A Stone in the Sea

by A. L. Jackson

  Shea’s attention slid my way. “Oh really? And what are we celebrating?”

  I had the urge to punch Ash in the throat.

  Lyrik stepped in. “Ash finally learned how to wipe his own ass. Dude deserves a gold star.”

  Shea laughed, the sound jarring through my senses, light and soft and alluring. “Well then, doubles it is.”

  She turned on her heel, which tonight was about four-inches tall. The girl wore a pair of the sexiest boots I’d ever seen—black leather climbing her calves, ending just below her knees. And a skirt…this black skirt that was way too short, flowing down to brush at the lush flesh at the middle of her thighs. A thin white sweater hugged her waist, loose up top, dripping off one shoulder, a white little tank playing peek-a-boo from underneath.

  My mouth was watering and I itched, my gaze refusing to leave her as she strutted away.

  Ash poked his head up behind my shoulder, talking near my ear. “Damn, look at those legs. No wonder you keep crawling back here night after night.”

  I elbowed him in the gut.

  Laughing, he doubled over and clutched his stomach. But then he sent me this searching look that was a whole lot more wary than the constant ribbing he usually gave. Zee and Lyrik headed for the booth, and Ash took a couple steps backward, still facing me where I seemed to be rooted to the floor. “Need to tell her, man. You’re digging yourself a very deep grave.”

  Agitation curled through me, and my eyes shifted between him and Shea who was now at the bar, chatting easily with Tamar, while she placed drinks on her tray.

  But telling her would mean losing what she and I had. She’d know and she’d no longer look at me the way she did, like she saw beneath all the bullshit to what mattered. I wasn’t ready to give up the best thing I’d ever had.

  I couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  Drawn, I steered in Shea’s direction, some kind of agitation spurring me on. I edged up behind her, hands going to the outside of her thighs, and my nose seeking safety in the full fall of her hair. I breathed her in.

  Vanilla.

  Sweet.

  Sweet.

  Sweet.

  She jerked in surprise, then released a small giggle and leaned back into my hold.

  With my nose, I brushed back some of the hair from her neck and whispered near her ear, “What the hell are you wearing?”

  Over her shoulder, she smirked, and she lifted up the delicate cap of her delicious shoulder. “A skirt.”

  “Really? Doesn’t look much like a skirt to me. Looks like a weapon of mass destruction, created with the sole purpose of driving men right out of their goddamned minds. What are you trying to do, make me insane?”

  She shrugged a coy little shrug. “There’s just this boy I was hoping I might be able to lure home tonight.”

  “Not much worry in that, baby. I’d follow you anywhere.”

  “Really?” Vulnerability seeped into her tone. Speared by it, I stilled.

  And I could hear her voice coming back to me from that first night. Will you stay? The fucked-up thing was, I was so desperate to keep her looking at me that way, but in that look was hope for what she shouldn’t be hoping for.

  I was riding on it.

  Biding my time until I crushed it.

  Regret flamed at my insides, and softly I nudged her around and edged her up against the bar, sealing my mouth over hers. Her honeyed tongue was so warm and wet and welcoming.

  God, I was truly losing my grip on my own fucked-up reality.

  A dishtowel hit the side of our faces, and we both jerked back. Charlie flashed an impish grin from behind the bar. “Hey. No making out with the customers, Shea Bear.”

  A chuckle rolled from me as Shea lit up in embarrassment. Just because I couldn’t resist, I leaned in to steal one more quick kiss.

  She fisted my shirt in her hands, dragging me to her to steal her own, before she pushed me away by it. “Go on…let me grab your drinks and I’ll be right over with them.” Her chin lifted in a gesture behind me to the spot tucked in the corner, her voice raspy and low. “I think the guys think they’re about to get a show.”

  I looked back, the lot of them gawking across at us like they were anticipating the most entertainment they’d witnessed to date, which was so backward it wasn’t even funny, considering I couldn’t count the number of times I’d seen Ash and Lyrik going at it with some girl.

  Things weren’t exactly private or discreet when you lived lives like ours. We never cared because in the end it just didn’t matter.

  I eased back, knowing to Shea, it mattered, and it was damned near terrifying realizing how much it mattered to me.

  My chest tightened.

  She mattered.

  Shea smiled, confusion weaving across her brow, and she tilted her head as if she were trying to dig into my thoughts. Quickly, I turned away before I lost a little more of myself, and strode back toward the booth.

  Lyrik rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing while his dark eyes met mine, like he was giving me a you’re welcome for forcing me here and back into this place three weeks ago. What he didn’t know was I could never have stayed away.

  Then I stopped dead when I heard it.

  Dread lifted the hairs at the nape of my neck before it went slithering down my spine. It spread out, closing in on me. Snuffing out the air.

  That fucking shrieking, high-pitched squeal.

  My name.

  My name.

  “Oh my God…it is. It’s really him. It’s Sebastian Stone.”

  Blood drained from my head, and I could feel it rushing through my ears, siphoning down to pound a frenzied beat at my heart. A cold sweat broke out on my neck.

  The shrieking just got louder when I felt this unwanted attention travel to the corner, to that safe place where we’d come to hide. “It’s all of them. Sunder!”

  I could feel my crew come to awareness, feel their own unease, although it was anticipated—something we’d grown used to—as annoying as it was, when we just wanted to be left alone.

  I squinted back at the unknown girl who thought she knew us, standing out in the front of her small group of friends. A camera flash went off, and I wanted to rush her, rip it from her hands, and smash it into a thousand pieces.

  But instead my gaze glided to the bar, drawn to the one. And I knew. I knew I fucking should have just told her, laid it all out, but I hadn’t had anything that felt good in so long. For just a few weeks, I wanted that with Shea. A chance to just be me. A chance to just be.

  Hands were suddenly on me, tugging at my shirt, vying for my attention. But my complete attention was trained on Shea where she’d frozen in the spot I’d just left her, head shaking, brown eyes rounded in confusion.

  The girl I wanted to knock flat kept repeating my name.

  Shea shook and stumbled back against one of the bar stools, something like hurt horror taking hold of her expression as realization set in.

  Tamar scrambled for her, ducking under the end of the bar and coming to her side, touching her shoulder as she whispered something frantic and fast at her ear.

  She was comforting her, I knew. Tamar wasn’t there to call me out. For some reason, she’d kept my secret for all this time. Whole lot of good that did me, considering this bitch pawing at me had just provided the kill shot.

  Tears slipped down Shea’s face as Tamar gave her whatever explanation she felt she owed her, the lights from above glinting off her cheeks.

  Betrayal.

  I knew that’s what she was seeing when she looked across at me, but I’d been more honest with Shea than I’d been with anyone in my life.

  Flinging off the obnoxious hands, I went for her.

  But Shea was backing away, shaking her head, the movement quickening with distress the closer I got. Something broke in her expression, her hand pressed to her mouth as if to hold back a sob, and she pulled away from Tamar and ran.

  Fled.

  Pushing through the crowd, she
fumbled on her too-high boots in her bid to escape, almost slipping, but she caught herself before she fell, propelling herself forward and through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

  I was right behind her, didn’t hesitate to barrel through.

  Shea slammed the door to the break room where I’d carried her three weeks before.

  I grabbed the knob, yanked at it hard.

  The thin door rattled but didn’t give.

  My hand cracked against the wood. “Come on, Shea. Open the door. Let me explain.”

  Her breaths were heavy and distinct, and I knew she was holding herself up against the other side.

  “Shea,” I murmured quietly, like an apology, dropping my forehead to the door. “Please.”

  But what was I gonna say?

  Now she knew and she was never going to look at me the same.

  And I was left without a reason to keep pretending.

  I PRESSED MY HAND TO MY MOUTH and tried to hold back the sob seeking release. Maybe if I stayed quiet enough, hid myself, I’d disappear. Magically removed from this situation. This painful, painful situation.

  God, I was such a fool.

  Such a fool¸ and I felt embarrassed and pathetic and hurt.

  The hurt was the worst part.

  He banged on the door. Once. Twice. I cringed against the force of it, silently begging him to go away. I squeezed my eyes closed, tears continuing to slip out the sides as I struggled to remain standing under my weakened knees.

  “Shea,” he said again, his voice muffled and pleading through the door. “Shea, you don’t understand.”

  No, I didn’t. Why couldn’t he have told me? Because this was too big. Too much. Too close.

  He pounded once more, before he landed a punch against the wood. A tiny, startled cry escaped me, and I winced at his sudden burst of unmistakable fury. A violent display of frustration. I could feel the energy behind it. The resentment and pain. But there was no chance I could face him right now, not when I didn’t know how to make sense of this blow.

  Not when I no longer knew if I’d still recognize him.

  A heavy, resigned breath reverberated through the slight crack in the jamb. It was as if I could feel that tether of energy snap when he finally gave up and retreated.

  Swallowing hard, I pried myself from the door. Every cell in my body shook uncontrollably as I staggered toward the cheap, worn desk that rested in the middle of the near-dark room.

  I had to see. Had to know.

  Tamar had left me with a vague impression of who he was—what he was—and a bitter ball made up of my own resentment wedged itself somewhere deep in the well of my chest. My chest that quaked and trembled, stinging with the urge to purge this overwhelming emotion.

  All I’d wanted was a simple life. Someplace safe and normal, out of reach of the limelight and lies, away from the brutal backbiters and vicious slanderers.

  And I’d been foolish enough to allow some piece inside me to cling to the idea that he could become a part of it.

  No doubt, he was just like the rest of them.

  My heart throbbed painfully and my head involuntarily shook at the thought.

  No.

  How could I believe that? This man who I’d come to know in the most beautiful of ways. Profound ways I’d never experienced before. In the best of ways.

  I slumped down into the office chair. For a few moments, I sat there in the dark, before I lifted an unsteady hand and brushed it against the idle mouse, bringing to life the dated monitor. The bright screen pierced the darkness, at the ready to shatter this childish fantasy I’d been living and shed light on the harsh reality.

  My mother would have laughed at me. Reminded me I was nothing but a fool.

  Of course, that would mean she’d have to speak to me, and she’d had no desire to do that in years.

  I guess I’d had the illusion that Sebastian’s secrets belonged to the past and weren’t very much in charge of his future.

  Sniffling, I wiped my face with my sleeve and did my best to see through the bleariness as I opened the Internet browser and typed Sebastian Stone into the Google search bar.

  It’s something I could have done a million times. Something I should have done. But I felt compelled to respect the privacy of his past, refusing to force him to bring it out into the open. There was always shame when he spoke of it in the ambiguous way he did, and now it all made so much sense.

  Sex, drugs, and rock and roll happen in California.

  That voice. That incredible voice and the way he played.

  The guys who looked as if they’d been plucked right from a magazine.

  All the warnings Tamar kept giving me.

  “Shit,” I choked barely above a breath. She knew. The whole time, she knew.

  More embarrassment flooded my veins, my mind spinning and my heart feeling like it might cave in.

  And maybe it was foolish to allow it to affect me this way, because there was no doubt harbored in my mind that Sebastian was hiding something from me, and I’d given him that space because he’d so blatantly asked for it.

  But why remained the question.

  My eyes dropped closed as I tried to gather myself. Slowly I opened them and just as slowly pushed the enter key.

  The page loaded and I was instantly overwhelmed.

  On the left was a long list of links, but my eye was immediately drawn to the biography box on the right with the collage of pictures at the very top. His beautiful, rugged face framed in each one.

  Hard.

  Angry.

  Fierce.

  I read the bio.

  Sebastian Stone is an American musician from Los Angeles, California. Stone is a founding member and lead guitarist and vocalist of Sunder.

  Born: November 21, 1988 (Age 26), Los Angeles, CA

  Music Groups: Sunder

  God, I’d never even heard of them, secluding myself in my own private world—a world I’d established for my daughter, a bubble to keep us protected and safe.

  Sebastian Stone had come crashing right through it.

  And I hadn’t had the first clue.

  I turned to the list of websites and article links running along the left and clicked on the first one—a recent article featured on one of those on-line celebrity sites.

  That lump in my throat throbbed as I read through it. It was the kind of article that was snarky and filled with the writer’s own insinuations.

  Sunder missing in action?

  Just weeks after front man, Sebastian Stone, was arrested on assault charges against a producer with Mylton Records, Sunder announced a cancellation days before what was supposed to be the onset of their world tour kicking off in France.

  I call foul.

  In a Tweet issued to the world, Sunder blamed scheduling conflicts for the cancellation.

  Yet Sunder has fallen off the face of the earth, leaving thousands of fans mourning the loss of their beloved band.

  Where oh where art thou, Mr. Stone?

  I blinked through the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, reading and rereading the line that told of his arrest. A ball of dread sank into the pit of my stomach.

  I’m not a good guy.

  He warned me, and I wouldn’t listen.

  Shakily, I clicked on the word Sunder that stood out in blue, knowing the link would take me deeper, deeper into the man, and deeper into the guys that along with his brother, he claimed as his only family.

  The search repopulated. Immediately an article from a little over a year ago caught my eye, and my pulse sped as I scanned the caption, the horrible words growing my torment, my throat locked as I read what was spilled across the page.

  Mark Kennedy, Sunder drummer and founding member, was confirmed dead late Tuesday afternoon of an apparent drug overdose. Kennedy was found in the early morning hours on the band’s tour bus while in Dallas, Texas, as part of their Divided Tour. Rumors of addiction have swirled around the troubled band since front man Sebastian Ston
e was arrested and served six months of a two-year sentence on charges of heroin possession and theft more than four years ago.

  And I knew. And I knew. And I knew.

  I hadn’t been able to look away despite how hard Sebastian had worked to push me away.

  Just as intensely as he’d worked to draw me near.

  The two of us thriving off something that could never truly be.

  I’m no good for you.

  Pain took me whole when my gaze locked on the picture tacked on the bottom of the article. It was a brown-haired guy with a hint of curls over his ears who had to be about the same age as Sebastian. What almost looked like a shy smile curved the side of his mouth as he peeked sideways at the camera while walking along a sidewalk. Insecure. Is that what that was? Something about him appeared broken and sad.

  In that second, I felt the magnitude of Sebastian’s anguish in his murmured words.

  Took my whole crew down with me.

  Some things you can’t take back.

  And I hurt for him, ached for him in a way I wished I didn’t understand.

  Even though it all felt like too much, there was no resisting the incredible longing I felt when I saw the stilled video, the four men who I thought I’d come to know in the secluded booth right outside the door, frozen on the screen. Obviously, it was a live video that had been posted by a fan. I clicked on it and watched Sunder come to life.

  On stage, Sebastian was something magnificent.

  Imposing and fierce.

  Never had he looked so bad, and my hurting heart fluttered a wayward beat, hitting me with an errant bolt of desire. But it was unstoppable, the undeniable attraction this man held over me like coercion. Like every piece of me was drawn to him—blinded by the lie that we could somehow fit.

  The video was taken inside a dark, dark music hall by a phone amid a raving crowd, a bedlam of chaos and flinging arms and slamming bodies right up under the elevated stage.

  Spotlights flashed and shadows played, Sebastian with a guitar strapped across his chest, fingers sliding in frenzied precision up and down the neck while the other hand strummed a reckless beat, that pretty, pretty mouth pressed up to a microphone, screaming angry, piercing lyrics that I felt more than understood, somehow grasping the meaning of his intensity completely without registering the actual words.