Path of Destruction

by Cara Dee

  I nodded and turned toward the sky again. "Good for you, fortunate son."

  Get the reference.

  "I'm not going off to war."

  Thank you.

  "Neither was the fortunate son." I smiled. The rock star gave me a bit of hope this lovely evening. Good music was getting lost in the sea of post-grunge and bubblegum pop.

  "Touché." He was amused again. "Fan of Creedence?"

  "Fan of anything that isn't played here, basically." The colors were fading, indicating my buzz was about to say goodbye. That made me sad. It meant I had to face reality, and I couldn’t do that. "One might think a party for rock stars would play better music."

  I needed my escapes. A constant string of them.

  I threw the rock star a glance and bit my lip. He probably had all the access…

  "Can I come with you?" I asked casually. "On tour, I mean. When are you leaving, again?"

  I had nothing to my name except a backpack I kept at a friend's place. I could leave in an hour.

  The surprised look on his face was priceless. This could be fun. For me—maybe not for him, and if he wasn’t tempted, I'd have to crank it up a notch. Because the more I thought about it, the more I itched for this to happen. Who knew, perhaps getting away from LA would fix me.

  Men like it when you don't want it.

  "I mean, I wouldn’t sleep with you," I tossed out flippantly.

  Lying through my teeth.

  That crashed and burned. He didn’t see a challenge. "Don't worry, I don’t fuck twelve-year-olds."

  "Ouch." Except, it didn’t hurt at all. "I'm eighteen, numbnuts." I sat up in the grass, my hair spilling down my front. "What about you, Gramps?"

  "What's this, Twenty Questions?" he drawled. "I'm twenty-nine, and do you know what's expected of chicks who—scratch that. Do you even know what to do with a cock?"

  "I suck it like a lollipop." I showed my palms, a lazy grin on my face. "Sorry, no virtue to protect."

  He merely laughed, and I bit my lip and scrunched my nose.

  So…? Was he gonna let me tag along? A girl had to know.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Adeline."

  He nodded and stood up. "The bus will be at the Beverly Wilshire. In the unlikelihood that you don't change your mind, be there at seven AM and ask for Lincoln. Your name will be on the list."

  He started walking away while I did a little shimmy in the grass. Fuck yes, I was going on tour. More importantly, I was leaving the West Coast! That made me giggle, but I stopped when I had another question.

  "Who's Lincoln?" I called after him.

  He flicked his cigarette into the pool. "The guy whose cock you'll suck like a lollipop."

  * * *

  2007

  "Jesse!" I shouted up the stairs.

  I couldn’t have misplaced it, could I? No. I was sure I'd put it on my desk in my room.

  "What's up?" He trailed down the creaking steps, dressed for his shift at the restaurant.

  "The folder with the chapters I printed?" I studied him for signs that he could be withholding something from me. He'd been pissy when I told him I didn’t want him to read what I'd written about my past. "Have you seen it?"

  He furrowed his brow, then shrugged and passed me on his way to the kitchen. "No clue. Why? You gonna print out the rest?"

  Hmm.

  I shook my head and followed him. "I'm gonna throw them out. I already deleted the file on the computer."

  He spun on me, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes, I'm serious." My scowl hopefully told him I was in no mood to argue about it. "Now, I can't find the crap I printed, so are you sure you haven't seen them?"

  I was a damn fool. A damn idiot. Before seeing Lincoln last month, I'd prepared a letter and the first few chapters for him to read. Thankfully, I'd changed my mind at the last minute because, holy hell, I couldn’t imagine anything worse at this point than if he read that drivel.

  Seeing him face-to-face for the first time in nine years had caused me to do a one-eighty about the whole idea of publishing.

  It'd been a silly idea, anyway. An ad in the paper: "Write Your Fortune, Send Us Your Manuscript."

  "You're being fucking stubborn," Jesse told me. "People write memoirs all the time, and you worked on that thing for a whole year."

  A year was nothing.

  I couldn’t. My mind was set after a month of thinking, rethinking, and going back and forth so much it made my head spin. It messed with me, having a fresh memory of Lincoln.

  He was real again.

  Lincoln was real.

  In the last decade, he'd become more and more a ghost. A twinge that tugged at me every now and then, or visited me when I slept. Now there was the crystal-clear image of his face and hardened features, his body in that navy blue, scrub-like prison uniform, and fuck-off attitude.

  He despised me.

  Swallowing that pain for now, I grabbed a bottle of water as Jesse slumped down at the table, worry creasing his forehead. I knew where his mind was at, but we'd find another income—somehow.

  "Where's Abel?" he asked quietly.

  "Not home from school yet." I walked over to him and rubbed his neck gently. He was stressed out, and I hated it. The boy was only nineteen. His biggest concerns should be girls and college. Instead, it was always about bills and getting more hours. "You look more and more like your father every day. You know that?"

  He smiled faintly and closed his eyes. "I miss him."

  "Me, too." I refused to get emotional. In front of Jesse and his little brother, I had to remain strong. "Do you ever miss your mother?"

  "Don’t be stupid." He hung his head, making it clear my job for the next few minutes was to keep massaging his neck. "I see you every day."

  I let out a choked little laugh, loving him more than I could put into words.

  "We'll fix this, Jesse." I kissed the top of his head. "I promise."

  Chapter 3

  Lincoln Hayes

  2007

  I leaned my shoulder against the wall and crossed my ankles, waiting impatiently for the dispatcher to put my pop through the line. Mack walked down the hall toward the phone booths, and I clenched my jaw in restraint. Between him and me, there was no contest. I could make him back off from Kid—no issue—but I didn’t swagger with a fucking crew and think I owned the joint. Without buddies to back me up, I wasn’t gonna look for trouble.

  Pop came through with his standard, "Yellow. You all right, son?"

  "Yeah, hey." I trapped the phone between my cheek and shoulder and cracked my knuckles. "I need you to get in touch with someone for me. You remember Adeline?"

  "Of course."

  I nodded to myself and retrieved the letter from my pocket. Her address was written on the back of the envelope, and I gave Pop the information. She belonged in Baltimore, yet her address put her in Detroit.

  "I want you to give her money," I told him. "I don't know what's going on with her, but she's in some financial jam, and she got the stupid idea to publish a book on how she met the band."

  Over my dead body was my new response.

  "That…doesn’t seem like her." Pop sounded confused, and I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t gonna dig, though. "She's not the type of person to exploit your past."

  How would he know? He hadn't seen her in almost ten years. Not that it mattered.

  "She was gonna do it under a pseudonym and change our names or whatever." I waved it off. "Give her what she needs and tell her to burn that fucking book."

  "Hmm. Did you read something she wrote?" he asked.

  Boy, fucking did I. Ade's voice was as soft as it was warm, and it shone through the pages. She brought back memories I didn’t want anymore. They didn’t fit. If I could smash them all out of my skull, I would. When she mentioned tinkering on a nonexistent piano in the letter—chapter, whatever—I almost cracked. And the story of how there were no stars in LA…? I remembered her silly grin.
r />   "A bit." I coughed into my fist and jerked my chin in acknowledgment to the fucker who waited to use the phone. "I don't want any part of it."

  "Why?"

  Because I couldn’t allow Ade to shock me to life in a place like this. It would only bring me misery. The anxiety and grief would return. I would start to care. I wouldn’t be closed off. After that, I'd be done for. There were visions of motherfuckers taking advantage, and—shit. No. The answer was simply no.

  "Just… Can you handle it for me?"

  He knew I wasn’t gonna budge. "Yeah, sure. If I can't find her number, I'll drive over on my way to see you."

  I'd forgotten he was coming soon. Definitely a pleasant reminder. I decided right then and there I wasn’t gonna ask for details. As long as Ade was handled, I was cool.

  *

  "You know what I think is weird?" Kid asked.

  I thought it was weird that he always had to talk. I also thought it was weird how goddamn slow the line to the canteen moved. Only three inmates ahead of me now. Rogers would probably stock up on hydrated onion and ramen. Fucker. If there was no chicken flavor by the time it was my turn, I'd blow my shit.

  Nunez would buy stamps, chili powder, honey packets, and tea.

  "Hey." Kid nudged me and adjusted his beanie. "How come the prices in the canteen go up, but our pay numbers stay the same?" He looked adorably stupid and confused. Cocked head, thinking hard. "Two days of work will give me a can of Pepsi, Lincoln. That’s robbery."

  My mouth twitched, and I shook my head at him. "Tell your parents to add more money to your account."

  He looked down. "They cut me off."

  "You poor thing," I responded dryly. If he let that slip to Mack, maybe the bastard would ease up on the occasional beatings. Turning my back on Kid, I waited while Nunez ordered his shit. He was gonna write to his children, as he did every week. Judging by the Cheetos and noodles he bought, he was gonna cook some spread, too.

  Then it was my turn, and I eyed the shelves before quickly scanning the price list. Robbery was right. I gave my digits and scratched my jaw. I needed to shave soon.

  "One of those sad excuses you call pens." I was limited to one, which sucked. I lived among thieves, and pens disappeared. Even when they were bendy and couldn’t be turned into shanks. "Uh, two packs of ramen—chicken if you've got it. Bag of Fritos, two stamps, a pack of Marlboros—"

  "Funny."

  "I know, right?" I grinned, checking the list some more. "Give me two hot sauces, too." I threw a glance over my shoulder and then added, "And a can of Pepsi."

  I snorted when I heard the total but moved right the fuck along with my items, and I tossed Kid his damn soda.

  His whole face lit up.

  I regretted buying the Pepsi. I should be toughening him up, not giving him stuff for free.

  *

  Why wasn’t she in Baltimore? She had family there. Her cousin, if I remembered correctly. There was no one for her in Michigan.

  I drew my pen along the cracks in the concrete wall. Lights went out a while ago. Kid was sleeping fitfully, having another nightmare. I tossed and turned, eventually returning to my side so I could scribble on the wall. Stop thinking, I wrote. Stop thinking.

  I thought of road signs; yeah, only one "p" in stop.

  If I closed my eyes, all I saw were Ade and the memories her first chapter dusted off. If I strained my ears, I could hear George in the next cell humming a low, bluesy tune. It was a kick in my songwriter brain. I hadn't written lyrics in years, and I didn’t want to. I gave up journaling 'cause it made me think. Stop fucking thinking.

  George's humming broke through my wall, growing somber and fainter. Could I catch a damn break for once? I released a sigh and wrote what came to mind.

  I met a kid thief on the lawn, that one night

  No fright, sharp tongue, and she…and you

  Spoke of songs long, long before your time

  Eyes of Emerald Isle, soul of Joplin, and she…and you

  My first mistake was to think she was unspoiled and clueless. She'd called herself a stupid teen and inexperienced in the chapter, which was bullshit. Only a person who'd seen more bad than good would throw caution to the wind and say fuck it like she did. She was reckless back then because she had nothing to lose. She wasn’t inexperienced. She'd just gotten a rough fucking start. So she danced into my life, high on ecstasy and not life, and she screwed me over.

  Were a tiny dancer with sticky fingers, who

  Stole something…stole something of mine

  "Fuck." I shifted onto my back and threw an arm over my face. If I hadn't met her…where would I be today? Rehab, maybe. Waiting impatiently for the next royalty check? I couldn’t picture myself married. No kids. Perhaps I'd be a has-been who spoke of the glory days in interviews and specials on TV. I loved music too much to leave it behind, yet…I kinda did that the day I was arrested.

  Fuck her.

  If I hadn't met her, I wouldn’t be in here.

  Bitterness and anger seeped into me, and I kicked off the blanket before I jumped down to the floor. A dozen reps of push-ups would hopefully exhaust me…

  Kid's convenient offer flashed through my thoughts, but I wouldn’t be able to go easy on him. I got it, I got it. I was the prick who accepted blow jobs as a payment so he'd feel more secure that I'd protect him, though even I had limits. Only violence coursed through me, so I took it out on the concrete floor instead.

  *

  "Who pissed you off?" Nunez asked.

  I slapped the stack of letters onto the picnic table and sat down. "I could kill that fucking cunt." The CO who made a fortune smuggling smokes to me snorted and turned away from the table. My fingers shook as I lit up a smoke and took a calming drag. Holy fuck, someone give me strength. The cold made me bunch up my shoulders. If Kid were around, I would've stolen his beanie again.

  Four goddamn letters. She'd sent another four letters, thick ones. If they were more chapters, I didn’t know what I'd do. My rage was misplaced; I knew that. They were dated, so I could see she'd sent them around the same time as the first, and they'd probably gotten stuck in the mailroom, but Jesus H, my blood was boiling.

  "I'm not going to pretend I know what you're talking about." Nunez rubbed his hands together to warm 'em up. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

  "What?" I muttered.

  "Lowell's getting out next month."

  I didn’t know who that was, so I just stared at him.

  "He plays the guitar at church services?"

  Oh.

  "What about it?" I flicked away some ashes and eyed the CO. He tapped his watch pointedly.

  "We need a new guitar player," Nunez said, and I was already shaking my head. I didn’t play anymore. "Oh, come on, man! You pussy. Don't say you've forgotten how to play."

  I wouldn’t put it past me. I hadn't picked up an instrument in a decade. "Forget it. Not interested—all right, all right—Jesus." The CO wasn’t having it anymore. I took a final puff and stubbed out the cigarette, then frowned when he walked closer and held out his hand.

  "Your smokes," he said. "They're doing a random search this week. I'll keep them for now. Your lighter, too."

  Good to know. I handed them over.

  "Well, now it's not gonna be random anymore," Nunez replied with a frown. "Thanks for ruining the surprise."

  I chuckled, and the CO walked off with an eye-roll.

  Nunez slid his gaze my way again. "I'm serious, ese. You gotta live, even in here. You're not on death row."

  Shut up. Was it so fucking hard to keep a lid on talk of yesterday and tomorrow? I wanted my days to blend together and be jack shit. If I had things to look forward to or crap that had me wistful, it meant involving emotion. I didn’t wanna give a shit in here. How many times did I have to make that clear?

  "Just drop it." I rose from the table, about to freeze my nuts off, anyway. Might as well get back inside.

  *

  Nineteen…eightee
n… Get a move on it. A couple of inmates were getting heated in the line to dinner. If they got physical, the officers would break it up, and it would be two people fewer in front of me. Seventeen…sixteen… Kid and three others who worked the kitchen were serving up something foul. It was always foul. Bland, unrecognizable. Fifteen, fourteen—and the two inmates let their fists fly.

  "Hey!" Three COs were instantly ready for combat, and the two prisoners were about to miss dinner 'cause fighting about cigarettes was more important. "Knock it off!"

  "Back to the cells," another CO growled. "Write 'em up."

  Now only twelve people stood between me and my god-awful dinner.

  My nose tickled, and I sneezed. Then Kid had my attention again. He flinched at an inmate reaching over him to grab a milk. Something was up. He kept his gaze down more than usual, and he looked tense. If it was Mack, I'd have to intervene. Getting smacked around was nothing to write home about, but I wouldn’t let it escalate.

  When it was my turn, I picked up a tray and watched each pocket get filled with shit I could barely identify.

  Kid was handing out Jell-O cups behind the counter, and I accepted one even though I hated them. He didn’t, and if he didn’t want it, I could trade it. Why the hell wouldn’t he look me in the eye, though?

  This wasn’t the time or the place, so I moved on and sat down with inmates who had no issues with me. I wondered what would happen if I sat at the wrong table just for the fuck of it.

  Retrieving a couple packs of mayo and hot sauce from my pocket, I did my best to salvage the food, and I reckoned it was the best time to read one of Ade's letters. 'Cause, let's face it, I wasn’t gonna be able to throw them out.

  Being surrounded by prisoners and the cacophony of dinnertime would hopefully help me stay in the present.

  Damn, I was right. They were more chapters. I flipped through them and found the second one. No note beforehand this time, only the chapter.

  "Oh Christ, this is worse than usual." I wiped a napkin over my mouth and spat out what was supposed to be some meat stew.

  Scanning the beginning of the first page, I bit into a stale roll and saw she was writing about the morning she got on our tour bus. Not my finest moment, and she hadn't even seen the part where I turned into a full-blown misogynist.