Devil Side

by Lacey Dailey

  “For a man who seems to value his secrets, I find it strange you have no hang-ups about going onstage in front of all these people.”

  I watch his mole lift with his smile. “When people listen to the songs I write, they aren’t thinking about why I wrote them. They’re connecting to them in a personal way—trying to make sense of them by using their own lives and their own experiences. Most of the time, they couldn’t be more off the mark, but I don’t mind. A lot of great songs are misinterpreted. You know the song “Closing Time” by Semisonic?”

  “Yeah. They used to play it at the end of all our school dances to tell us when to get the hell out.”

  “A lot of bartenders use it to push drunken idiots out of their bar when it’s time for them to close up.”

  “Well, yeah, isn’t that what the song is about?”

  “No, Gia.” He laughs softly, stepping closer to me. “The song is about childbirth.”

  “What?” My face twists, and his laugh deepens. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. The writer wrote that song when he and his wife were expecting their first child. The lyrics are about his kid exiting the womb.”

  “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “I’m totally not. We make sense of things we don’t understand by hearing what we want to hear.”

  “So, you’re okay with people misinterpreting your music?”

  “I encourage it.” His long, callused fingers strum the cords on Johnny. “There aren’t many people who can relate to my story but that doesn’t mean I don’t want people to connect with my music in whatever way they can. Maybe somebody will listen to it and dump their trashy boyfriend. Maybe some people will get drunk off their gourd and spend a night doing shit they’ll never remember. Maybe some will fall in love and others will have super hot sex. I don’t know. I just know that no two people have the exact same story. Nobody will ever connect to the music in the way I did, so I don’t try to push it.”

  “That’s why you get on the stage and spill your beans through music? Because people won’t interpret it in the way it was written?”

  He taps my nose. “Exactly.”

  “You could explain it.”

  “No way." He looks terrified at the thought. "I don’t want people to know, Gia. Even if I did, the more I explained it, the more limitations I’d put on the people I reach and their different perspectives.”

  “You, Maxwell Mitchell, are incredibly wise.”

  He ushers me toward the door with a snort. “It took four tutors to get me through college.”

  “I said wise, Max. Not smart. Though I believe you are that as well.”

  “What's the difference?”

  “Wisdom doesn’t come from a college degree. It comes from life.”

  His hand freezes against the door handle, eyes locking with mine over his shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Okay. So, let’s pretend you smoke cigarettes and I don’t. We are both aware it’s bad, but you don’t care. I do because I don’t just know it. I believe it. I believe the billboards and the commercials because I watched my grandfather die of lung cancer. It’s harder to deny something when we’re hit in the face with it. That experience made me wise. Put a mark on me forever. I’d say you've experienced a lot of life for a 22-year-old.”

  “I’d say I have too.” That’s all he gives me as he pulls open the door and leads us back into the hallway. “Stay close, okay? Up by the front where I can see you.” Our fingers link as we walk. “This place is shady and packed with creepers who would jump at the chance to sell you some shit.”

  “I’d just say no.”

  “Yeah, well, my wise life experiences tell me that most people don’t take no for an answer. Besides, you have a shit track record at saying no.”

  “Piss off, Max!” I jerk out of his hold. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, you are. I’m not trying to be a jackass. But you’re naive. You don’t know these people. This is a huge bar. Sure, it’s a good scene to get exposure for my music but the people who run it aren’t good people. I don’t want you around them.”

  “You seem to know Leslie pretty well.” Was that jealousy in my voice? I’m going to pretend it wasn’t. “Well enough she handed you a secret envelope.”

  “That envelope had cash in it. It’s the money I’m making for performing. Her disgusting boyfriend owns this place. It’s how I got the gig. She hooked me up.”

  “You two go way back or something?” It was a snarky question, filled with a lot of sass. I wasn’t expecting an answer, so I’m shocked as hell when I get one.

  “All the way back to foster care.” He mumbles, reaching for my hand again. “Stay close, Gia. Please.”

  I give him my hand and squeeze tightly, letting him know I’ll stay close. I didn’t like his comment about my naivety and inability to say no, but he’s right. My curious stares and wide eyes might as well be a sign hanging around my neck, announcing my innocence.

  I follow him into the heart of the bar, the reason for our sneaky entrance through the back door becoming more and more prominent. The place is packed.

  All types of people are standing in the center of the dark building, huddled together and staring at the stage. Many don’t seem to mind its empty. They’re busy sitting in wooden booths, chatting away and drinking pitchers of beer. Some are in the center of the dance floor, humping each other to no music. Others are sitting on wooden stools at the bar we passed by on our way in. It’s shaped like a horseshoe. The man standing behind it is wearing a fringe vest and not much else. He is scowling at a group of girls who can’t seem to find their money in their cleavage.

  I tilt my head and watch the bartender’s scowl turn into a smirk. He flicks his hand upward like he’s gesturing for them to lift something up. It takes my brain several long moments to catch up to what he’s gesturing to until three of the five girls lift their shirts. He flashes them a grimy grin, nodding his head like seeing their boobs is going to pay his bills. When the women turn around, they all have drunken grins on their faces.

  Max sticks close to the wall again, eyes trained on the stage as he advances. The stage itself isn’t very big—just a long rectangular strip with a microphone on a stand and a small speaker I can only assume is an amp. Despite its small size, it’s the focal point of the room and the crowd comes all the way to its edge.

  “Stay here, babe.” He pops a kiss on my head before climbing the two stairs that lead to the stage and plugging his guitar into the amp. He taps the microphone twice, making sure it works and then launches into a song.

  Just like that.

  He doesn’t greet the crowd. Doesn’t introduce himself or his music. He just starts singing. And that’s enough because the entire audience is entranced.

  Me included.

  It doesn’t matter who you are. Doesn’t matter if you’re drunk or sober. Stoned or straight. It doesn’t matter if you’re from the rough side of town or if you're living the high life. It wouldn’t even matter if you had an extra leg or a third eye. Max’s music reaches everybody. It reaches down your throat, squeezes your heart and forces it to beat a little bit slower than it normally does.

  The voice that commands the room is raspy yet light. Low and breathy. It’s almost as though he isn’t even speaking—just breathing the lyrics. As though it’s merely the air in his lungs that is responsible for the beauty unfolding on the stage.

  Every word he sings pours from his lips effortlessly and eloquently. He’s stripped down entirely, not at all concerned with putting on a show. It’s just a man and his guitar, breathing lyrics so raw, I rock back on my feet.

  * * *

  I run to the one who can handle the pain

  You claim you wanna know me? What exactly would you gain?

  By knowing how weak I can be

  Or what’s inside me

  * * *

  Don’t look into my mind

  You’ll be shocked at what you find

&n
bsp; I work so goddamn hard

  To hide my devil side

  * * *

  Without him, I’d be nothing.

  Just a boy and some tears

  Now I have a life filled with more than just fears

  You’ll never know him

  Because I’ll never stop hiding

  The devil inside of me

  The reason I’m surviving

  * * *

  I'll be honest when I say

  Babe, it ain't gonna be pretty

  But monsters rarely are

  It’s why I keep to myself

  Just me and my guitar

  * * *

  Sometimes the truth

  is more than one can take

  So you’ll never meet him

  The one who stopped the ache

  * * *

  Without him, I’d be nothing

  Just a boy and some tears

  Now I have a life filled with more than just fears

  You’ll never know him

  Because I’ll never stop hiding

  The devil inside of me

  The reason I’m surviving

  * * *

  I grow intoxicated with his breaths—drunk on his lyrics and the way he’s pouring everything into the words he’s allowing the whole world to hear and interpret in whatever way they please.

  He’s spilling beans left and right, singing tenderly about a side of him he claims saved his life. The song feels so personal, yet he doesn’t make it about him. He makes it about each individual standing below him.

  Maxwell Mitchell cares.

  It wouldn’t appear that way at first, not with the way he didn’t greet his crowd or show his appreciation for his stage time. But the moment he started sharing his art with those who care to listen, not a soul in this room would dispute it. He cares about his music and the way it affects people. He cares that it finds someone and makes a difference. He cares about his lyrics and the way he can use them to touch people in a way not everyone can.

  What he doesn’t care about is glitter. There is nothing extra making him shiny. Nothing to catch people’s eye or make him stand out in a crowd.

  Max doesn’t stand out. He blends in. So much so that not a single person noticed he was onstage until he started playing. Maybe that’s why everybody can relate to his words.

  Because he’s not a rockstar.

  He’s not famous. He’s just like us. He’s just a man, playing a guitar in a room full of people.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there, drinking in his lyrics and getting lost in his story. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. Time simply ceases when Max is performing. I’m convinced the world takes a break from operating just to listen.

  If I didn’t know I was going to be with him for the next eighteen weeks, the sight of him lifting his hand in goodbye to the crowd screaming for him would devastate me.

  He comes down the stairs, a smile on his lips and sweat running down his cheeks. “Ready?”

  “Max...” I shake my head, fumbling over words that don’t seem like enough. I wonder why he doesn’t need more time to come back down to earth with us normal people.

  My chest expands, and I think maybe I just witnessed something magical. He revealed the biggest pieces of himself without actually revealing anything at all.

  “That was beautiful, Max.”

  “Thanks.” He beams, resting his hand at the nape of my neck, effectively guiding me back toward the room that holds Johnny’s case.

  I wonder if he can feel my goosebumps.

  “Are you gonna stay and mingle with your fans?”

  “Not here.” He kicks open the door and wastes no time placing Johnny back in his case.

  I wait in the doorway. “I know my major is in politics, but standard PR knowledge tells me you should mingle with your fans. Exposure and what not.”

  “Thank you, manager Gia.” He laughs, slinging the case around his body. “Usually I stay and have a few drinks with people. Talk music. I don’t here.”

  “Why? Because of Leslie or because of the apparent shadiness?”

  “Both.”

  “Why do you come here if you hate it?”

  He startles. “I don’t hate it, Gia. I’m grateful for the exposure. The people here are the reason I started getting offered more gigs. It’s why I get paid so well to play here. It’s just not a nice place to hang out in. The bartender deals drugs while serving drinks.” He takes my hand and starts down the hall. It's a good thing I gave up heels. With the speed he's walking, he'd be carrying me. “I come here to play music, Gia. Not do drugs.”

  “Seems like other artists should follow suit.”

  “I agree, but not everybody can say no like I can.”

  “Yeah, but just because they said yes the first time, doesn’t mean they have to keep doing it.”

  “It’s easier said than done, Gia. Sometimes when you try to claw your way out of hell, you end up falling deeper in.” He flashes a sad look at the chipped red door as we pass by it, and I have to wonder if we’re still talking about theoretical musicians or a certain former foster girl whose stringy ponytail was bobbing when she swayed beneath the haze of her high.

  “Come on, Gia.” I keep up with his pace as we move through the bar. It’s impossible not to smile at the shouts of praise he receives. As we reach the door, somebody asks him when he’ll be coming back.

  “I have no idea!” He calls over his shoulder, shoving open the door. “Thanks for your support! I appreciate it!” He lets the door slam behind him. “Where to now, Gia Maria?”

  “Wherever we can go to get you more gigs.” Watching him play again is now my number one priority.

  “I played at a bar in Cincinnati once. I could call them in the morning, see if they have any openings.”

  “Works for me. That’s only like five hours from here, right?”

  “Yeah, we can find someplace to crash before we head out.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Not really. Aren’t you?”

  “No. Not at all. I don’t sleep much, Max.”

  “Me either.” The locks click and he carefully places Johnny in his backseat. “Want to just start driving now?”

  “Hell yeah.” I pull open my door and slide into my seat, smiling when I hear him laugh at my enthusiasm. “I don’t know how anyone could sleep after watching you play.”

  “Aw, baby.” He finds his spot next to me, gesturing for me to buckle up. The car comes to life with the turn of his key. “You don’t have to sweet talk me. You’re my favorite groupie.”

  He flashes me a wink, and I flush.

  I fucking flush.

  “I better be.” I drop my arm on his console, fingering the thread that came loose from the leather. “I could probably be a kickass manager too. Do you want me to call those Cincinnati people and get you in?”

  “Knock yourself out, Gia Maria.” His hand whispers over top of mine, our fingers tangling together. He steps on the gas, steering us out of the parking lot. “I’m all yours."

  Except, he isn't.

  Not even in the slightest.

  I have the same piece of him that everybody else does. I have his lyrics and his thoughts. I don’t know where they come from or why he looks like he's in pain when he recites them.

  "I thought you said you weren't tired?"

  I peel open my eyes, not even realizing they fluttered shut. "Just thinking."

  "About what?"

  "Your lyrics."

  "You trying to figure me out, Gia?” The car accelerates as we hit the on ramp. At this time of night, there’s no traffic to slow us down.

  "I'm always trying to figure you out, Max." I admit. “Now, I'm just more determined."

  "Why's that?"

  I hesitate before I say “I’m curious as to who the person was that saved your life and why they aren’t around anymore."

  "Why do you care so much?"

  Why do you?

  He's
put more effort into making me happy than anybody I've ever met. Why? Why does he care so much about where I end up in life? Why did he push me to talk in that diner? Why did he invite me on this one-man trip?

  I may never know why he cares so much.

  But I certainly know why I do. "I'd like to thank them."

  "Thank who?"

  "The person who saved you."

  "Gia..." His hand squeezes mine.

  Tightly.

  Desperately.

  It's not enough. The tremble that moves through his body might as well be a cry for comfort. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't affect me knowing my touch provides him with whatever it is he needs. But right now is not about me. It's about him. So, I squeeze his hand back and use my other arm to wrap around his, bringing my head down on his bicep.

  He breathes lightly, eyes drifting out the windshield and focusing on the darkness in front of him. He is silent as he drives, making me think this is one of those times I brought up something he refuses to speak about. I open my mouth to change the subject.

  His words silence me.

  "You want to thank him?"

  So, the person who saved him was a male? “I’d actually like to hug him. Anybody who kept my best friend surviving deserves a lot more than a word of appreciation."

  "Your best friend." He sounds awestruck.

  "Knox and Beck aren’t here. I'll be your interim best friend until we get back."

  "No." The word is a puff of breath, moving past the lips he presses to the top of my head. "You'll be my best friend forever."

  There was nothing romantic or sexy about the kiss or the way it was given. My father used to kiss me that same way but the words behind it and the way his lips took their time makes me wonder if all that crap I told myself yesterday about keeping it to platonic flirting was simply a way to put a fence around my heart.

  Turning my cheek just slightly, I return his kiss. I press my lips to his arm, directly below the hem of his shirt sleeve. I almost swear his chest collapses.

  There's been something stirring inside this car since the moment I sat down. It's not a force that's drawing us together. There aren’t any sparks or a magnetic field forcing our souls to become one. It's a subtle power that makes the air a little bit warmer and our worries a little bit lighter. It's a weightless and a breathless type of feeling. It doesn’t knock the breath out of you—it drags it out of you.