Limelight (NSB Book 4)

by Alyson Santos

  My blood pressure instinctively climbs through my body. “Hilarious.”

  “I’m serious.”

  I snap my gaze to his and meet stony resolve.

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “What choice do we have?” Desperation is not a good look on Parker—especially when it involves the man who donated his sperm to our existence.

  “Okay, I’m out. Catch you later.” Derrick practically throws his bowl in the sink as he flees to anywhere else. Reece turns up the TV in the next room.

  “Have you lost your mind?” I ask the remaining bandmate. My limbs suddenly feel so stiff I have to lean against the counter for support.

  “He knows people, Jess.”

  “Yeah? So do we.”

  “He got us the deal with SauerStreet.”

  Parker could have just punched me in the stomach. That would’ve been way more pleasant. “That’s your argument?”

  He sighs, big-brother-style. “No, sorry. What you did for us—the band—it was epic, and he... It pissed me off too, but, dude, this is different. He’s different, and we need another push.”

  “Not from him.”

  “He wants to make things right.”

  My spine straightens into a steel rod, blood pounding through my head and driving furious eye-bullets toward my brother. “Are you kidding me? You must be fucking kidding me right now.”

  “Jess, it’s been a couple years. He’s—”

  “Wait, have you been seeing him?” My voice is a growl now, my hands shaking. He’s not looking at me which makes my stomach churn. I’m not a volatile person. You have to care about shit to get angry, but right now. Yeah, this might be the one thing I care about.

  I shove away from the counter. “Fuck you, Parker.”

  “Jesse, come on! Let’s just—”

  I don’t hear the rest. I’m already in my room, door slammed behind me. I lock my fingers on my head as I pace from one creaky floorboard to the next. Betrayal. That’s the word that flashes through my head.

  TRAITOR.

  “Fuck!” I scream, flinging the first thing I grab across the room. A tattered notebook slams into the wall and flutters to its death on the floor. I stare at the feathered pages for a long time. Marked and scarred they taunt me from their grave, reminding me of all the moments I felt this pain. I hate them. Love them. Need them. Because that’s when the words come. They shoot up my limbs and lodge in my brain as a parasite until I can free them into music.

  Today I’m infected.

  I stomp across the room and yank the pages from the floor. My desk is a disaster of lazy moments, so I fish out a pencil and drop to the bed instead. I draw in a deep breath, brace myself for hell—and write.

  ∞∞∞

  Time is irrelevant when the music comes. Days, hours, minutes—I have no idea how much I’ve lost.

  Eyes rounder and redder than any drug-induced reaction stare back at me from the mirror above the sink in the bathroom. Dark hair is carelessly tucked behind my ears with lost strands drifting over my face. I look like a man possessed because I am. The music owns me. Unhealthy? Maybe, but it was never a choice. Jonas made sure of that when he fathered a clone and abandoned him to fight the tortured artist gene alone.

  Little light of mine. Flicker, flicker burn, until I learn to slay the ghost of hope, the fucking joke you’ve made of me.

  Little friend of mine. Don’t be kind when you grind our past into lasting crimes that might just be the end of me.

  Traitor. Fool me once.

  Traitor. Fool me twice.

  That knife you hold is so damn pretty.

  How’s it look in my back? Hey hey

  My reaction time is lacking

  No backtracking now that you’ve got me on the prowl

  Hey hey

  I’m looking at you, traitor, faker, promise-breaker,

  Re-arranger of the lies we’ve tried to bury

  Hey hey

  I’m looking at you, pretender, mender, truth-blender

  Defender of the game I thought we ended

  Yeah, yeah, I’m looking at you

  My arms brace on the sink in faulty support of my body.

  Traitor. Faker. Promise-breaker.

  Flashing lights. Ashy skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. “You’ll need to come with us, kid.” Come with us to a stranger’s house. To another stranger’s house. And another. To a fifteen-bedroom prison of other abandoned teenagers.

  Don’t be kind. Don’t be kind. Don’t be kind.

  I press my fists into burning eyes.

  A needle. A dusty plaque with a gold record hanging in crooked perfection for its owner to betray. A guitar missing two strings. When has it last been touched? Certainly not by the gray, motionless, junkie-hands draped on the floor.

  Pretender. Truth-blender.

  “I’m okay, Jesse. I’ll be fine.” Final words from a father to his son before the child became a victim.

  Fool me twice.

  “Jess?”

  I jump at the knock on the bathroom door.

  Parker pulls it open. “You—” He stops, stance softening when he sees my face. “You got one.”

  I nod.

  “Is it good?”

  I nod again and close my eyes as something hot and wet leaks over my pupils. Then I’m in his arms, secured by the only person who has ever kept his promise.

  Promise-keeper.

  “What day is it?” I ask.

  “Thursday.”

  Pressure clamps down on my chest. Three days. I’ve been locked up for three fucking days. I drag in a throat-full of air.

  “Can I hear it?” he asks quietly.

  I nod against his shoulder. Relief seeps from him at my response.

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘Jonas.’”

  8: CONFESSIONS

  The guys love “Jonas.” After one run-through, they want to lay down a work-tape so they can start building their parts. I push for a bass-driven intro that locks in with Derrick on the kick and hi-hat through verse one. The full explosion will come on the chorus when I’ll let loose over Parker’s backing vocals. There’s a subtle trap element to this song, so we’ll need more production than usual, but the band is game. We’re all about pushing the limits of the alternative genre, and now that we’re indie, have nothing holding us back.

  “Dude, this song is sick,” Derrick says, wiping off the sweat as we finish our recording.

  “The crowd will go ape-shit,” Reece adds.

  Parker evaluates me. He loves the song, but there’s a hidden track only the two of us can hear. I force a half-smile.

  I’m good.

  His eyebrows knit together, and I remove any chance of interference by adjusting to pack up my gear. I’m snapping the case shut when my phone buzzes.

  Come over tonight?

  A text from Natasha. After the last few days I’ve had, there’s no one I’d rather see.

  Give me an hour.

  ∞∞∞

  Natasha’s grin says it all. My turn this time.

  She inhales as I flip her on her back and rip my shirt off. I graze her neck and kiss my way down exposed skin.

  Thanks to my visiting angel, “Jonas” hovers far from me now. A distance that allows my frantic brain to breathe again, and I sigh right along with it as I sink into the abyss of Natasha’s body. She arches against my mouth. One, two—her fists dig into the sheets.

  “Jess…” She groans. I know what she wants. I know this body almost as well as my own. Three, four, and—“Ahh. Jess!”

  I grip her thighs to help her ride the high for as long as possible. It’s only fair for what she gives me. She threads her hands into my hair and pulls me up for a long, deep kiss.

  “I love you,” she breathes. “I want…” Her eyes snap open to meet my stare.

  Shit.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” she rushes out.

  I push off her and roll to my back.

  “I�
� I’m sorry. It’s just… Maybe I want more. With you.”

  I close my eyes as her words echo through my brain, chip at my peace. She’s supposed to know the rules.

  “I want to know,” she says softly.

  “Know what?”

  “Everything. What’s in here.” She brushes her fingers along my temple, and I have to calm the rising panic. “I can tell there’s so much going on. I want more than sex.”

  “Nat…” I rub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. Natasha is the courier of my oasis. My break from the weight of existing.

  “You don’t feel the same for me,” she says.

  I don’t love. “How much do I owe you?”

  ∞∞∞

  I won’t call Natasha again. It’s not fair to her. I’ll have to find a new angel, preferably one who won’t be attracted to my mess. My phone buzzes, and I grab it from the floor by my bed.

  Parker wants to know if I’m coming out of my room today. Damn, I must be in bad shape if Mr. Intrusive won’t even risk a knock on my door.

  I’m tapping out a response when another message flashes across my screen.

  Hey @JesseEverett99. I’m a tad gutted that you’ve given up without a fight. Is the burger business so rewarding? #putthatlipaway

  Fuck, for real? A fire shoots through my blood with enough force to ignite lazy fingers.

  Hey @MilaTaylorRocks. Things are great. We’re now serving a “Shite Burger” in honor of you.

  Not my best work, but that woman triggers an instinctive response that doesn’t leave room for reflection. Heaven knows why I’ve been given talent I can’t control, and it guts me when people like Mila Taylor strike at the core of my battle.

  I lay my phone back on the floor and stare at my now-boring ceiling.

  Mila Taylor’s punching bag. Is that my legacy? I’ve never been a close follower of her “work,” but I’m pretty sure I’m special in her dedication to ripping me down. Did I kick her puppy? Insult her home planet? Have my crimes against music really been serious enough to earn this sentence? Wait until she hears “Jonas.” Just…

  I’m looking at you, pretender, mender, truth-blender

  Defender of the game I thought we ended

  Yeah, yeah, I’m looking at you

  Another phone alert, and I lean over for a look at the display. No fucking way.

  I open the e-mail, and sure enough:

  >> I’m starting to think that’s not really the pic you want.

  J

  *****

  You’re alright, love. I’ve found everything I need. You have really enthusiastic fans.

  I follow the link she shared and huff a laugh. Photos, articles, more photos. Damn, so many shirtless pictures of me on this fan’s public shrine. I don’t even remember half of these moments she’s immortalized. I’ll never get used to this shit.

  Blood pounds through me as I look, imagining Mila Taylor searching my name. Scrolling through image after image, and what? Smirking? Or admiring the view enough to drag me back for more.

  I clench my jaw. Time to conduct a search of my own. I type in her name and… damn. Mila Taylor is breathtaking.

  ∞∞∞

  I don’t know how long I stare at her posing on the red carpet at an awards show. The A-list actor beside her looks pedestrian by comparison.

  Long, dark hair, almost violet in the light, frames pale skin in loose waves. The couture gown exposes just enough to make my dick covet the rest. Yeah, so many sins in my head right now for a woman I hate. A woman who’s destroyed my career and sent me crashing into my latest hell.

  My search yields more facts. Mila Taylor is twenty-six and a native of Yorkshire, England where she splits residency with Manhattan, New York. Damn, bet she has a sexy accent. She’s a foodie who rocketed to fame as a food blogger and social media personality. Which means she makes and breaks musicians because…?

  Oh. She’s the daughter of UK rock legend George Conway. Well, good for her.

  I grunt, and close my laptop, but I can’t get that image out of my head.

  I’ve found everything I need.

  What is it that she needs? What’s she getting from me that requires constant attacks to keep my attention? I haven’t played these bullshit games since Jenna Potter threw mud at me every recess in fourth grade.

  Dark hair. Smooth skin. Tight… everything. God, she’s hot as a hell. Who knew? Those eyes, windows into something that challenges the shit out of me. I’m not often challenged.

  I’m not often alive.

  I pull up my phone.

  Hey, girl.

  Didn’t take you for the D-List stalker type. “Easy on the eye”? Should I be concerned?

  J

  I get a response two minutes later.

  No need to worry, love. I like my blokes employed.

  Yeah, I legit grin when I drop back to the mattress.

  9: JONAS

  A strange woman nurses a cup of coffee at our kitchen table when I emerge the following morning. Long hair up in a clip and certainly no natural color on God’s green earth. If I had to guess, she’s the reason for the grunting and moans from Derrick’s room last night.

  “What’s up?” I say, grabbing a mug.

  “Hey. Jesse, right?”

  “Yeah. And you are?”

  “Mandi. With an ‘i.’”

  “Ah.” I offer a brief smile and return to my coffee. “Where’s Derrick?”

  “An errand. He said it was fine for me to stay here ‘til he got back.”

  “An errand?” Okay, yeah, this place is too quiet. “Who else went on this ‘errand’?”

  I didn’t think my question was as complex as her furrowed brow makes it out to be.

  “Did two other guys leave with him?”

  “Yeah. One had blond hair and one light brown.”

  Shit. “Did they say where they were going?”

  “No. Just that I had to wait here.”

  I’m already heading back to my room as I mumble my thanks.

  Where are you? I tap out to the group. Left me alone with “Mandi”?

  No immediate response.

  Hey, D. I told her you were crazy about her. You probably went out for a ring.

  Derrick: Shut the fuck up.

  Me: Seriously where you at?

  Parker: Breakfast dude. Chill out.

  Me: Without your fiancée?

  Derrick: It was one date.

  So not the point. As usual.

  Me: I like breakfast. Thanks for the invite.

  Reece: You were asleep.

  Assholes. Something’s up, but I’m not going to get anywhere like this. I toss my phone on the bed and drain my coffee.

  I have no interest in another encounter with “Mandi” and stay in my room. Her high-pitched voice squawks through every crack and gap in the house as she blabs on her phone. So much to say about so much shit I don’t want to hear. There better have been some fried egg emergency or I’m going to detonate when they get back. You bring a girl home? Don’t make her my problem.

  I mess around on my guitar to drown out the distraction as much as possible. “Jonas” still needs some work, and I’d love to play with the new direction on our older material as well. If alternative-rock-EDM is our new thing, then let’s go all in.

  It’s a good half hour before I hear the main door. I rest my guitar on the stand and brace for the confrontation about to come.

  “I’ll call you later.” Derrick’s voice drifts down the hall, and Mandi’s whiny response finally brings relief. She’s leaving, thank god.

  Once the door crashes again, I know it’s safe.

  “Hope you losers have a damn good…” I freeze. The fuck?

  “Jesse…” The man’s face is younger, fuller. Cleaner than it should be.

  Parker steps between us. “Don’t freak out, just—”

  “No fucking way,” I spit, and tear back to my room.

  “Jesse! Will you… Jess!”

  Parker
’s following me, and I don’t understand why he’s begging for a bloody nose.

  TRAITOR. PROMISE-BREAKER.

  Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

  The words slam against my skull as I push into my room and grab the first thing I touch. A bottle smashes into the far wall and sprays its wrath over my floor.

  I scream a curse and tighten my fingers on my head as I pace the room. A piece of glass slices into my foot, but I barely notice. That pain is nothing compared to the agony in my chest.

  “Jess…” Parker hovers in my doorway, gaze pleading for… something. I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!

  “Why? Why would you bring him here?” My tone is as shattered as the bottle.

  “It was the only way you’d—”

  “No, no, no.” Back to pacing, I tangle my fists in my hair.

  “Jess, just—” He grips my arm and pulls me to a stop. “Hey.”

  I shake my head, refusing to look at him.

  “Oh shit, you’re bleeding.”

  I follow his gaze and flinch at the streaks of blood painting the floor. Now I feel it. The pain I can measure—fix. It feels safe. Air rushes into my lungs again.

  “He’s changed, Jess. I swear. I wouldn’t have brought him here if I wasn’t absolutely sure.”

  Changed. Such a lie. An irrelevant event. How does that change the years of hell we’ve already survived?

  I lower myself on the bed and rest my head on my fists.

  “He’s clean now, Jess. Over two years sober. He’s even producing again.”