Have Mercy

by N. E. Henderson

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  It’s a half an hour before I step outside into the night air. The streets are busy. There are always locals and tourists everywhere in LA. It’s not like back home where you know everyone and they know you, your parents, and even your grandparents.

  Here, actors are a dime a dozen, trying to make it big. Celebrities are followed and harassed by paparazzi. We’ve been lucky for the most part. We’re famous, but our band doesn’t appear in the media every day of the week. We can usually go out as we please with the occasional fan coming up and asking for a picture for their Instagram.

  We are adored by our fans and usually accommodate their request. It’s only when they get outrageous that we try to laugh it off so we don’t upset them or hurt a fan’s feelings. There is an endless line of chicks available for any of us and we’ve all been known to taste what’s being offered. It’s the crazy ones that think it’s okay to touch without permission that you have to be cautious of.

  So, right now, while my head is all kinds of fucked up, I’m grateful no one is staring at us or racing up, asking for an autograph. I couldn’t deal with any of that right now.

  The three of us silently cross the street. Trey still hasn’t made a sound all day. He seems lost inside his head too, but I can’t deal with his emotions on top of my own.

  Walking through the single door, I pause just inside. It’s bigger than I imagined, judging from the outside. My initial thought was dead on I see as I observe several patrons wearing weapons holstered to their hip—cops. Though, some of the people in here don’t appear old enough to be out of high school yet. Must be a young or teenage band playing tonight.

  The place is set up more pub style with dim lighting. Most of the tables are full, with people eating and talking. I keep looking around for the man that has one hell of a nerve to drop a bomb like that in my lap, then not stick around to help pick up the pieces.

  Goddamn him. He’ll be lucky if I don’t deck him just for the hell of it.

  “Huh,” Seth breathes, making me stop scanning the spacious interior, searching for Cole, to glance over in his direction.

  “What?” I ask, taking stock of his profile from where he stands next to me. Trey is on his other side, hands in his pockets with his head pointed to the ground.

  I guess I should understand why he’s taking all of this almost as hard as I am. He and Elise were friends too. He was more hurt over what I thought she did than Cole or Seth were. Seth was angry. Cole seemed more confused than not, and now I guess I know why. Well, no I don’t actually. He questioned the reason behind her disappearance, but even he said it sounded farfetched. So, the question is, why hasn’t he told me any of this before now? And how long has he known the truth?

  “That kid,” is all he says, nodding to where there is a small stage toward the back. In front of the stage is a vacant dance floor surrounded by tables and chairs. Currently, the drummer and guitarist are the only members of the band taking up space on the stage. The sound is low but steady. Their front man, or woman, is nowhere in sight.

  “What about some kid?” I ask, frustrated that this is what has him distracted when we’re here for two reasons: find Cole, get answers.

  “There’s something about him.” He pauses, his head cocking to the side. “There’s something familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Who cares?” I blurt out, turning my head to scan the room once again. My eyes land on Cole’s frame almost immediately, but then fall to the woman standing in front of him with her back against his broad, solid chest. Not sleeping with her, my ass. Her red hair is down tonight versus when she had it pulled up this morning. The back stops just below her shoulder blades and the front is in choppy layers.

  Damn, I can almost remember what it felt like to grasp hold of those strands while I was inside her.

  Cole’s arm is wrapped around her chest, holding her to him. Watching them is pissing me off and making my skin singe.

  “What is it?” Seth whispers as if to himself, but I ignore him.

  “Today, dude, today,” a young but deep voice rumbles through a microphone. My eyes never veer from my best friend and the woman I’m still clearly hung up on after eighteen long miserable years without her.

  “I’m here. I’m here,” another male voice says.

  “Took your sweet time.”

  “It’s called a break,” he quirks, humor in a voice I realized I know all too well. Suddenly my eyes flick over to the stage where the lead vocalist has taken his spot at the front of the stage behind the mic stand.

  “You never said Brandon was in a band.” Seth’s voice has an accusing tone.

  “I had no idea,” I admit, watching in amazement. I didn’t even know he liked music, let alone knew how to sing or perform. He’s never said anything or mentioned this. He’s never taken an interest in my band.

  A smirk forms on his face, then he leans forward, his lips touching the mic in front of him. “This is called ‘Lay It Out.’”

  The electric guitar starts, followed by the drums, then Brandon’s voice hits my eardrums, eliciting something I’m guessing is pride, or joy, or . . . something. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth for the first time in I don’t know how long. He’s good. Different from me, but good nonetheless.

  “Damn,” Seth says, my thoughts echoing his words.

  “Stop.” Elise’s voice pulls my eyes away from being in awe of my son’s talent. She’s still standing in the same spot, too close to my so-called best friend, only now she has a microphone in her right hand. “Brandon,” she starts.

  “Jesus Christ, Mom! Can’t we just play?”

  There’s a sharp intake of air to my right side, coming from Seth’s mouth, only inches away from my ear.

  My gaze snaps back to the stage. The young guitar player that Seth was going on and on about just minutes ago looks frustrated. I watch him as his ass lifts off his stool, as if in defiance. Sliding my eyes back to Elise, I see both of them having a silent stare down.

  A prickling feeling runs down my body when I realize what the kid called her. Mom. She’s his mother.

  “Brother,” Seth breathes, shock evident on his tongue. “He looks just like you.” There’s a shudder that slips past his lips. “That’s what it was. That’s why he seemed so familiar. That kid could be your double. A clone. Jamie, that was you at seventeen.” He says everything I’m thinking in my own head.

  “Daniel James,” she seethes, her voice lethal.

  My eyes close, shutting my lids tight. I can’t watch. I can’t look at that stage and see both of my sons up there. Sons. Plural. I no longer just have one. I have two.

  And they know each other?

  What the hell is really going on?

  8

  — Jenna —

  I have to lock my jaw to avoid lashing back at him for his out of line outburst. He’s usually more controlled than this. His brother is the loose cannon, the one that doesn’t think before he speaks. Danny isn’t like that, or wasn’t. Maybe being around Brandon more and more is changing him.

  I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Brandon isn’t a bad kid by any means. He hasn’t had the upbringing he should have had, but that isn’t his fault.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, the remorse in his voice cooling the heat coursing through my veins. He finally plants his behind back against the edge of the stool, his eyes dropping down in shame, as they should.

  “Danny,” Brandon chuckles from his spot in the center of the stage. “If you were so hell-bent on getting grounded all you had to do was say so.” Another laugh bubbles out of him and I have to shake my head. “You know I would have told Jen way before now that you skipped first period yesterday morning to make out with your girlfriend.”

  “Magdalena,” a deep, familiar voice roars from the bar top twenty feet behind me.

  Jesus Christ, he had to go there. That boy doesn’t know when to keep his trap closed.

  “I
’m going to beat your ass,” Danny warns. It only results in making Brandon bend over in hysterics. Not that he’s ever taken his brother’s threats seriously. He doesn’t have a reason to. Danny isn’t afraid to fight, loves it in fact, but Brandon has never and will never be on the other end of his fist. They are best friends and brothers. Have been friends since they were two years of age, even when they were both clueless to the DNA they share.

  Maggie stands from her seat closest to the stage, searching for her father, no doubt. That girl will be lucky if he lets her leave home for school after tonight.

  “The two of you have done enough ass kicking this week,” I remind them, my expression back to seething as I remember the call I received from their principal yesterday afternoon. I can’t stand that man, and for some reason, he has it out for Brandon. Not like I don’t know why. Brandon cuts up too often, but a lot of it’s because he’s bored and doesn’t have anything better to do with his time, and his GPA happens to be standing in the way of Principal Latham’s own son.

  Brandon stands upright, back to his full five-foot-eleven-inch height, arms raised in the air, a smirk on his lips. “I didn’t touch one hair on his ugly head.”

  “No, you just instigated it like you always do,” I say, placing my free hand on my hip. He shrugs in reply. “Now, are you planning on giving an audience worthy performance or are you going to keep half-assing it up there?” I ask, getting back to the reason why I stopped their performance in the first place.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call that half-assing,” Brandon smarts.

  “Neither would I,” Trever—the band’s drummer and Danny and Brandon’s closest friend—agrees. He bangs on one of the cymbals with the drumstick in his right hand as if to back up his words.

  They are good, not great, but good, especially for their age. Danny is only up there because Brandon is, and because it’s his brother’s passion. He can play guitar and has since he was a small kid. I started teaching him when he was a little boy, but it was never something he loved doing. Trever likes the drums, but he likes the attention he gets from girls from playing in a band more than he does the high you get from creating art. Brandon, on the other hand, is a different story. He actually is damn good. The other two hold him back, but tonight he is the one half-assing it up there just like I called.

  “You are,” I say, speaking directly to Brandon. “Even you know you are. You’re better than what I just heard. And I’m not going to listen to anything less than what I know you have inside here,” I tell him, pointing to the center of my chest. “So, you have two choices. You can put everything you have into the next song you play, or you can hop off that stage. Choice is yours, bud.”

  He purses his lips, thinking, his sky-blue eyes never leaving mine, and I know immediately what he wants.

  “No,” I answer.

  “Oh, come on,” he whines. “It’s my birthday. Don’t you love me, Jen?”

  “Yes, I love you. I love you more than you will ever comprehend. And I already gave you a birthday present, or have you forgotten not getting grounded for that shit you started yesterday at school?” I remind him. Brandon isn’t my son, but he’s been in my life so long that I often forget that he isn’t mine. With Jamie on tour twice a year and his piece of shit absentee mother, he basically lives with me most of the time. He even has his own bedroom at my house.

  With everything that happened this morning, I’m not so sure I can keep the charade up much longer. It’s not fair to Brandon to have to hide his second life. Hell, it’s not fair to Cole either, and now that bag is wide open. It wouldn’t take much for Jamie to prod and find out everything I never wanted him to know.

  “If you let me sing ‘Damaged Heart’ . . .” His smile widens, waiting for me to give in. He keeps trying, asking, begging me to give him the okay to add a song I wrote years ago to their playlist. Most of their songs he and Danny wrote together. Brandon is a good songwriter in his own right. But that song isn’t just any ole song that I’ve written or had a hand in writing. It’s the song. It’s the song I bared my soul in, in hopes it would help me get over his dad. It didn’t. And I know now nothing ever will.

  I finally sigh, nodding, even though I know he’s about to shred me to pieces, he just doesn’t realize it. And won’t, because I won’t allow myself to break in front of my kids.

  Cole grabs me by the hips, pulling me back to his chest, knowing what I’m about to feel and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it.

  Give me the strength I need to get through this, I plead inside my head.

  9

  — Jamie —

  Shit.

  “What day is it?” I turn, facing my bandmates.

  “It’s Brandon’s birthday?” Seth questions, squinting at me like I’m the shittiest parent he’s ever met. Maybe I am. Sure feels that way.

  Trey’s head has finally lifted, and if I’d had to guess, he’s staring at Elise, a war going on in his dark eyes. I’ll have to dive into what his hang up is later. Right now, I have too many other things pressing that I need to deal with.

  “What day is it?” I ask again, the notes from the guitar coming through the speakers. The song grabs me, tugging at my chest, even though Brandon hasn’t started singing yet, my gut tells me I’m in for a ride. She obviously wrote it if he’s asking her for permission to sing it.

  Does that mean it’s about me? Does she even think about me like that anymore? Questions plague me, and I want answers to them all.

  “Hell, I don’t . . .” he says, taking out his cell from his front pocket of his jeans. I turn back around, needing to watch the kids on the stage. “It’s January fifteenth.”

  “Fuck,” I draw out. I forgot my son’s birthday. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “You seriously didn’t remember?”

  “Fuck you,” I spit. “I’ve had a lot on my mind and then this morning happened. It’s not like you remembered either.”

  “Not my kid,” he deadpans.

  There’s nothing I can say to that. He’s right, and no matter the excuse, I should have remembered Brandon’s seventeenth birthday. I’ve never forgotten it before. In fact, I’m always back home for that reason. I purposely make sure my end of the year tour finishes by the first week in January so that I’m home in time to be with him, celebrating. Only this time, I didn’t have that home to go to. At least his mother would have been there to make his day special. I can count on that, at least.

  Does she know about this? Know about Elise, or hell, she must go by Jenna these days. Cole called her Jen this morning and Brandon just called her that a few minutes ago.

  It didn’t go unnoticed that she told him she loves him. I don’t know what she meant about not grounding him, since he isn’t her son—at least not Brandon anyway. Regardless of their closeness, that’s not something she controls or has the authority to do. Julia would flip the fuck out. There is no way my ex-wife knows my ex-girlfriend and our son have any sort of a relationship. I would have heard about it by now. She would have demanded I put a stop to it.

  She made it abundantly clear years ago when she found out she was pregnant, that if I choose Elise or ever spoke to her again, I’d lose my son and never see him again. At the time, I didn’t want to see the girl I was still in love with, so I never called her on that shit. It’s the one and only thing I ever gave her my word on. God knows I never promised to be faithful to her, and I wasn’t.

  But now, I need answers. I need them tonight before my mind starts making shit up.

  The guitarist, Daniel, or Danny, he’s good, talented, but it’s easy to tell his heart isn’t in what he’s playing. Makes me wonder why he’s even up there if this isn’t his bag. Learning to play an instrument is hard enough. Try being in a band and coordinating music with other people. That isn’t something anyone who doesn’t enjoy it would want to do. Trust me, I know.

  Brandon’s voice comes through the mic, low at first, starting the song, singing about a former lover, an
old flame from long ago. The chorus is where he shines, his voice sounding broken and raw as he belts out the words and screams of pain that slice me wide open.

  The lyrics burn a hole through my chest. There is no doubt in my mind they’re about me. I’m not conceited. I don’t think I’m every woman’s fantasy, though I’ve been told that countless times. I have, however, only ever wanted to be one woman’s whole world.

  This song, though, isn’t that. This song is about soul-crushing heartbreak. It’s tragic, but then again that’s exactly me and her summed up perfectly. I knew that before today, but now . . .

  I shake my head, dropping it to the ground in shame and heartache as I run my fingers through my black hair. My eyes close again, and if I don’t get something strong down my throat soon, my knees are going to hit the dirty floor I’m standing on.

  “She’s coaching him,” Trey whispers. If the three of us weren’t standing so close to each other, I wouldn’t have heard him.

  My gaze snaps to the dance floor area in front of the stage. She isn’t watching the band, she isn’t even looking at the stage. Her eyes are cast toward the ground. She's listening, and by watching her every move, I see the same thing Trey did. Her movements are subtle, but she’s telling him when he needs to increase his tone or when to back off. Trey is dead on. She’s coaching Brandon.

  Brandon is better than the last song he started. This time his voice is crisper, deeper even. He has a punk flair that I’m actually digging. I like alternative rock, but heavy metal will always be where my heart lies. It’s the kind of music I typically listen to and it’s the genre of music I write and perform. This is good, though, really good.

  Her hand reaches up, swiping her cheek as though she’s wiping a tear from her eyes. Her face appears pale under the fluorescent lights shining down from above the stage. Her chest shudders, and it makes me want to run to her and wrap my arms around her body. I’ve always hated when something bothered her. She tries hard to hide it, but she’s always been shit at masking her emotions. I never understood why she did, it’s something I’ve never been afraid to show.