Razor's Edge (Afflictions)

by Racquel Reck

  Teenaged memories slam into my head—her always dragging me to the Loft. Hanging out with local bands while they rehearsed. It was wicked awesome back then. We could come with one band and hop from room to room listening to them all play. Free alcohol and pot—what rebellious teen wouldn’t love a set up like that? Thing is, I grew out of it. Bebe evolved with it.

  "Maybe next time." I finish my six-inch then toss the wrapper in the garbage can.

  "Come on, Shay. You never come out. And you deserve some stress-free fun before Gary’s parole hearing." Bebe pouts her lips like that’s supposed to make me change my mind.

  My stress level this past week has been enough to give a healthy person an aneurysm. All the nights I lay awake in my bed—wondering if Gary will be granted parole and storm back into my life only to leave me again, whether by prison, some hot young twat, or a drug overdose—has my heart twisted in knots. He can’t be set free, free to wreak havoc in my life, leaving behind nothing but a disaster zone of empty promises and broken hearts.

  Not just one now. I have Ben to worry about too. His heart. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t protect it?

  "I can’t find a babysitter on short notice." And cue my constant cop out. I’d enjoy a night to myself, but Ben needs me here. He’s already had one parent abandon him. I’ll be damned if I will, too.

  Bebe rolls her eyes. "Call Sasha. She’s been complaining about how she needs to come up with money for her trip to Cancun. She’s been taking on all kinds of side jobs to save up a little extra spending cash."

  "I can’t afford to pay a babysitter and still have enough cash to go out." I head over to my workstation and start cleaning up for my next appointment. I detach everything and throw the needles away, then take the tubes off my gun and throw them in the sterilizer. Wiping down the seat for my next appointment, I try to tune out Tryst and Bebe’s whispering in the background. Talk all they want, I’m not giving in and going out.

  I glance down at my appointment folder. Dicky. A sign? I think not. A lot of musicians like tattoos, and this is Motown. I laugh. Besides, Dicky’s a white wannabe rapper. Not one hardcore, heavy-metal bone in his body. I pull out the picture for his back piece. A cemetery with the names and dates of all his dead friends. Yeah, he’s gangsta. A member of the Gangsta Disciples. Bikers and Gang bangers. Perfect clientele. I need a shop in a new neighborhood.

  "Doing Dicky’s coloring today, or are you still outlining?"

  I jump. "Jesus Christ, Tryst." I playfully slap him with the picture.

  "Sorry." He rubs his shaved head, and his deep chocolate eyes rise to mine. "If ya want, I can pay for the babysitter. I do owe you for the German eagle you did between my blades."

  "Thanks for the offer, but family gets free tatts from me and—"

  "You deserve some kind of compensation."

  What is it with my friends and their undying need to get me out? "If you feel that bad about not paying for the tatt, how about floating me on our poker nights for a couple of weeks, and we’ll call it even." Reaching into the bottom drawer I pull out a fresh, unopened bag of needles.

  "It can’t be that bad. You might have a little fun."

  Ignoring him, I take the tubing to my gun out of the sterilizer and reattach it. Tryst doesn’t say anything and doesn’t go away. He’s waiting for my answer.

  The bell rings.

  "Tryst, your two-thirty is here," Bebe announces from the front.

  "This convo isn’t closed." He glances at the door.

  Q is standing there, and Dicky walks in behind him.

  "One of these nights I’m going to get you out of that stuffy loft apartment you live in." Tryst walks toward Q. "Hey, man. Whatcha got for me?"

  He’s right. I should go out. It’s been a while since I went to anything other than Bebe’s poker nights.

  Fifteen years of being supported by that bastard Gary puts me in check. When he gets out he’s going to want his business back. My only hope of getting away from the asshole is saving my money to open my own shop in a better part of town, with richer clientele. Spending cash on needless activities won’t help me accomplish my goal.

  Sometimes I wish I were Bebe. She doesn’t have the worries I do. No kid, no abusive baby daddy. She can go out whenever she wants. Her clientele is solid. They’d never abandon her for someone else. The urge to go out rides me hard. To be Bebe for just one night.

  "No kid today?" Dicky removes his shirt.

  "No. He’s with Timikia—” Sh…it! I almost forgot. Max’s birthday. Timikia asked if Ben could spend the night, too. Ah… Maybe I am working a little too hard lately.

  I glance at the flyer. Can’t use the no-babysitter excuse now.

  Morgan

  She’s coming to see us perform tonight. Emily Rhines. My band’s one shot at possibly getting a record deal. When Rictor got the call a few days ago, I could barely contain myself. But now, I’m all tight knots of nervous. Shit. Get a grip. You’re going to blow it for everyone.

  Bryan’s tuning his bass guitar and Lina is plugging in her keyboard. She hits a key and an ear-splitting tone rings through Harper’s empty space. Bryan’s one lucky SOB. Lina is gorgeous, with her pixie face and bright red hair. She has mad talent and our band is lucky to have her. She adjusts the sound and tries again, this time it’s a little better.

  Bryan checks and re-checks his connection to his amp. Nervous. We all are. This could make or break us.

  What if we’re not good enough? What if I’m not good enough?

  You’re a useless boy I never should have had. You can’t even get a fucking note right.

  My mom’s drunken words catapult me back to the seven-year-old boy learning the guitar. She taunts me in front of a group of her friends. Calling me names and telling everyone how worthless I am because I can’t play the piano like I’m some younger version of Beethoven. The sick part is, they all laugh with her. She wanted me to become famous, but she constantly put me down. Forced me to practice and humiliated me at every turn.

  Bang!

  My head snaps in the direction of the sound and brings me out of the memory that always skyrockets my stage fright before every performance.

  Fucking Rictor. It’s not even seven yet, and he’s stumbling around the stage drunk. He glances up at Wiley and pulls himself up from the mess of drums.

  "Rictor, you asshole!" Wiley bends down and grabs a cymbal stand. "You’re lucky you didn’t bust my drums. What the fuck, man? You want me to smash your guitar?"

  Rictor leans down and rights one of Wiley’s snares. "Sorry, dog. Didn’t see the cable."

  Yeah, sure it was just the cable.

  My gut churns. It’s not the normal sick feeling I get before every performance. This time it touches my soul. Something’s wrong. This night isn’t going to go well. What if they all laugh at me, or boo me? What if my pitch is off, my screaming not deep enough? Is Rictor’s knocking over Wiley’s drums a sign of bad things to come?

  Needing to get away from the tension, I head through the long, dark hall and escape outside. I retrieve my pot stash from my black Dickies and roll a blunt. Yeah, I need this. It’ll take the edge off. I light it and inhale as I lean up against the building. The medical marijuana card in my wallet is my ticket to freedom if a cop pulls up.

  The back door opens and Rictor stumbles out, a beer can in his dark hand. He takes one look at my blunt and arches his brows. "Not gonna share?"

  "You’re already toasted, my friend." I take another inhale and hold it, letting the THC kick in, and exhale slowly. I’m not up for sharing. This isn’t about getting high to feel good. This is about keeping my past at bay long enough so I can do what is expected of me. My mom isn’t welcome here tonight.

  My mom. Her hair in curlers on her head, waving a lit cigarette at me while trying to keep a grip on her vodka bottle. She stumbles and falls into the coffee table. The memory of how pathetic she is makes me laugh. My high hits me full force. Head in the stars, but feet cemented to t
he ground. All my stage fright gone, up in a cloud of smoke.

  Rictor reaches for my blunt.

  I pull it away. He’s halfway to obliteration, and we need him to function.

  He frowns. "The fuck is your problem, dog?" He tries for it again.

  I put it to my lips. Taking another hit, I talk through the smoke in my mouth. "You don’t need it." I let it out slowly, cough, then I butt it. "You need to play."

  Rictor takes another swig of his beer and crushes the can then chucks it. "I’m fine."

  "Yeah, tell that to Wiley and his drum set." I laugh and pocket my paraphernalia. “And what happened to your stash? Don’t you sell some grade-A medical shit? What do you need mine for?”

  “I’m out. My supplier got narked on.”

  I shrug. “Point is you need to play, bro. You’re already falling all over yourself. This is a big night for us. Don’t shoot us in the foot.”

  He clenches his fist. I didn’t think it was possible for his dark brown face to turn red. It does. He wants to hit me. I can feel it. Instead, he shoves me into the brick wall.

  The slam of the brick, along with Rictor’s PMS bullshit, kills my high.

  He glares at me then goes back inside Harper’s. The slam of the heavy, metal door cements Rictor’s mood. I should play the guitar and send him home. But then I wouldn’t be able to bounce across the stage, connect with our fans, and make new ones. Tonight is important. He’s acting like it’s just another gig at a bar. This is a big venue. We are lucky to be here. He better not blow it.

  My bad feeling from earlier returns. Shit. This isn’t about gaining wealth or making my name known. This is about proving that all that abuse I received growing up wasn’t in vain, that I’m not some useless boy who can’t carry a note. I don’t care if Stones of Rage gets signed only to have us fall into the category of a one-hit wonder. I need to know I can do it. That will be enough to give the bitch downstairs a big “fuck you.”

  I take the blunt back out and spark it up. If Rictor fucks this up, he’s out.

  Two

  Shay

  Light snow falls outside Harper’s as I smoke my cigarette and wait for my friends to join me. The opening band sounded awesome but I couldn’t bring myself to look at the stage. Instead, I wallowed at the bar. The anxiety of Gary being released and wanting his life back only so he can fuck it up again keeps my mind in a chaotic swirl. Marla’s comments earlier, about having Gary finish the tattoo I’ve been working on, replay in my head and remind me that she might not be the only one since most of my clients were his. God, I really need to shake this mood.

  Sipping my bottle of Labatt Blue, I observe the clusters of people smoking, talking and laughing in the freezing night air. Clouds from their breath, and trails of their smoke, dance in the streetlights. They’re having a good time. I couldn’t be more miserable. I shouldn’t have come out tonight.

  It sucks that you can’t smoke inside Harper’s anymore. Knowing how hot it would be inside amongst a sea of sweaty bodies jam-packed into the immense space, I left my coat in the car. Now I wish I had it because this see-through tank leaves me little protection from the elements.

  Through chattering teeth, I take a deep inhale off my cigarette. I swear, when I open my new shop, it'll be in a warmer climate. Maybe Texas or Arizona. I can’t take this cold weather shit anymore.

  Tryst and Bebe come out the back door, laughing and headed my way. They were at the bar the last time I saw them and getting along well. It’s amazing how alcohol alters personalities. The way they’re acting, I’d think they were best friends. They’re not, and it’s strange as hell to see.

  "Lost ya for a minute." Tryst takes out a cigarette and lights it.

  Bebe fans his smoke away from her face.

  I butt mine. "Needed some fresh air."

  Tryst blows smoke in Bebe’s face. He’s doing it to get a rise out of her. I have noticed this over the years of working with them. He does these things to get her pissed. Does he do it because he knows she’ll hit him?

  Amazingly, she doesn’t. Instead, she scowls at him. She turns to me and talks with her hands, big bangle bracelets clanking. "Carl’s band is about to play. You have to watch him. He’s so good on the drums."

  "What is it with you and drummers?" Tryst shakes his head and narrows his brows as his eyes travel over her petite body.

  "Drummers make better lovers." Her laugh is infectious, and I can’t help but join her. She does a little butt shake and looks over her shoulder at Tryst. "They know how to keep the rhythm." She winks at him.

  Tryst scowls, and we laugh harder.

  "Come on, Shay." She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the door. "Let’s leave the asshole to his mood."

  When we hit the back entrance, a woman’s sharp giggle pierces the crowd of people.

  Bebe freezes, then looks over her shoulder.

  I follow her gaze. A leggy blonde with clothes so tight she wears them like a second skin, and her makeup looks like a box of Crayolas gang-banged her face. Paula. The bitch Gary was cheating on me with, before he got locked up. She’s with a couple of her friends. Her stilettos look like they’re having a hard time holding up her weight, and one of her walking dildos reaches out to steady her.

  My body heats. Clenching the long-necked bottle in my hand does nothing to calm the anger. It’s been years since I did any work on her. She was a regular client of mine until she started banging my boyfriend. I haven’t confronted her yet, and in my alcohol-infused state, I want to rip her apart and paint pretty pictures on the sidewalk.

  Bebe squeezes my arm and pulls me through the door. "Not tonight, girl. That bitch is so shit-housed, she won't even feel the beat down you deliver.”

  We make our way through the tight throng of staggering drunks and half-lit people. My anger still churns under the surface of my composure. But this night isn’t about negativity—it’s about having fun. And I’ll be damned if I let that bitch sour my good time.

  "This way." She pulls me toward a small platform that’s lit up and looks like it can only house about a dozen people. It’s about ten feet away from the stage and off to the right side. We should get a good view here.

  The bouncer at the top is big and his muscle stretches his security T-shirt. Bebe leans in and whispers something into his ear. He grins and lets us pass.

  I eye the bouncer as I follow Bebe to the platform. “What did you say to him?”

  She grins, then winks.

  “You promised him sex. Didn’t you?”

  She rolls her eyes and points to the stage.

  Out of Line walks across it. Their front man, Adam, goes to the mic as Carl pounds the drums and the electric guitar wails.

  Adam laughs. "Fuck yeah! Everybody feelin’ good tonight?"

  The crowd roars.

  "Ready to jack this shit up?"

  The crowd’s shouts and screams bounce off the walls in the tightly packed space.

  The hottest man I’ve ever seen walks across the stage to another microphone. He’s wearing black Dickies and a length of chain. Tatted muscles stretch against his black wife-beater, looking oh so delicious. His hair is black and spiky. His mouth pulls into a grin, his lip ring shines, and his dark stare shoots right to me. My body buzzes.

  Odd. It’s been a long time since I was attracted to any man. I thought Gary had ruined me for the opposite sex. But his eyes, that stare, have my lower region coiling with heat. He’s not looking at me. No doubt he’s looking out at the crowd. That doesn’t stop my panties from becoming a puddle. Yeah, he sure does have an effect on the female crowd.

  Adam nods toward the sex god on stage. "Let’s give it up for my buddy Morgan and his band, Stones of Rage!" The crowd goes wild. "To kick this shit up a notch, Morgan and I wrote a song."

  The drummer sets the baseline, and the crowd screams.

  Morgan grins. "Fuck yeah! That’s what I like to hear!"

  Adam and Morgan scream into their mics, a deep throaty so
und that leaves you wondering what the hell they shouted. They move across the stage, bobbing up and down with the beat of the drums and whine of the electric guitar.

  I don’t give a shit what they’re singing. My gaze is fixed on Morgan. He dominates the stage with his rock star power. Now, everything I was worrying about vanishes as I take in the electricity that is solely Morgan. The crowd disappears and I have tunnel vision on the alpha male who commands the audience’s attention.

  Bending down, he reaches out toward grabbing hands. He looks like he belongs there, and I have no doubt that one day he will be famous. That’s not why my core is clenching. Fame and fortune are something I couldn’t care less about. It’s the magnetic energy he’s radiating that has me hypnotized.

  I sway to the beat, feeling Morgan’s dark, earthy voice in every intimate place inside me. Hoping for a moment that I stand out amongst a horde of gorgeous women.

  My head flies back and pain tingles my scalp. I whirl around.

  Paula. The bitch pulled my hair! Anger roars its way through my buzz and arousal. But I’m not going to let this skank ruin my good time. I move over to the other side of the platform and continue dancing.

  Morgan

  I’m in the zone. The crowd roars. They fucking love me. I’m energized. Their excitement cranks up my high. I owe Adam for this moment. If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be here now. I sing, scream through the lyrics we spent weeks rehearsing, delivering them with a new-found confidence.

  The audience is filled with sexy women. They claw at the stage like hungry lionesses and try to escape their boyfriends. Mosh pits form an ocean of bodies slamming into each other. I scream louder and look up at the platform where I saw six gorgeous women earlier. As I belt out my lyrics, I spot her—the sexiest woman I think I’ve ever seen.

  She’s dancing to my song and looks straight at me. Her perfect hourglass hips sway to the band’s beat. Behind her white see-through tank, her perfect rack bounces in a black bra. Those legs look phenomenal in her black leather pants and have me fighting to keep my dick from embarrassing me on stage.