My brain was trying to wrap around her reality. This didn’t fit her. I got it – but she wasn’t fucked up enough to have come from this.
“Jag. What do you think is the reason I grew up in this?”
I was at a loss, and continued to stare at the shit hole she’d once called home. “I don’t know.”
“Drugs. Addiction. The reason I should have run the fuck away from you the first time you kissed me.”
That comment forced a breath from me and I looked at her. She was wounded in ways I couldn’t begin to understand.
Her eyes fell to her lap and she whispered, “That shit sucks the life out of you. It takes ambition, it takes your soul, and it takes away everything you love. I grew up like this because my father couldn’t cope with my mother’s death. Drugs became his love, his livelihood – his family. This is what addiction did to me. Then it took my brother. My only constant. I cannot go through this again. Do you understand? It will kill me. I cannot do this again.” She sobbed, covering her mouth as she broke down. “I want to forget this ever existed. You can put me in the biggest mansion in Beverly Hills, buy me all the designer clothes you want, but if you can’t stay clean it will feel no different to me than this. And I don’t want this ever again.”
At that moment I felt foolish for having pitied my own situation. I felt ridiculous for having been unable to manage the hurt I’d had, for running toward anything that could numb me, and running from anything that could make me feel. As I studied her, her eyes drilling into me with the need for something deeper than a promise, I realized she was my counterpart. Her situation had been worse, more devastating – but what we were inside, that was the same. We both sought out ways to keep us numb, me with drugs, her with isolating herself; and we both strayed from what made us feel – each other and love.
I adjusted myself in the seat and leaned in to her, holding her face with both my hands. “I can’t put you inside my head, princess. I can’t make you understand the way I feel toward you, or how sincere I am when I say that I will stay sober. All I can do is promise I would never do this to you. I will never put you here again – not mentally, not physically. I was all out of dreams to chase until I met you. You are my hope, my desire, and my reason to be a better person.”
Roxy let out a sigh and a look of disappointment fell over her face. “You think you’re cured?”
“No. Not at all. But I have a reason to not give into the urge.”
Her shoulders fell.
“There’s no curing this, princess. Nothing’s gonna be able to take that memory away. Nothing, not even you, can take the urge ingrained inside me to chase a high. But you, the idea of you and what I have with you, that can stop me from doing it. You’re my barricade, my protection from my own self.”
“You understand that you can’t ever do it again, not once, right? Sean had sworn he was ‘cured.’ And –”
I shook my head. “I know. I can’t touch it. I won’t touch it. But I need you to understand that if I try to talk to you about it, if I tell you I want it, you can’t freak out. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it, but I need to be able to be honest with you. I need a person that can accept me, that will believe me.”
A soft smile curved over her lips. “That’s all I want, Jagger. Honesty. Just don’t lie, that’s all. Just don’t ever lie to me.”
Chapter 47
Walking past all the cafes, I noticed just how many people were enjoying a beer, a glass of bourbon or gin – and my mouth watered. I squeezed Roxy’s hand as we made our way down toward the beach, and she squeezed back.
No sooner had we stopped at the crosswalk leading to the beach than several paparazzi popped up and snapped pictures. The bulbs flashed bright lights in our faces as they yelled for us to look in their direction.
Roxy groaned, “Seriously? How the hell is our kid supposed to have a normal life with creeps like this?”
Shrugging, I started across the street. “I can promise you complete, but I never promised you normal, princess.”
“When’s the baby due, Jag? Do you know what it is?” one of the guys called out.
We kept walking and without turning around, I shouted back at him. “A baby. It’s a baby.”
A few more clicks of the shutter, then the guy yelled, “You gonna stay clean this time?”
“Yep.” And I waved my hand through the air. “Can’t lose her.”
Roxy giggled and slapped her hand over my arm. “Are you even trying to clean up your language? I feel like there should have been at least a ‘fuck off’ thrown in there.”
“Nope. I mean, I get the drugs – but ‘fuck’ is a mainstay in my vocabulary.”
She innocently tossed her hands up. “Not asking you to. I like some parts of you filthy, you know?”
Roxy blew out a heavy breath and I glanced down at her stomach. “You feel all right?” I asked. “That looks fucking painful. I don’t even know how it’s possible for skin to stretch like that.”
She stopped walking and attempted to cock her hip out, then glared at me. “I feel fine. And it is painful. My lungs are all squished up in my neck, my bladder has been flattened out like a pancake, and the amount of pressure in my hips is insane. I’m pretty sure skin’s not supposed to stretch like this, and I have a feeling it’s going to look disgusting once this baby comes out.” Roxy waddled over to one of the wooden benches at the edge of the grainy sand, placing one arm behind her to steady herself as she attempted to sit.
I reached out to help her, and she swatted my hand away. “I’ve got it. Stop.”
“You know, it’s okay to play the damsel in distress card sometimes.”
She huffed out a breath of relief when her back hit the wood. “I’m not in distress. I just can’t do this for two more months. Holy shit. This is ridiculous. Why nine months? Why do babies have to get so big? I’m convinced laying damn eggs would be a much more pleasant experience.”
I stood in front of her, my lips growing into a deeper curve with each second I watched her.
“Okay. Now you’re looking at me all creepy. Stop it.”
“I can’t help it. You’re fucking gorgeous all pregnant.”
Roxy rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Cankles are the new sexy, huh?”
“You know what I think is even sexier?”
She glared at me, completely unamused with my attempts to be flirtatious.
“The fact that I did that to you. That’s fucking sexy as hell.” I thumbed over the piercing under my lip and let out a low growl.
She snickered. “Oh, yeah. Real fucking sexy, Jag. Maybe the moment of conception should go in the baby book. You, my dear sweet child, were conceived on a stage in Charleston, with several spectators, Uncle Rush included, witness to the event. That is so romantic, yet so fitting for a rock god, right?”
I swallowed, and my hand instinctively rubbed over my pocket to feel a lump in it. My nerves tightened and my pulse sped up, thumping hard enough that I could hear it in my ears. I sat down on the bench beside her, my hand fidgeting with my pocket again. “So. You are gonna give the baby my last name, right?”
“Well, yeah. What kind of stupid question is that, Jag? I mean, there’s no question this,” Roxy patted her stomach, “is yours.”
A quick smile flipped the corners of my mouth up. “Yeah.” My hand trailed down her side, down her leg, and stopped on her knee. I scooted to the edge of the bench. “Sometimes the mom just wants the kid to have her last name, you know?”
“I don’t care about that. It’s a name, plus, like I said, I’m cursed. So the baby’s better off with Steele anyway.”
Slowly, I lowered myself to the ground. The sand was still slightly damp from the rain the night before, and the moisture bled through my jeans.
Roxy wrinkled her brow and narrowed her eyes at me. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I just want to look at you. I like you from this angle,” I said, circling my fingers over the tops of her thighs.
; “Mm-hmm.” She looked nervous, uncertain.
My finger fished in my pocket. “Well. I think maybe, just possibly, you should consider changing your name to Steele too. You know, to make everything complete and all, of course.” I finally freed the box from my pocket and brought it up so she could see it. I felt ridiculous and vulnerable. Roxy’s eyes pulsed open and her lips parted slightly.
Opening the box, I removed the ring and held it up to her. “I want to marry you. I need you to marry me. I love you, and if I don’t have you I’m nothing. This is more than a promise to be with you, princess. This is a promise that I’ll be there for you. This is a promise that nothing will ever mean more to me than you do.”
I glanced down at the ring, it was a large diamond solitaire with amethyst baguettes on each side. “There’s meaning in this ring. You see –”
“Jag,” she interrupted me, and I looked up to find her eyes watering, a look of absolute fear plastered over her face.
I grabbed her hand and slid the ring over her finger.
“Jag, I –”
I shook my head. “Let me finish. As ridiculous and fucking sappy as this all sounds, just listen. I had this made for you because amethysts are supposed to aid in sobriety, and diamonds are supposed to absorb weaknesses and amplify strengths. And that’s what you do. That’s what we do for each other.”
She drew in a breath, and it was apparent she was uncertain whether she was ready to go there with me or not.
Raising up on my knees, I reached for her face and pulled her toward me. “You won’t ever let yourself be ready if you keep worrying. We’re about to have a baby. A baby. You’re stuck with me no matter what. I want the things neither of us ever had. We need to be a family, princess. Every moment of my life, each fucking mistake I made was all to bring me to you, because we fucking belong together. And if you tell me no, I’ll just ask you tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, until you finally get so tired of having me ask you you’ll give in. And I’m pretty fucking amazing at getting what I want.”
She stared down at the ring, barely shaking her head.
“Stop,” I whispered. “You’re gonna marry me and you know it.” I brought her lips to mine and tenderly kissed them. “You gonna marry me, princess, huh? I swear I’m not a shattered fucking mess anymore. I’m just broken, just little chips here and there. Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Give me something to belong to, Rox. That’s all I need, is to belong to you.”
Chapter 48
Seven months later
I lay awake, my arm draped over Roxy’s body, and I listened to the ocean crashing onto the shore outside our open bedroom window. The light night breeze rushed through the room, blowing the curtains she’d insisted we put up against the edge of the bed. The room was completely dark, with the exception of the blue-tinted glow of the baby monitor on the dresser.
We’d bought a beautiful home on Long Beach with our own private part of the shore. I couldn’t stay in that house in Beverly Hills. I didn’t want to. All I saw was my past, and I wanted a brand new start. We needed a fresh beginning.
Staring at the screen, I rubbed my hand over Roxy’s arm, the sensation of the metal encircling my ring finger still new, and every time I felt that ring I smiled.
A small cry came over the monitor and I jumped up, quickly making my way down the hall. When I came to the nursery door, her arms were stretched up in the air and she was crying. I walked over and carefully placed one hand underneath her tiny, sweaty neck and the other under her diapered butt, bringing her to my chest.
“Hey, princess. You hungry?” I rocked her slowly, tenderly, unable to move my eyes away from her round face. Her eyes were wide open and full of such damn innocence, so much promise.
“Come on. We’re gonna let mommy sleep.” I cradled her to my chest and made my way to the kitchen, where Roxy had left a bottle out. I did the math in my head to make sure it was still good. If I dumped out a perfectly good bottle of breast milk, I would catch hell.
The baby let out a few short protests with how long it was taking me to get her milk to her.
“Okay, okay. Hang on, darlin’. I don’t have any boobies. Give daddy a break.” I paused and a soft grin formed on my face. I loved referring to myself as daddy; that was a title I was proud of.
As soon as I pointed the nipple in her direction, she opened her mouth. Keeping her eyes locked on my face, she sucked on the bottle, the little dimples in her cheeks showing with each draw she made.
I gripped the bottom of the bottle with my chin so it wouldn’t drop as I reached for the burp cloth on the kitchen counter. I made my way into the den, flipped the light switch, and walked through the double sliding doors that led out onto the patio.
I held her tightly to my chest as I sat down in the porch swing. That swing was something I’d demanded, having been raised in the south. As I stared down at that perfect little bundle in my arms, I noticed the tattoo I’d gotten the day after Roxy had taken me back: “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger. 09/12/2014.” Us. Because it was no longer me; it was us. That date was the day my life started over, the day she took me back and the day I committed to being sober. One day at a time.
My life was perfect. I had a woman I was madly in love with; the most precious daughter anyone could ask for; and for the first time since I was ten years old, I didn’t feel like I was broken. For the first time in years I was sober; I had a life. Jagger Steele: father, husband, and, every once in a while rock star.
I’m not saying it’s been easy, because it has been anything but. Any time I get stressed, every time before I go on stage the want for those drugs damn near cripples me, but I have something to live for. I’ve found my meaning.
I sat on the swing, and the waves lulled her eyes shut as she drank the last few bits of her bottle. Drugs were like a fucking wild Arabian Stallion. And I’d thought I had the fucking reins, I thought I was in control; but a stallion, a wild horse like that can’t be told what to do. I was never in control, and I knew I’d have to fight to keep that damn horse under control for the rest of my life.
Taking the bottle from Savannah’s mouth, I set it beside me on the swing. Her perfect, rosy lips still mimicked sucking at it in her sleep. I brushed my fingertips across her forehead and leaned down to gently kiss her cheek. I settled back in the wooden swing and softly sang a song to my sleeping daughter, a song which held more meaning than anyone besides me could fully understand. Funny that the guy I was named after sang a song that was really the epitome of my life. Cliché, I know, but how many clichés had I been? This one, I’d take it.
The lyrics to “Wild Horses” poured from my lips, my heart, my fucking soul as I held my child.
Jag Steele really died that day in the Savannah cemetery. Death. That’s what it took to make me wake the fuck up. In death I found life; I found reasoning, and nothing could drag me away from this life I had. Not fame, not drugs; nothing.
The End
About the author:
I refuse to write this in third person. It just creeps me out.
I can write an entire book, but have no idea what to tell you about myself.
I have an obsession with words. I love writing because it is an art form that can be manipulated to convey emotions, create entire worlds, and provide an escape to sanctuary. I started writing poetry as a child and never fell out of love with putting words on paper.
Now for who I am: Eccentric. I am absolutely eccentric. My favorite color is pink – sparkly, glittery pink. I love sloths because they are so unbelievably weird. Their organs grow upside down and they harbor bacteria in their fur, not to mention they move super slow. What’s not to love? I have irrational fears. The zombie apocalypse absolutely tops my list of things I am terrified of, which is why I hope to one day own a water fortress in the middle of the ocean, because we all know zombies can’t swim. And I like to imagine strange scenarios, such as that what is actually the color purple to me is not actually pu
rple to you…I’m a special kind of crazy!
If you want to keep up with my releases, or if you just want to subject yourself to my madness you can find me on:
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Sneak peek at what’s next:
Excerpt from Roxy:
Chapter 1
I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sean always answered my calls, and if he didn’t make it to the phone in time, he called me right back. He knew he was all I had – I was all he had. Our lives had been shit, and the only thing we had was each other. I’d probably called him twenty times in the last three hours – and still no answer.
The leather wheel slid through my slick palms as I pulled into his apartment complex. My breathing was uneven, labored, and my stomach in knots. I shoved the gear into park and released a hard breath. As I reached over to shove my purse underneath the seat I caught a glimpse of the scars covering the inside of my arm and that memory jolted through my head.
My nostrils flared as I tried to hold back the screams, my vision blurred behind the tears I refused to let fall. The iconic image of my father passed out on that denim, grease-covered couch behind Bill.
“When you gonna learn to cry, girl? Huh?” Bill asked as he laid the hot end of the metal pipe on my flesh again, the skin singing. The disgusting smell of burning flesh filled my nose made a small amount of bile rise up in the back of my throat. Bill angled his face down, his blue eyes peering up at me and crinkling in the corners from the sick smile plastered over his face. “Cry, girl. Go on. Cry.”
I refused. Layla, my little sister, started singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” as she rolled a Tonka truck over the filthy floor, completely unaffected by this routine scenario of abuse completely.
Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1) Page 31
