Devil Side

by Lacey Dailey

  Slowly.

  So slowly I want to just yank it out myself so I can feel whatever it is I'm supposed to be feeling right now.

  But it doesn’t happen like that. Because nothing I've truly wanted in life ever comes easily. I suspect the same thing is true for Max.

  "Aiden." He breathes the name so quietly, I almost don't hear him. "Aiden is the one who saved me."

  "I'd like to meet Aiden one day."

  "That'll never happen, Gia. But if it's any consolation, he'd like to meet you too."

  "How do you know?” I peer up at him from my spot against his arm. It appears he’s concentrating on driving but I imagine he’s deep into his thoughts as well. “Did you tell him about me?"

  "I didn’t have to."

  "Then how does he know?"

  "Because he's watching." He mutters, almost to himself. "He's always watching."

  8

  Max

  There’s something implicitly sexy about a girl driving my car.

  Not just a girl. Gia.

  The voice inside my head keeps poking at me, nudging me toward Gia like he’s giving me the green light.

  I ignore him.

  I don’t need a green light. I don’t even need a yellow one. I need a series of red lights, laid out for the next sixteen weeks, reminding me of my master plan.

  Music forever. Girls for never.

  “Max, can you hand me my cheese puffs?”

  “You think I’m gonna let you get your cheesy digits on my steering wheel?”

  If her sunglasses weren’t covering her eyes, I’d find them rolling back far enough to flash her brain a wink. In two short weeks, I’ve become well-versed in Gia Maria’s mannerisms and her addiction to snack foods.

  “Max!” She pounds the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m protecting the leather, baby.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I zoom in on the loaded smirk appearing across her lips, gasping as she dips her chin and runs her tongue over the steering wheel.

  “You have disgusting driving habits, Gia Maria.”

  She runs her hands along the steering wheel, coating it with her saliva. “If you were concerned about my driving habits, perhaps you shouldn’t have let me drive.”

  “I ran out of tissues after sopping up all the blood that came from my ears hearing you whine and complain about it.” That was a lie if I ever told one. The only reason I haven’t let her drive yet is because I like her in the passenger seat, feeding me licorice and holding my hand.

  “You have quite the flare for dramatics, Maxwell. You should bring that to the stage.”

  “I’m perfectly fine with what I bring to the stage, manager Gia.”

  The first time I called her that, it was a joke. In no way did I ever believe she’d take it upon herself to live up to that name. After I granted her free rein to do what she pleases as my manager, she’s been making calls herself and living up to the name without any pressure from me. She refers to herself as my unpaid manager. I have a huge fucking problem with the unpaid part of her plan.

  In just fourteen days, Gia has booked me gigs in Cincinnati, Denver, Savannah, and Nashville. She managed to convince two of the venues to charge a cover fee and hand me twenty percent of the profits at the end of the night.

  I put up a fight, arguing people were going to be all different notes of pissed off they were getting charged a cover fee to listen to an artist nobody knows.

  Turns out, people know who I am.

  My new manager also took control of my Twitter account, blasting the hell out of my performances and posting small video clips of me performing. Everything she’s doing is working. I’ve made more money in the last two weeks than I have in the last six months. She’s putting in all this work for no payout. I’m not okay with that. Not by a long shot.

  “You really aren’t gonna give me my cheese puffs?”

  “Nope.”

  I really have no issues with letting her eat cheese puffs while she drives. I just love tugging on her strings. And I don’t forget how lucky I am to have a good grasp on a handful of her strings while she has only a finger placed on mine.

  Though it isn’t for lack of trying. Since the moment Aiden’s name fell from my lips, she's steadily been creeping towards more information. I always hold her back. If she gets too close, she’ll run. And I like her next to me.

  “You are an asshole, Maxwell Mitchell.”

  The comment is made to piss me off but all she does is make me smile. All she ever does is make me smile. I will not cower under her her pouty lips and adorable scowl. I won’t do anything but smile when I look at the woman who turned my car from a place of solitude to a place filled with laughter and a shit ton of french fry cartons.

  “If you don’t give me my cheese puffs, I’ll cancel your gig for tonight.”

  “Oh, bullshit! You argued with that dude for years.”

  “It was twenty minutes, Max.” She adjusts her sunglasses. “He was putty in my hands. Once I directed him to your Twitter homepage, and he discovered the thousands of followers you have, he was quite pleased to agree to twenty percent of the cover fees.”

  Sometimes I wonder what the hell is cranking inside Gia’s head. She’s already admitted to me many times over the last week she knows nothing about the music business. She’s been researching and figuring things out as she goes, yet she’s already taken my career to a level I didn’t anticipate reaching so quickly. “I still don’t understand why the hell it matters how many people stalk me on a social media site.”

  “It isn’t just about that, Max. It’s about how you market yourself. You don’t have a publicist so your fans have to know how and where to find you. By tweeting your location, people will be aware.”

  I slump down in my seat, propping my foot on the dash. “I guess I didn’t realize I had so many fans.”

  “That’s because you don’t give a shit about being famous or making money. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so humble.”

  Humble.

  I like to think I’m a pretty humble guy. I spent the first ten years of my life fighting for a bed and a pair of underwear. “That’s because I don’t think I want to be famous, Gia.”

  “If you get a record deal, you’re gonna have a lot more exposure than what I’m getting you. You’ll get an actual manager.”

  “You’re doing a perfectly fine job. I’m happy with whatever magic dust your sprinkling on Johnny to get him to sound so good.”

  I wonder for a moment what I’d do if I ever did get offered a record deal. Growing up, I never laid in bed at night and wondered what it’d be like to play at Staples Center or Madison Square Garden. I’ve always pictured myself in smaller venues, singing to people just like me, and then jumping off the stage so I can share a beer with whoever was sitting on the stool next to me.

  I’ve never wanted to be famous.

  I just want to sing.

  “So, if you got offered a record deal tomorrow, you’d turn it down?”

  “I really don’t know, Gia.” I pick at my fingernails. “Record deals bring fame. They bring the stuff I’m not interested in.”

  “The glitter?”

  “The glitter. The glitz. The interviews, award shows, and red carpets.”

  “You’re telling me you have no desire to win a Grammy?”

  “I think every musician has at least a small desire to win a Grammy, babe. But it’s not my ultimate goal.”

  “What is your ultimate goal?" She shifts in her seat. "I feel like I should know this. What kind of manager am I?”

  “You’re a manager that’s going with the flow of a musician who likes to do the same. If I had to choose an ultimate goal, I’d just keep traveling and keep playing until my fingers stop working or my voice stops sounding so heavenly.”

  “You keep doing that, you’re going to need to move to bigger venues. The people love you.”

  “What people?”

  “The peo
ple!” She takes one hand off the wheel to wave it around frantically. “The fans. The ones who like your music well enough to follow you around the country.”

  “Gia, I highly doubt they follow me around the country.”

  She twitches in her seat. “Do you even look at your Twitter?”

  “No. I have a manager who does it for me.”

  “Oh my shit, Max.” There’s an unusual mixture of annoyance and laughter in her voice. “You constantly have people tweeting at you, wondering where you're going to be next. It’s summer. These people have nothing better to do than follow you around.”

  That floors me.

  I want to wave her off, accuse her of lying to boost my ego but I’ve seen the tweets and sang to the crowds. I’ve felt the clench in my stomach and fought the restless movements in my bones that tell me this is too good to be true.

  Six months ago nobody knew my name. Now people are happily handing over their hard earned money just to hear me sing. It’s an odd feeling, and sometimes it makes my knees go weak behind my mic stand.

  Though I’m driven by their applause in ways I didn’t think possible, I would continue on without them. I don’t need thousands of followers or millions of dollars to know what I’m doing is meant to be.

  Gia flicks the blinker, checking over her shoulder before merging into a new lane. “Are your moms coming to this show?”

  “Yeah. They basically squealed in my ear for a straight sixty seconds when I told them you hooked me up with a gig in Vegas.”

  “I’ll make sure they don’t have to pay the cover fee.”

  “Can you hook us up with lamented backstage passes, foam fingers, and dollar bills with my face on them while you’re at it?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, darling.” She pushes a long braid behind her shoulder. “Write it down.”

  “You’re kind of magical, Gia. You know that?”

  There is something explicitly magical about Gia Moretti.

  She has this way about her—this force that reaches into people’s chest and tugs them towards her, forcing them to listen to the words falling from her mouth. She’s shyly expressed to me her biggest weakness is her inability to say no to people or to keep fighting when people say no to her.

  I’m still trying to figure out how anybody in their right mind says no to Gia Maria.

  Looking into her eyes is like falling under hypnosis—one look into those gentle baby blues and you're down for the count.

  There is nothing aggressive about her management approach. She doesn’t swear, threaten, or negotiate. She states the facts, lays out what she wants in a polite and precise manner, and then smiles when she gets her way.

  Because she does.

  Every damn time.

  “I guess it’s easy to be magical when I’m representing someone equally magical.”

  The way that sentence makes my chest feel, combined with the warmth her hand brings when it moves across the car to intertwine with mine, is way too much for me to handle.

  The voice is there again, front and center, demanding I get a grip and let this happen.

  Easy for him to fucking say. He’s not the one out here, pretending not to be immensely affected by the woman sitting next to us.

  I wonder if she’d taste like cheese puffs if I kissed her…

  Nope. Not going there.

  I bounce our clasped hands against my thigh. “So, do I need to book us a room?”

  “No, I booked us one at the same place you’re playing.”

  “I’m playing in a hotel?” That’s new. I’ve never ventured outside clubs or bars.

  “No. You’re playing in a casino.”

  “I’m sorry… what?”

  “A casino? Blackjack? Slot machines?”

  “Yeah, Gia. I know what a casino is. How the hell did you get me a gig at a Vegas casino? Do you know the kinds of musicians who play in Vegas casinos? Well known ones. Not nobodies with a single guitar and a nonexistent band.”

  “These people were looking specifically for new talent. If you perform well, they'll offer you a slot for the rest of the summer.”

  Gia Maria say what?

  "Do you know who Gordon Carmichael is?" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "He's the big hotshot who's in charge of the music scene in Vegas. He decides who performs where and for how long. He also owns the casino we'll be staying in." Her thumb moves against the back of my hand. “His son is trying to start a show dedicated to indie performers. He's looking for eight musicians to book for an in-house tour for twelve weeks this summer. If you ace the audition, you'll get paid to perform five nights a week and we could hang out in Vegas for a while. I think it's fate he's holding auditions the same week we'll be there."

  My heart does this weird backflip thing before it plummets down to my stomach. “Are you telling me I could have my own small show in Vegas?"

  She grins beautifully. "Yes. Only if you want it though."

  I don't know how I feel about auditioning. I'm not the kind of musician who takes well to people telling me they don't think my music is what they are looking for. It's not about them. It's about the people who come to listen. Even so, I can't deny that sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime.

  “Gia, that sounds awesome. How did you find all that out?”

  “I’m magical, baby.” She squeezes my hand and flashes me a smile so bright, it makes me wish things were different.

  A lot of things in my life have come to me in the form of a struggle. Gia Maria does not belong on that list of struggles.

  She came to me in an effortless way—like she was waiting inside that diner for me. The logical part of me knows she wasn’t. But damn if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. Like she was drinking that cup of coffee, waiting for me to walk in the door so she could find me and light me up with her smile and ridiculous jokes.

  In your feelings is a dangerous place to be, and when Gia’s around, I’m there constantly.

  I’m in my feelings every morning I wake up in the hotel bed across from hers. I’m in my feelings when I force my arm to stay pinned beneath my body so I don’t reach across the small sliver of space separating our beds and wrap my pointer finger around the silk hair falling off the side of her mattress. I’m even in my feelings inside of a gas station, when she stares at me with a face full of grump because they don’t carry her preferred brand of cheesy puffs.

  Most of all, I’m in my feelings when I’m on stage and I look to my right, spotting her by the edge, eyes wide with awe and body swaying beneath the music I wrote when I was lonely.

  There’s this thing that happens when I find her like that—mouthing the lyrics she doesn’t know the truth behind. It’s just a moment where I’ll watch her watch me and wish that for once, somebody would figure out what the hell I’m trying to say in my songs.

  I’m not sure she would believe the truth.

  9

  Max

  I don’t remember much before my moms adopted me. In my mind, there are only small bits and pieces of my life. Those pieces feel foreign to me—like a movie I watched years ago that I’m trying to remember the name of.

  It’s all a blur.

  I lived with my birth parents until I was eight. After my biological mother died at the hands of my biological father, and some social worker found me in a closet, I was put into foster care.

  I discovered that information after snooping through my file at one of my own therapy sessions.

  My time in foster care is just as murky as my life that came before it. I don’t hold any horror stories or wake up from any nightmares because I can’t remember what haunted me back then.

  Though my memory is blank, I know a foster home wasn’t a great place for a kid to grow up in. My moms saved me the day they adopted me. I’m not sure I’ll ever remember the demons they saved me from but that doesn’t make me appreciate them any less.

  The day they gave me music was the start of a life I didn’t believe I was capable of living. I kne
w long before I met my moms I was different. I guess I didn’t comprehend how different I was until Dr. Hanna pointed it out when I was almost eleven. From that day on, I was convinced a normal future wasn’t in the cards for me. My moms didn’t like it, but I didn’t mind. I would’ve been perfectly happy living with them forever. They remembered to feed me and let me wear two pairs of socks. I didn’t need a life like the other kids when I had that.

  Then I met Johnny and I changed my mind.

  I got him a year after I started taking music lessons. In the beginning, I played a little bit of everything. The piano, drums, clarinet, flute. All sorts of random instruments that didn’t necessarily have a commonality between them. I could play the majority of them effortlessly, though I didn’t seem to connect with them the same way I connected with a guitar.

  The first one I played was too big for me. I had to wrap my whole body around it. Afterward, I had calluses because I couldn’t hold the pick correctly. It took me twice as long to get a handle on the guitar as it did any of the other instruments.

  I loved it.

  I think maybe I loved it because it didn’t come easily. I liked the familiarity of a challenge. I liked the hard work and the effort I was forced to put into it. Like everything else in my life that I wanted desperately, playing the guitar was a struggle.

  I practiced every night for almost a month. The first time I played an entire song the whole way through, I jumped off the couch and ran around our large living room, whooping and hollering and jumping up and down. That’s a pretty normal reaction from an excited kid who conquered a goal, but I wasn’t normal. I barely spoke, let alone screamed excitedly.

  My moms cried.

  They took one look at me celebrating my victory and started screaming with me. I don’t know how long we jumped and screamed together, tears running down both their faces. I can’t remember for sure but I think that was the first time I’d went to sleep with a grin on my lips and woke with it still intact.