Limelight (NSB Book 4)

by Alyson Santos

  “Manhattan?” Air rushes from the room again. “With Mila?” Just saying her name guts me.

  He nods.

  “What could they have to discuss with her? I thought she was dropping us.”

  His expression falls, and I know he’s fighting between loyalty to each of his sons. He owes me way more than Parker.

  “She’s agreed to help them explore options for moving forward without you.”

  Wham! Oxygen blasts from my lungs. Painful. So horrendously logical.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse,” he says as I stare at my uneaten food.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you blow second chances.” I push myself up from the table.

  “It’s not over. You can’t look at this as the end.”

  “Yeah? What is it then?”

  “Rock bottom.”

  Another blow. This one harder, deeper.

  His eyes soften. “Don’t let this moment be the end. Make it the starting line. Today can be the beginning.”

  He waits. I look away and drag myself up from the chair.

  “I’m tired.”

  ∞∞∞

  I wake to warm, soft arms. Peace. Relief.

  “Mila?” Heat burns through me as I turn toward that flawless smile. My heart, oh god. I pull her close, crush her against my chest.

  “I’m sorry. So so sorry,” I whisper against her neck. Her arms tighten around me.

  “Me too, Jess.” Is she crying?

  “We have to figure this out. Please don’t leave me again. Please.” A sob escapes my lips as I press them against her hair. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Good, because I sent your songs to some people I know and they’re beyond excited. It’s happening, Jess. Everything you ever wanted. Life, legend. Love.”

  Her mouth reaches for mine, hungry. My body is already charged, tensing with every press of her fingers. She grips the edge of my shirt, and I roll back. Ready, waiting, wholly hers.

  “I love you,” I say, searching those brilliant eyes.

  “Shut up, you little shit.”

  I jerk up. “What?”

  “You heard me. Fuck you, junkie.”

  Stunned, I cry out at the sudden pain in my chest. I crane my neck to find the handle of a knife protruding from my skin.

  “How does that feel?” she hisses. “Strike one.”

  Paralyzed, I can only stare in horror as a second blade hovers above me.

  “Mila! Please—”

  I gasp as another searing pain floods through my abdomen.

  “Strike two.”

  “Parker!”

  I scream to my brother who ducks through the doorway. But instead of subduing Mila, he accepts the dagger she hands him.

  His lips curl in a grotesque twist, teeth white in the sudden darkness. Only a small candle illuminates the room. Just enough to see the glint of metal as it rushes toward me.

  This time I have no air left for protests.

  “Strike three, you overrated piece of shit,” he growls.

  “Four.”

  “Five.”

  “Six.”

  Jesse. Jess! Wake up! Jess!

  I gasp and open my eyes. Sunlight streams through the windows. My hands fly to my chest as I search for blood, gaping wounds. The pain. The pain is too real.

  “Hey,” a voice says.

  I draw back in alarm, pushing as far away from the intruder as possible.

  “Don’t. No more. I’m sorry!” I scream, holding up my hands to block the knife. Seven, eight? I’m dead! Why are my eyes open?

  Why are his eyes open?

  Other details slowly bleed through the veil. My messy desk. The pile of dirty clothes in the corner. And…

  No Parker.

  No music.

  No Mila.

  No future.

  The pain is deeper than a knife cut.

  I choke on the words in my throat. “I lost everything. There’s nothing left.” This time the arms that tighten around me are hard. Strong. Drenched with a sense of permanence.

  “So did I, Jess.”

  I shudder at his tone, tender and deliberate at the same time.

  “I want it back, Dad,” I whisper.

  Dad…

  There’s something new in the way he bolsters me against him.

  “Then we get it back, son. We go get it back.”

  ∞∞∞

  “Getting it back” feels impossible until we break it down into a list I can see.

  I stare at the page in my notebook as Dad makes us coffee.

  1. Work with Counselor Seth to deal with the mental shit.

  2. Attend group with Dad.

  3. Accept Chris’ offer for one-on-one mentorship and accountability.

  4. Investigate inpatient and outpatient rehab programs.

  “You’re going to be able to do this, Jess,” he says, placing a mug in front of me. “Trust me.”

  I swallow the rising panic in my chest.

  Trust me.

  What about the music?

  Trust me.

  Who am I, what am I if the music doesn’t come anymore?

  “What’s going on in that head?”

  I flinch and hide behind the cup.

  “Nothing. Just trying to figure shit out.”

  He leans back in his chair, gaze reflective. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you and I are a lot alike. It seems as though our art is in the darkness.”

  “Isn’t it?” I grunt.

  “Maybe. But I promise you’ll learn to access it in a healthier way. Parker told me the music wrecks you when it comes. Wouldn’t you like to be the one in control?”

  I’d do anything to breathe when the words come.

  I’m sure Dad has more in the arsenal but he’s cut off by the clamor of returning roommates. The ruckus skids to a halt when they see us. Their faces slide from surprise to guilt.

  My violent dream floods back, this time as a lie. Parker wouldn’t stab me; I stab him.

  “Jesse. Hey, man. Welcome home,” he says.

  “Thanks. You too.”

  His gaze ducks away. “Look, about New York and not picking you up—”

  “Don’t. I get it.”

  Four sets of eyes follow me from the table to the fridge. I rip the page from my notebook and slap it on the door with a magnet.

  “And now we’re getting our future back.”

  25: GETTING IT BACK

  This time when I meet Chris at the coffee shop there are no awkward stranger ambushes or red hats. She smiles when I enter and waves me over to a table.

  “Good to see you, Jesse,” she says, pushing a cup toward me.

  “You too.” I raise a brow at the surprise gift.

  “I remembered what you ordered last time. Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s great. Thanks.” I take the seat across from her and wrap my hands around the giant mug.

  “I’m glad you called.”

  “Me too.” The too-hot coffee doesn’t stop me from singeing my lips and tongue.

  “How have things been going?”

  I release a long breath. “Honestly? Shitty, but that’s why I’m here. I want my life back. Scratch that. I need it back.”

  “Yeah? What’s your motivation?”

  I swallow another scalding draught. There’s a question. Are we here for coffee or a weekend retreat? “Simple answer? I’m not really living. I have no control of my life, no future on this path.”

  “That’s a scary place to be.”

  “I’ve lost everyone,” I mutter to my drink.

  “Not everyone.”

  I glance up and meet her warm smile.

  Not everyone. Even at my lowest.

  Rock bottom.

  “Are you in control of your substance use, Jesse?”

  I clear my throat. Another great question. Why does everything have to be so damn complex?

  “I’m not physically dependent, but mentally…” My fingers twist a path through m
y hair as I study the table. “There’s so much… I need breaks. From my head. From life. I can’t handle it without help.”

  “Chemical help.”

  I nod.

  She leans back in her chair. “And that’s not working for you.”

  It’s not a question. Of course not. My coping strategy sounds ridiculous out loud, even if it’s a truth I lived inside and out my entire life.

  “No. I need to find a better way. I’m ready to ask for help.”

  I expected some kind of jubilant eruption from her when I finally committed. Don’t they have t-shirts and name badges or something? Instead, she stares back with a solemn nod.

  “I’m so happy to hear that. What you have is a substance use disorder, and like many diseases, the path to healing is difficult but possible. Are you prepared to work hard toward recovery?”

  Work hard. Harder than fighting the demons alone every second of every damn day only to lose again and again? Harder than watching your friends, your brother, the woman you love walk away? Harder than being an overrated, garage-band wasted, crying little shit?

  “I’m ready,” I say. “Whatever it takes.”

  Her gaze settles on me, punctures deep into my resolve. And suddenly, there’s the smile I’d been waiting for. Better than a t-shirt.

  “This is a great day, Jesse. We’ll be seeing you Thursday night?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  ∞∞∞

  Seth’s office isn’t as lame as I remember. His hair is still slicked back in an unnatural assault on gravity, but the arch of his brows is probably concern, not disdain like I originally thought. He waits as I squint through the blinds and consider his latest request.

  Tell me about the demons.

  The words slither through my head and lodge in my stomach. The demons just are. Like oxygen. And brain cancer. I pull a long stream of air into my lungs. How do you talk about something you don’t even understand?

  “They scream,” I say finally. My eyes trace the outline of a tree through the window. Spring flowers fill the branches in an alarming explosion of pink.

  “When?”

  “All the time.”

  “That must be difficult. How do you make them stop?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Never?”

  I shake my head. “Not without chemicals.”

  His brows are arched again when I dare a look.

  “Do these voices ask you to do things?”

  “I’m not schizophrenic,” I huff.

  “I’m not suggesting that. What do they say to you?”

  “That I’m a worthless piece of shit.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  “A lot of the time.”

  “When don’t you?”

  “When I’m high.”

  Exactly, Counselor Seth. Good luck with this case file.

  “Would you like to be free of them?” His tone is gentle like he knows the answer.

  “No.”

  Those brows again. “No?”

  “They bring the music.”

  “I see. That’s quite a dilemma then.”

  Quite. “I’m pretty fucked up, doc.”

  He doesn’t like my joke, though his lips crinkle into a polite smile.

  “Actually, you’re not. Your situation makes perfect sense to me.”

  My gaze shifts from the window, locks on his.

  You make sense.

  I make sense?

  “You suffered severe trauma in an environment that modeled addiction as a coping behavior.”

  A heavy knot gathers in my stomach. I cross my arms to hide it.

  “And the demons?”

  “Sounds like a cerebral manifestation of depression in a highly perceptive and creative individual.”

  My throat closes around my response. I’m telling myself I’m a worthless piece of shit.

  “Jesse, it’s obvious that you are extremely gifted. You have an awareness of your existence and the world around you that’s different from most people. Combined with your musical talent, this gives you access to a host of creative insights others could only dream about. It’s also a huge burden to carry. Your brain will process and interpret stimuli at a profound level that can be overwhelming and exhausting.”

  I smirk. “So you’re saying I’m not fucked up but gifted?”

  Not even a polite smile this time. “Do you find auditory stimuli more heightened and distracting than others seem to?”

  Yes.

  “Do you feel overwhelmed by your own creativity and a pressure to make sense of yourself and your world?”

  Yes.

  “Do you find yourself seeking solitude for reflection and daydreaming?”

  Yes.

  “Ever face silence from humor that’s often too subtle for others to appreciate?”

  Similar to the silence he’s facing now? I focus back on my window, loving the way the setting sun forces its orange streaks through the slats. Ocean ceilings, sunset blinds.

  “Do you see the intricate complexities in the world around you? Find yourself lost in the beauty of ordinary things? How about risk-taking? Do you feel confronted by an overwhelming host of possibilities, problems, and complex relationships that make it hard to choose a course?”

  Fuck.

  “Jesse, do you find it difficult to connect with others because they seem to be living in a different world than you do?”

  Point made, I sense his stance soften across from me. His chair creaks as he leans forward.

  “You’re not a mistake, Jesse. Your brain is special, and instead of being nurtured, it was assaulted by trauma. It’s no wonder substance use got a foothold in your life.”

  The glowing blinds are nice, but suddenly I’m struck by the corresponding slices of light adorning the opposite wall. How did I miss that?

  Daylight candlelight. What if there’s beauty beyond the darkness?

  “Interesting theory, doc.”

  “Do you disagree?”

  No. I pull my attention from the wall-candles and focus back on him. “So now what?”

  “Now we help your brain process the interfering obstacles and set it up to thrive.”

  ∞∞∞

  I’m exhausted by the time I return to the house. The guys want to do a full rehearsal for the Smother gig, but I’m not sure I can handle that right now.

  Strange that the place is dark when I climb the front steps. I mutter a curse to myself. Guess they’re already setting up in the practice space. So much for a rest.

  I push through the front door and stop at the barrage of deliciousness wafting from the kitchen. Is Reece expecting Gina again?

  “You cooking takeout, dude?” I call out. Smells too divine to be an authentic attempt. At least he’s trying.

  “I hope that’s okay.”

  I freeze. Heart in my lungs, brain skipping all over the place. She comes around the corner, and now I know I’m dreaming. Maybe I am schizophrenic after all. How else do you explain the most beautiful woman on the planet, in my hallway, encased in a glow from the kitchen?

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, perfect lips curving into a devastating smile.

  “An angel, maybe.”

  “Not an alabaster queen?”

  My heart can’t take it, the weight of her presence. I’ve missed her too much, and the void starts to swallow me again. I’d come so far and now—

  “What are you doing here?” My voice trembles, caught in the battle between pain and ecstasy.

  God, I miss her so much. She must really hate me to show up here looking like that.

  Her smile fades as she reaches back through the doorway and pulls something off the fridge.

  “Is this for real?”

  My hurried scribbles glare illegibly in the patchy light.

  I swallow the host of explanations, defenses, and apologies that rise in my throat. “Yes” is the only word I let out.

  Suddenly the dark hallway is alive
with sparks and color. Her warm body molds against mine as I sink my face into her neck.

  “You have no idea how much I wanted you to say that. How hard it’s been to stay away until you did.” Her words are thick with tears. I feel them soaking my shirt, and I pull her tighter.

  “I’m not running anymore. I promise.”

  Her arms slip under my shirt and lock around my waist.

  “Then neither am I.”

  ∞∞∞

  Mila wasn’t kidding. The woman can cook. I lean back in my chair and it’s hard to argue this isn’t the happiest moment of my life. Is this what it’s like to live? To want something? To chase a future because you crave more of the present?

  “You’ve got that far off look again,” my alabaster queen says.

  My attention settles back on her along with a smile. A genuine one. A content one.

  “I’m just happy,” I say, and wish I could say it again to see her face light up like that.

  “Me too. Jess, I…” She blinks. Blushes? I didn’t think I’d ever see Mila Taylor blush. She clears her throat. “Parker said you were at counseling today. How is that going?”

  I smile to myself, disappointed, but I can’t exactly blame her for backing down from those three words. I haven’t had the courage to say them either.

  “It’s going well. Hard, but well. You’ll laugh,” I add, mentally reviewing this past session.

  “Why?”

  I shake my head. “Only because of what Seth told me today. He thinks I’m gifted.”

  She does laugh, forcing a shine to her eyes I haven’t seen in a long time. “My professional opinion? No shit, Sherlock.”

  “An I-told-you-so would suffice.”

  “Really… what about this?” She leans forward and presses her lips to mine.

  “Even better. Should I list more things you were right about?”

  “Please do.”

  I grin and steal another kiss instead. “So you still never told me what you’re doing here.”

  Her eyes wrinkle into a coy expression. “Maybe I was just in the area.”

  “And decided to pop in and cook Italian for two?”

  “I was hungry.”

  “And the guys?”

  “They went out.”

  “Uh-huh.”