not. During a long stretch in the game, though, Zane stepped outside and called her. He needed to hear her. When she answered the phone, she sounded like an angel. “Hey, baby.”

  “Great to hear your voice, babe. How’s work?”

  She giggled. “Every day’s a new adventure but I love it. I’m glad I made the move. And it’s not like when I had Zoe in daycare at Edwards. I don’t have to wait till an official break to go see her. If I get the urge, I can peek in on her, but Gracie, the nanny, will sometimes let her peek in the office or come sit on my lap for a few minutes. That would never have happened at Edwards.”

  “Yeah. Val was smart, snagging you like that.”

  “I don’t know about that...but she’s definitely a great friend.” After a second, she asked, “You have your group thingie tonight, right?”

  “Yeah. My place or yours after?”

  “Up to you.”

  “Oh, no. It’s up to you.” There was another pause, so he said, “This is why you need to move in, Jen. Then that’s one less decision you have to make. No worrying about packing shit up for you and Zoe to spend the night or deciding to have me over to justify why you still pay your rent.”

  “That’s not fair, Zane.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean it that way, babe. I just—think we should be together all the time.”

  “Soon.”

  Not soon enough, as far as he was concerned—but he was going to try to be patient about it. He knew she had to have her reasons, but he was beginning to wonder what those could really be...and he had plenty of fucking time to wonder nowadays...

  Chapter Thirty

  THE ROOM WAS nondescript, the chairs made of hard plastic, the room a bit too cool, but Zane w
as beginning to appreciate this weekly meeting. The guy who led the group wasn’t the kind of person Zane would have expected. He was a tall, gangly guy with hair that was turning gray—he looked a bit like a priest. No, not a priest. A pastor. Except this guy didn’t exude godliness in any way, even if he had the look.

  But he was a warm guy, one who made everyone feel welcome from the moment they walked in. He didn’t pull any punches, either, but he was kind and caring and he, this guy named Dustin, was likely the main reason Zane had come back to the group after the first night.

  That first night, he’d felt like he was in the wrong group. Zane had impulse control. Before he’d begun seeing Dr. Harvey, he’d been having sex two or three times a day with different women, and often that impulse was driven by the woman herself—something about the way she looked or the way she talked would rev his engine. That seemed halfway normal to him. He was doing what anyone else would do, acting on his arousal...just more often—way more often—than so-called normal people did. But some of the people in the group made him feel like the poster child for vanilla sex and ordinary relationships.

  There was one woman, for instance, who loved the excitement of having sex in public places, but only if there was threat of getting caught. She’d fucked in mall bathrooms, dressing rooms, and parks, been fingered in restaurants, movie theaters, and taxi cabs, blown guys in alleyways and even one time behind the counter of a drugstore. If it was risky sex in public and there was a good chance of being caught in the act, she was wet and trying to figure out how to talk her partner into it.

  But even she seemed normal next to the guy who got turned on by restaurant billboards. If he saw an ad for fried chicken or drove past a sign about a new value meal offered by a fast food place, the guy was spankin’ it before he pulled off the goddamn freeway.

  Zane realized that some of the people in the group had other sexual dysfunctions aside from mere addiction, but none of them were here to learn about deviant behaviors or to feel good or worse about their own particular dirty deeds. Instead, they were in the group to help support each other. By the third time he attended, he realized he hadn’t been looking upon the process properly. He needed to change his viewpoint so he could take advantage of what was being offered to him, because he saw that it could be powerful.

  Every Wednesday, Dustin would have a particular topic he’d talk about for a little bit, just enough to break the ice and trigger memories so the group would start talking. That—the talking—was where the magic began. It was therapeutic, something Zane discovered afterwards, when, during his third meeting, he’d decided to open up and talk about how his life had been shit when he hadn’t been able to control his addictions. He was finally on the upswing, he told the group, but because he knew there was a long haul ahead, he needed extra support...which was why he was there in the first place.

  The group was also beneficial. Just getting things off his chest helped Zane, but the insight they shared with each other was valuable. Sometimes people in the group had found things that had worked for them that other members would want to try for themselves. The whole experience had been eye opening.

  Today, Dustin introduced the topic of relationships and how sex addiction affected them. “We don’t have real relationships with the people we’re randomly fucking, do we?” That was one of the things Zane loved about this guy—he called it like he saw it. And it was true. Zane had never made love or even had sex with one of his lined-up groupies—lookalike Jens was all they were, really—when he’d been in the zone. Nope. But he’d fucked plenty of them.

  “So let’s talk about that. Not about our non-relationships with the people we’ve found but what we have with the people left behind. How do our addictions affect our friendships? The relationships we have with our significant others, our parents, our children? Coworkers?”

  The freaky girl Christina who liked to risk getting caught spoke first. “It actually helped my first marriage. My husband liked to watch, so we’d both go out looking for the perfect person for me. For a long time, we’d just bring them home, but we started not even caring about that. And he’d usually film us too so he could watch it again later.”

  “Ah, so your addictions helped your first marriage. What happened then?”

  She grinned. “Oh, you know how it ended, Dustin. There wasn’t a whole lot of love between me and my husband, and the longer we went on, the more apparent it became. We just started looking to score more and more dangerous prey. Our relationship revolved around that need, and I started wondering if I wanted to raise my children in that environment, you know?”

  “So what about now?”

  She sighed. “Well, today I’m good, but it’s always a struggle. I’m still an addict; I just do it alone. In some ways, that makes it harder, but it’s also sometimes easier that way.”

  Another woman, someone newer like Zane, asked, “But what about your kids?”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t have kids. I just want them, like lots of other people.” Christina announced that she was done talking when she got up and walked over to the coffee pot—a pot that brewed some of the thickest coffee Zane had ever drunk. He guessed it was better to be addicted to caffeine and sugar than a lot of the other shit he and his group members had been fighting.

  “Who else wants to talk about their relationships?” Dustin urged.

  Another person across the circle started talking, but Zane was distracted. Jesus fuck. Christina turned from the coffee pot and met Zane’s eye—even winked at him, making him focus on her as she walked back over to her chair just a couple of seats away. She had brown eyes, not his usual flavor, but she’d lined the upper lid with a thick coat of black and pasted on eyelashes that were too long to be real. Still, she wore them well. And she’d painted on red lipstick that stood out from her pale features. All this was mere window dressing on what was his usual type. She was a blonde with a gorgeous mane that flowed past her shoulders complemented by a nice rack and shapely ass.

  Fuck. He’d been doing so well too.

  He took a deep breath and smiled at her, forcing—yeah, forcing with all his goddamned might—himself to focus on the guy who was droning on and on about how his kids didn’t respect him but also how he feared that his son was going to turn out to be just like he was. Zane then averted his eyes from Christina and pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he felt those old synapses firing, promising a reward if he jumped on the bait. It was a quiet but evil voice, a temptress, and he recognized it.

  The problem was...he was listening.

  Just one time. Just one taste. It won’t hurt. And no one has to know.

  “Josh walked in on me when he was four. I had a woman in the garage bent over the hood of my car and I was giving it to her. I guess he overheard me yelling. And then, when my wife came home from work—”

  Zane wasn’t even visualizing the entire act or even the repercussions. All he was focused on was that first taste, the initial lead up to it and the blam his body felt as all the right connections were made and the chemicals began rushing through his bloodstream, swirling up to his brain, feeding the beast within.

  And he had no focus the rest of the evening. He didn’t participate in the discussion, even though it was important to him, and he couldn’t listen so he’d be able to glean wisdom from others’ input. No...instead, he found himself looking at Christina’s knee. She’d crossed one leg over the other and was bobbing the lower half up and down, enough to keep his attention so that he imagined what the curve of her calf looked like. That goddamned knee was covered in a black stocking and just peeking out from the leather boot she wore...and it was topped off by a creamy thigh also covered in stocking until the peekaboo ended at the hem of her denim miniskirt. He didn’t imagine the sex; instead, his mind took all the paths it usually did when it was revving up. He imagined the way her thighs looked above the stockings and, if he was lucky, how they were being held with a garter. His mind also conjured up other images—l
ike one particular picture of her running her fingers up her thighs, her nails painted red to match the lipstick she wore, and her spreading her legs, still sitting in that chair, trailing her fingers up, up, up until she could touch herself while maintaining eye contact with him. Oh, the sounds she’d make and the way her eyes would roll back as she whispered Zane’s name and thought about him.

  He took a deep breath and pinched his nose again. Shit. As soon as he left here, he was going to have to call Dr. Harvey. He didn’t care what a call like that would cost—it was a small price to pay for salvation.

  It was getting so bad he was afraid he was gonna pop a boner right there in the middle of group.

  What a relief when Dustin cut everyone loose and told them to have a good week. Zane knew he had to get the fuck out of there immediately, make a beeline for his car and call Dr. Harvey before even leaving the parking lot.

  But the universe wasn’t gonna make it that easy on him—no way in hell. As he was folding his chair and stacking it with the others against the wall, one of the guys in the group approached him and asked, “Do I know you? You look really familiar.”

  That wasn’t unusual. If he were Brad or Ethan, the guy would have already figured out where he knew him from. Instead, it was a vague recollection of a face, and the guy’s brain wasn’t helping out. Zane blew it off, saying, “I get that a lot, actually. I think I must have an evil twin somewhere.” He forced a laugh and started moving away.

  Rude? Yeah, maybe, but he was desperate. Zane was a fucking junkie who’d just awakened in the pusher’s house, and he was surrounded by his drug of choice. If he didn’t get the fuck out of there right now, there was no telling what his dick would do. No telling.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  THANK FUCK. ZANE made it out unscathed...but no thanks to any guardian angel he might have had. He’d wound up talking a little more to the guy who’d recognized him, shaking hands and exchanging first names. Then, as he almost made it out the door, Dustin stopped him. “I noticed you didn’t participate tonight, Zane. Everything okay?”