by Jo Raven
I return my attention my drum kit, setting it up, while Luke and Quinn check the sound of their guitars. Even Riley is here, unpacking his bass—ahead of time, which is a miracle. Koko—Dakota—is talking to Zane in a corner.
At least that’s what she said she was going to do. Looks more like mouth to mouth to me, but hey, that’s none of my fucking business. Good for them.
This is a familiar place, with familiar faces. A familiar situation, preparing for a concert, going through the motions. My friends have found their soul mates and are okay for the first time in ages.
Then why am I on edge?
Closing my eyes, I drag my drumsticks over the cymbals, then tap them lightly on the snare drum, feeling the vibrations travel up my arms. Trying to find my headspace. Loud noises always startle me, but the steady beat of the drum, the fact I’m the one producing the loud bangs, and drumrolls, and rattle steadies me most of the time.
Not tonight.
Shit. Something’s triggering this. I’ve been taught to identify the triggers before it gets too bad, but right now I can’t pinpoint what’s bothering me. A smell? A noise? A set-up?
I put down the sticks and listen. Just the chatter of the crowd, the strumming of guitars, Riley’s bass joining in. Then I inhale. A mixture of perfume, styling products, and hot cables.
Nothing. All in my mind. Goddammit.
I’m about to get up, head to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, when I realize I’m staring at the flat screen TV mounted high up on the wall. It’s been playing all along, on mute. Halo isn’t technically a sports bar, but lots of guys hang out here and they like to watch their football and basketball.
A presenter is talking, a pretty brunette, her hair pulled up, dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Her face is earnest as she gestures at a house behind her. The neighborhood looks familiar somehow.
The crawl running at the bottom catches my eye—or maybe I’ve been reading it all along. Breaking news, it reads. Man murdered in Madison.
The hairs on the back of my neck lift. That’s the only warning I get before I find myself in my parents’ house four years ago, cowering in a corner. The walls are splashed with blood, the copper tang so strong I can taste it at the back of my tongue. Makes me gag. Makes me dizzy with fear. A massive shudder rips through me.
Not real, I tell myself. Not real. You know that. It’s a memory. A flashback set by the news about the murder. It’s a trigger.
Need to ground myself. I’m still in the house, can still smell the blood. I need something to distract me, bring me back to the present. Blindly I put my hands forward and knock into something. My drum set, I realize, when the cymbals clang. The jarring sound jerks me out of the memory, and I blink, dazed.
The bar. The stage. My drums, still wobbling from my shove, the cymbals jingling. I look down at my hands. They’re trembling. My heart is thudding so hard it’s knocking against my ribs.
Then I feel it—the silence, spreading in circles. I look up and find people staring at me, eyes wide. The crowd jostles closer, to see what’s happening.
Fuck.
From the corner of my eye I see Koko heading my way like a small dark whirlwind, elbowing people to reach me, and I’m not sure I can take it. Not sure I could even stand to be touched right now.
So I jump to my feet, grab my jacket from the back of the chair and head the other way, searching for the back door. I need out. Need fresh air.
Need a moment to put the pieces of myself together again.
I’m none too gentle as I shove a path through the milling customers, not even stopping to pull on my jacket in my rush to get out of there.
I push, and the crowd pushes right back. Disoriented, I turn in a circle, trying to get my bearings, and the emergency exit sign winks at me. I shove my way to it, press down on the metal bar and stumble out onto an empty side street.
Cold air hits my face. I take a few steps and bend over, hands braced on my thighs, drawing in breath after shuddering breath.
Fucking hell.
Lately, I don’t have it all together. Not since I thought I saw… That guy. The guy with the tattoo that’s branded in my memory with blood and fire.
Can’t be, though. My mind was probably playing tricks on me. It often does, doesn’t it?
I’m so tired of fighting. Fighting a war against myself and losing. A war against my own mind. I train to be ready—for what? How can a strong body help against a gun? Against a knife? Against anything?
Still I can’t help myself. I can’t stop. It’s all too much.
The anniversary is coming up fast, I can feel it in my bones, and the news my uncle gave me a couple of months ago about the tattoo shop is tearing at my mind. I need to find a solution, but I still don’t know how.
As for the man I saw…
What if it’s true? Four years ago, the killer walked free. The police never caught him. I’m the only witness. No fingerprints, no DNA traces, nothing. Except for my one, brief glimpse of his face and a tattoo I’m not even sure I saw.
And yet… And yet, what if last summer, passing right outside the building where Ash used to fight in the illegal underground cages, I saw the murderer of my family?
***
When I walk back inside Halo, my face is composed, my mask firmly in place, and my hands are steady. My cheekbones hurt from the cold, and the blast of warm air as I enter is more than welcome.
I have no clue for how long I stayed outside, but as I approach the small stage, I find there not only the members of the group, but also Zane and Dylan, arguing over something, gesturing at the crowded bar.
As I step onto the stage, they turn toward me and freeze in mid-gesture. Zane’s brows lower and he opens his mouth to say something.
Dakota hurries toward me and grabs my arm, tugging me toward my drum set. “There you are. I was telling the guys you stepped out a second to make a phone call, but they were worried. Come on, time to start.”
Letting her drag me to my place, I take in the situation. Koko is covering for me. She knew I went out, but obviously she also knew it wasn’t to make a phone call. Was Zane arguing with Dylan about me?
Feels weird to be the focus of this little theater act. To be the focus of Zane’s, the whole damn Brotherhood’s, concern.
After all, I’m the one who rescued Zane from the downhill slide back when we were at school, and together we took care of the others. Together we opened Damage Control and took in the Damage Boyz. I’m one of the founders, the protectors of the Brotherhood. I can’t break apart.
I won’t. I’ve got this.
Settling on my stool, I nod my thanks to Koko, expecting her usual wink and whispered ‘you owe me’, but instead I get a frown. In her eyes I see the same worry I saw on Z-man’s face.
Awesome. I so don’t need this right now. If they wait for me after the concert for a group hug, I’ll break out in hives.
Making a mental note to jump off the stage and disappear the moment the music stops, I grab my drumsticks and make one last-ditch attempt to empty my mind.
Zane and Dylan step away from the stage. Riley, Luke and Quinn are looking at me expectantly. Koko grabs her mike and fluffs up her wild, dark hair with her other hand. Her combat boots squeak on the floor.
“Ready?” she asks.
In reply, I bang my drums and the crowd whistles and applauds. I think I recognize the voices of our friends—Zane, Dylan, and Tyler, Tessa and Erin, the boys from the shop—Micah, Jesse, Seth, Shane and Ocean. I haven’t seen Ash and Audrey, but last I saw her she was so big with the baby, she probably needs her rest right now.
All is as it should be. All is great. I take a deep breath and drumroll into the first song.
Showtime.
As the first notes from the bass hit the air, as Koko’s powerful voice fills the hot, still air, as the guitars strum and whine, the world narrows. It’s a return to a primitive state of the mind, where I’m alert in the dark, blind of sight,
immobilized and highly aware of sounds and vibrations.
A rustling. An animal roar. The crack of a twig. The sound of distant thunder.
Beware, a whisper thrums through my head. Beware.
Koko screams her rage into her mike, her mane lifting with static. Quinn growls into his own mike and bends over his guitar. Riley throws his head back, then his hair flops over his face again as he caresses the bass.
Shadows shift over the stage like passing clouds. I hit the bass drums, hit the tom toms, work the pedal, work in drumroll after drumroll as Koko’s voice rises in a crescendo. The floor trembles in time to the beat. A rat-tat, like shooting bullets. Like emptying a magazine into a man’s chest.
Blood. I blink at the sweat dripping in my eyes. No. Sneering faces. People. Have to remember I’m the one producing the sound, causing the havoc. I’m in charge.
I’m in control.
The song ends with a bang, and we roll into the next one. Softer, harsher, louder, softer, the beat accelerating, my pulse quickening, matching the drums. I’m one with the music, one with the rage, the howling inside my head a counterpoint to Koko’s voice.
I hit the cymbals, and end the song with a double drumroll.
And then a jolt goes through me.
She’s here.
Megan. She wasn’t here before, I’m fucking sure of it. I can somehow sense when she’s in the room, as if a sixth sense is telling me so.
Fucking laughable. But when I scan the crowd, sure enough, there she is, raven-haired, sleek and beautiful, still dressed in her beige coat.
My mouth goes dry, my pants grow tight, and my senses go haywire. Suddenly my pulse is in my ears, booming.
Not a trigger, I think randomly. This isn’t fear. It’s need. My whole damn body comes alive at the sight of her. What is it about this girl?
And why the hell can’t I stop it? She’s not free, not interested in me, and even if she was... Even then, it’d be a fucking bad idea.
Koko turns and snaps her fingers at me. “Rafe.”
“Yeah.” I lift my sticks, tear my gaze off Megan, and launch into the next song, forcing my brain back on track.
But it’s hard—the pun very much intended—because I can still see the small oval of her face, her dark eyes, the swell of her breasts. No need to remember or imagine her. She’s right in front of me, and no matter how I try, I can’t stop my gaze from returning to her, again and again.
If only I could…
Dammit. I bang the drums harder than I should, letting the tortured sound fill the bar.
Not gonna happen. I’m as far from normal as can be, and she deserves someone nice. Someone good. And she’s probably got him already.
Someone who doesn’t dream every night of killing someone. Of killing the murderer, strangling him with his bare hands, sending him straight to hell, and then...
Then nothing.
***
My old battered drum set is packed in my black Mustang, and I’m ready to call it a night. I know the guys expect me to stay late, as usual, drink and joke with them—but not tonight, not for me.
My mind’s made up, so when Zane and Tyler grab my arms and drag me back inside ‘for one drink only, man’, I dig in my heels and tell them flat out I can’t.
“Come on, fucker.” Zane lets go, but looks pissed. “I’m telling you, we need to talk.”
And that’s the last thing I need right now. “Another day.”
“Just one drink,” Tyler says, raking his hand through his short, dark hair. “It’s tradition, man.”
Fuck. I know it is. Koko will sulk for a month if I don’t stay.
Shit, I’m making everyone suspicious. They already think there’s something going on with me, and if I just say fuck it and blow this pop stand, they’ll be banging on my door in no time, demanding to be let into my apartment and my wretched life.
“One drink,” I say, and lift my hand when Zane grins. “Just one. Then I’m going home.”
“Jax is still up, and you wanna go to bed?” Tyler teases, turning and following us back inside. “How come a four-year-old stays up later than you on a Saturday night? Last I checked you were nineteen, not ninety.”
“Check your facts,” I mutter. “Four-year-olds have a lot more energy than nineteen-year-olds like me. Playing the drums for a punk rock group is hard work.”
And I haven’t slept well in what feels like months. So yeah, nineteen. Old and cranky and sick of life.
Zane opens a path to the bar, and I follow the blue Mohawk. Let him think he’s leading, let him feel better. As long as we don’t have the Talk.
He points at a miraculously free stool, and I take a seat, swallowing a sigh.
Patience.
A blond girl with a micro skirt sidles up to me. “Aren’t you the drummer of Deathmoth?” she asks. At least I think that’s what she asks, with the level of noise in here. Good thing I can read lips.
I nod, and accept a beer from the bartender.
“Are you free?” She presses herself to my side, and a whiff of her perfume hits me—eye-watering, laced with patchouli, or some shit like that.
Holding my breath, I check her out. She’s not bad-looking. Good body, too. But lately I have no appetite—for food, or anything else.
“Sorry. I’m with him,” I say and point at Zane.
He flips me off and shakes his head. “Fucker…”
The girl’s eyes go wide, then she scowls. “No need to make fun of me, you know. A simple ‘no’ would be enough.”
“No,” I say.
She flounces off, and I watch her ass for a millisecond, then return to my beer.
“So is that how it’s gonna be?” Zane snaps.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Haven’t seen you with a chick since Tyler hit town, and that’s months and months ago. What’s the matter, your dick fall off?”
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“You know she’s here, right?” Zane asks, and I play dumb.
“That girl? I don’t know her.”
“Megan, fucker. She came to watch you play. Skipped work for you today. She just started at this new coffee shop. Grind and Brew it’s called, I think.”
Still pretending I have no clue why he’s telling me this, I shrug. “Who cares, man?”
Zane’s dark eyes narrow to slits. “Are you fucking with me? I’ve seen you staring at her. Never seen you do that with any other chick. So why don’t you pull your head out of your ass and go talk to her?”
Yeah, not gonna happen. I shake my head and take a pull from my beer. Tastes like piss. Then again, everything tastes like that these days.
“Rafe, listen.” Zane steps closer, rubbing one shaved side of his head. “Are you okay? I mean—”
“I need a smoke,” I announce, and get up to go because that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid—this discussion. “Be right back.”
A hand like a vise wraps around my biceps. “Will you tell me what the fuck’s going on with you?” Zane growls.
“I don’t like being pressured,” I shake my arm free, “fucker.”
“If you don’t like Megan, then stop stripping her with your eyes, asshole. She’s a good girl.”
“And she has a boyfriend.” I watch his dark eyes widen. “Since summer. Tessa told me, so just back the hell off and leave me alone.”
That shocks him enough to let me go, and I hurry away from him and his questions. Maybe I’ll just get out and have a smoke on my own, clear my head. Forget that Megan can’t be mine, that I shouldn’t try to win her over, even if I thought I stood a chance.
I push through the crowd, my stomach churning.
Dammit, I didn’t mean to snap at Zane. He means well. But I can’t tell him what’s on my mind. He’ll think that I’ve lost it for good.
And he might be right. The murderer of my family, walking around the same city where he did the deed? What are the odds of me recognizing the son of a bitch from a hazy
memory of a tattoo I thought I saw?
The police didn’t believe me back then. They told me I was in shock and my memories couldn’t be trusted. It’s true, they were all jumbled images, sounds, smells. But he returns in my dreams, and I keep seeing the symbol.
A handprint. That’s what was inked on the man’s arm. The man I saw last summer walking in the street as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Invading my nightmares once more, supplying them with fresh scenarios of horror. In my dreams he opens my door, enters my apartment and starts carving my flesh off my bones, piece by piece—and my dead family is watching.
Yeah, I see ghosts at night. They haunt my sleep. They make me want to bang my head against the wall. Make me throw the furniture around, crash my fists into the counters. Anything to make it stop.
I see Tessa gesturing to me from the bar, wanting to know where I’m going, and I change direction. She’s as likely to start asking questions as anybody else.
Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have stayed longer tonight.
Passing underneath the gaudy angels and strings of Christmas lights, I look for the emergency exit, but can’t see it. So I lean on the wall and thump my head back, close my eyes and grit my teeth.
Don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Can’t relax, can’t pretend everything’s gonna be okay. I’m too tired. Zapped all out, but truth is, I don’t know how going home will help. To sleep? Fucking hilarious. Can’t get in more than a couple of hours every night, and when I do, I wake up worse than before. The mere thought of going to bed is exhausting.
Deep inside I know if I don’t do something about the insomnia, I’ll be a danger to myself and everyone around me. I have a prescription for sleeping pills that should still be valid. Only problem is I shook off that addiction, but didn’t kill it. You don’t fucking kill addictions. You shelve them and try to forget about them.
Killing. A splash of red behind my closed eyelids, a touch on my arm, and I jerk back, this time hitting my head pretty hard against the wall. Bright pain shoots through my skull. I prepare to do it again, craving that lightning moment when my senses focus on a physical ache, emptying my mind from other thoughts.
