“Jen,” Brandon says through the mic, staring down in front of him after the song wraps up. “Why do you look like I just killed the cat? I totally rocked that.” He nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Don’t care about that stupid cat, but . . .” Her breath rumbles through the mic she’s holding, “Yeah, Brando, you did.” I can see her from where I stand. The smile on her face is forced, and from the look on my son’s face, he knows it too. She’s not lying, though. Brandon performed that song spectacularly. His vocals were made for it if you ask me, though I wouldn’t mind hearing it from the lips of the woman that wrote it.
“Uh,” he breathes out, his hands clutching his chest in mock shock. Even from here I know the little shit is faking the expression marring his young face. “Are you saying you don’t love Maximilian? He’s family, Jen. I can’t even with you right now.” His eyes snap to his audience. “She hates our cat. Who hates animals?”
“He’s your cat that I’m forced to feed and house,” she states, but I see the smile ghosting her lips—a real one this time, and a far better sight than the stark sadness that was radiating off her in waves only seconds ago.
She nods her head off to the side of the stage like she’s telling him something and then walks in that direction.
“This next song is a cover. I don’t really like doing covers, but . . . since it’s my favorite song, I wanna do it. It’s called ‘Careless.’”
Jenna disappears off to the side of the stage, walking a quick pace down a dark hallway, and for a moment, my attention is back on the stage. “Careless” is the name of a song we released on an album a few years back. I wonder for a second if it could be mine that he’s about to play. The wait isn’t long. As soon as Danny strums the first few chords, I know it’s my song.
My eyes glance back over, Jenna isn’t anywhere in sight, and although I want so badly to stay and hear them perform a song I wrote, the pull to go to her is stronger. I take a step in front of Seth and a hand reaches out, grabbing onto my wrist, applying pressure.
“Aren’t you gonna listen?” His tone rushes out, a hint of anger in every word.
“I need to find her. I need answers,” I reason.
“But that’s your son, playing our song, man. Don’t you want to hear it?”
“Sons,” I correct through gritted teeth, snatching my wrist from his grasp. His brows furrow, displeased. I don’t give two shits what he thinks. Yes, I want to hear Brandon. I want to hear every song he has played tonight and any song in the future. But there is something inside of me that’s pulling me toward her, like if I don’t get there quick enough, she’ll be gone, and I won’t get another chance.
If I even have another chance to be had.
10
— Jenna —
That song eats more of my soul each time I hear it. There is a part of me—a small part, but it’s there—that wishes I never would have put pen to paper, making it real. That’s the problem with being a writer, though; you can’t physically refrain.
A story can only live inside your head for so long. Eventually, the pull to tell it is too overpowering. You have to get it out, and then it isn’t only yours anymore.
It was nine months ago when Brandon found my journal lying open that he discovered that song. Ever since then, he’s been dying to perform it, to add it to their setlist. He wishes I’d sing it with him, but what he doesn’t understand is that I can’t. All the screaming I did while I was captured scarred my vocal cords. I can no longer sing and the sound come out pleasant.
A shudder ripples its way through my body, my breath getting caught in my throat. I rest my forehead against the white painted cinderblocks of the near-empty storage room. There’s a door that leads out to the parking lot behind the bar. The need to escape is sitting on my chest, but I’m trying not to let it win out. I can’t leave, not while my boys are out there. I promised Brandon I’d do everything within my power to be here through the duration and that’s what I intend to do.
It’s not unheard of that my job often calls me away at all hours of the day and night. I don’t have the typical eight-hour daily shift like most parents do. I told Josh an hour ago I’d knee him in the crotch if he even thought about asking me to leave should duty call.
For a brief moment, the music gets louder, telling me someone has opened the door behind me. As quickly as the light breeze coats my backside, it’s gone, but I’m left knowing someone is in here with me, invading my space. It pisses me off and has my jaw locking.
“Cole,” I warn, pressing my palms into the cinderblock wall in front of me. I needed a breather. I needed a few minutes to myself to regain my control. I didn’t need him following me. Not tonight anyway.
The scent I both love and hate floats up, surrounding me when he stops right behind me. Though in my head, he and Cole smell so much alike, I recognize the real thing almost instantly.
An audible gasp rips from my mouth, my head popping off the wall, my chest expanding at rapid speed when warm, rough fingers caress my hip in a way I haven’t felt in far too long. My eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, remembering what his touch does to me. It’s the hot July sun scorching flesh. It’s tingles coursing through me from head to toe. It’s the pleasure of melted chocolate coating your tongue. It’s sweet champagne flowing down your throat. It’s everything at once, but not enough of it at the same time.
It happens like lightning striking. Like the snap of your fingers.
He flips me around, my back meeting the wall and my front meeting his chest. My ass is lifted, my eyes become level with the storm forming in his dark blue ones. His lips smash into mine in a fury of movements, his hard body pressing into mine like he wants us to mold, to blend with the wall at my back.
There are no words, only smacking as lips and tongues fight. My nails dig into his biceps as his fingers bruise the back of my thighs as he holds me in place. My legs squeeze around his waist, needing something more than what I’m getting, but I’m so lost in the way his mouth is burning mine that I’m not even sure what it is that I need.
Suddenly, my legs drop, my feet hitting the ground with a thud, then he’s going for the button on my jeans. Need like nothing I’ve ever felt before takes front and center. My jeans and panties are yanked down my legs. He releases me to do the same to his and then I’m picked up again, my knees spread open as far as they’ll go with my clothing bunched around my ankles. My eyes flutter closed, and in the next second, it feels like I’m impaled and all the air in my body rushes out, my pussy grabbing hold of his cock, holding on for dear life.
My eyes pop open, doubling in size as my mouth forms an O. Jesus Christ. I don’t remember him being this big.
“Fuck,” he draws out, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re so tight.”
I don’t have time to process his words as the urge for more has me using his shoulders to heave against him so he’ll move. Oh, my God. That feels so good.
“Shit.” His head falls against my shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me. Jesus, it feels like I’m being strangled in the best possible way.”
Can’t he just shut the hell up and let me enjoy this?
“Fuck me, Jamie. Just fuck me,” I pant.
His body surges forward, pressing me against the cold wall even more. I’m so hot all over, it doesn’t even faze me. He pumps into me, his shaft running up and down over my clit in constant contact. Pleasure zings through me.
“Yes,” I say, my voice more breathless than I think it’s ever been. “Harder,” I command, and then I’m rewarded with exactly what I’ve demanded.
My orgasm tears through me, every nerve inside me coming alive with pleasure. Teeth clamp down on the skin between my neck and shoulder as he spills himself inside me. I’d somehow forgotten this part of him, how he becomes a biter during his own orgasm.
As quickly as the tornado ripped through me, it’s over and like any storm, damage has been left in its wake.
He drops
my legs, his body remaining leaned into mine, his breath coming in and out in pants. I quickly shove him away and drop down, yanking my underwear and pants back up my legs.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie. Do you go around fucking every woman without a condom?”
God, I can’t believe I just let that happen. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m thirty-five-years-old. I’m not some teenager. I shouldn’t be losing my senses at my age.
Stupid Jamie Hart and his even stupider masterful cock.
But hell, I haven’t come that hard in years. It felt so good.
11
— Jamie —
Son of a bitch.
In my defense, seeing her look so beautiful when I walked in, with a body that’s matured into the hottest piece of ass I’ve ever laid my eyes on, everything I came in here to say went out the window. Sadness poured off her in waves, and I just wanted to fix it. I needed to place a smile back on her face more than I needed my next pull of air.
I’ve only not wrapped up my junk with two women—her being one of them. She’s the only one I never regretted that choice with. I shouldn’t feel that way right now, but there aren’t any pings of regret registering. What does ring out is why I’m standing here in the first place.
I ignore her accusation and dive right in. “Want to tell me why I have a kid I never knew about?”
There are so many questions that want to fly out of my mouth, but that’s the one at the forefront of all of them. Hours ago, hell, fifteen minutes ago, I thought our child died—murdered before it ever had a chance at life. I’ve spent the better part of today mourning a life that was conceived eighteen years ago. He’s older than Brandon by weeks or months, I have no idea.
The heat blazing in her brown eyes simmers out, being replaced with something akin to remorse. She’s still the same, mostly. The same tales are trapped in those dark irises if you view them at the right angle. Her lids drop to the ground. “I can’t right now.” Her head shakes.
“We’re having this conversation, Eli—”
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps back, cutting off my words, the fire rekindling in her eyes as they meet mine.
“Fine,” I bite out. “Jenna, we’re discussing this and we’re doing it now.”
“And I said, I can’t.” She storms past me, pulling the door open, walking away, leaving me standing here alone, needing answers that she doesn’t want to give.
Like fuck, I’m not settling for that. I breathe out, air whooshing out of my mouth, and I go after her. My legs are longer, so it only takes a few seconds to catch up with her, but she’s made it down the dark hall and out into the bar as the band finishes up the song they’re playing. The same pull as before tugs on me, making my eyes go to the stage as I grab onto her bicep, stopping her in front of me.
“So,” Brandon starts, “if you’ve followed us long enough, then you know toward the end of our set, one of us makes a confession on stage. You know, being Confessions and all.” He chuckles, and I can’t do anything except stand here, staring at my boy, pride consuming me. I just wish I’d known about this. There is nothing I wouldn’t have given to have him on tour with me, jamming with me and the guys.
“It should be Danny’s turn, but he’s given me this one.” Brandon’s hand lifts, wrapping around the back of his neck, and from where I’m standing, the light hits his face just right and I can see his brows furrow like he doesn’t want to say what’s on the tip of his tongue.
“Ah, shit,” Jenna whispers, but my eyes never leave my son’s. Jenna’s back relaxes against my chest and her head tips back against my shoulder. Whatever it is, she knows, and I don’t have a good feeling about what it is he’s struggling to say.
A forced smile spreads across his face as he gazes back out at his audience. Everyone is silent, waiting.
“Just for the record, anything I say up here cannot be used against me. This is my safe place, and for any of you badge toters, you might want to think twice before trying, because Jen isn’t someone you want to mess with.”
“Kid, just say whatever it is,” someone I can’t see says from somewhere in front of the stage. “There isn’t one person in this place with balls big enough to cross your mommy.”
Brandon’s lips quirk, that comment seeming to settle him some, and I’m left to wonder if it was the older sounding man telling him it’s okay to tell us what he wants, or if it was because he referenced Jenna as his mother even though she isn’t.
How well do they know each other? That’s another question on a long list of them that keep piling up.
“So, yeah,” Brandon starts again as Jenna’s hands go up to her face for a brief second or two before she drops them to peer back at the stage where Brandon is standing in front of the mic. “A year ago tonight, I did cocaine for the first time,” he admits, and I have to grab something in order to remain standing. Jenna’s jean-covered hips are the something my hands latch onto as my son continues with his confession. “And I liked it. Well, at first I did. That quickly led to other things that I won’t go into, but,” he pauses, seemingly searching the audience, “I got in over my head. If it weren’t for Jenna, I wouldn’t be standing here today.” His right hand reaches up, grabbing and squeezing the necklace he’s wearing around his neck. “She saved my life. Then she made me promise to never do it again. I kept my word for all of three months. Shit got tough again, and for a split second the night I had OD’ed, almost dying didn’t matter anymore. The promise I made to the one woman that treats me as much like her son as Danny is, didn’t matter anymore either. I wanted an escape, an out . . . so I took it. The thing is, the reason behind it all is so stupid.”
He shakes his head and sighs, his breath vibrating through the microphone. “Anyway, that’s my confession. I’m sorry, Jen,” he finishes, his eyes once again scanning the large, open space. My guess, he’s looking for her. “I screwed up—again.”
“Everyone messes up, kid,” the same old man from before pipes up, filling the silence that settled around us.
Brandon’s head swings in our direction. I know the second his eyes land on us, recognition almost instant. “Well . . . shit.” He swallows. “This isn’t going to end well for me. Hey, Dad,” he says.
“We’re talking about that too,” I seethe next to Jenna’s ear, my eyes never veering away from Brandon.
12
— Jenna —
Eighteen years ago
It’s a good thing both of my parents have to be up, dressed, and out of the house by six in the morning—every weekday. Otherwise, they would have questioned why I was out the door an hour before the school bell rang signaling first period.
Dad is the vice president of an advertising firm and Mom is an OBGYN, working at the largest hospital in the Metro area. My parents have great careers, they’re both hard-working, and they try to instill the same drive into me.
Only I’ve never wanted a nine to five like they did. My passion is music, the same as my boyfriend’s. I love to create it and I enjoy performing in front of others. It’s a high like no other—seeing the looks on their faces, knowing I’m entertaining and touching their souls with my words and my voice.
Mom and Dad don’t get it. Sure, I want to finish high school, but college isn’t for me. I know that, and for what I want to do, I don’t need it. Jamie isn’t planning on going to college next year, but he does plan on sticking around until I graduate in a year. Then I’m ditching this small town with the guys. We’re going to Los Angeles, California.
I’m not too worried about Jamie’s band. The guys are talented, even Cole’s stupid ass.
Sometimes I wish I had what Jamie has with his band. It’s more than just friendship or a group of guys that want the same thing. It’s a brotherhood. I haven’t found what they have. Maybe when I get to LA, I’ll find what I’ve been longing for. I can’t see myself in an all-girl band. Though, I’m not opposed to that. I’ve just always gotten along better with guys more so than other girls.
> Julia Montgomery, my best friend, is the exception. We’re polar opposite. She’s girly, a rule follower, the straight A student. Me? I’m doing good just to keep my GPA high enough that my parents won’t threaten to take away my piano or my guitar.
They’ll never understand how much I need music. I need music like I need water, food, and air. I have too much anxiety living inside of me. By writing my feelings out, singing them, I’m able to release the stress or fear that’s trapped inside me.
Like right now, my emotions are all over the place. One buzzed and heated moment changed everything. I know it’s not necessarily a bad thing, just bad timing. We would have eventually made it to this stage in life, but I would have preferred it to have happened later, down the road, several years from now. Definitely not while I’m still a junior in high school.
My parents are going to murder me. I don’t think they’d kick their teenage daughter out for this royal fuck-up, as they’ll see it, but I can already picture the disappointment in their eyes. My mom delivers babies born to teenage mothers every week. She was preaching safe sex way before I completely understood what sex was and where babies come from.
At least I’ll have Jamie’s parents in my corner if worst comes to worst. His mom is a saint and his dad is pretty awesome too. That’s not to say mine aren’t, they’re just a lot more conservative than his are. And much less understanding.
I open the bathroom stall door, grabbing the stick I peed on and tossing it in the trash can as I head out. The initial bell rings as I step into the hall. First period Algebra—a class I can’t ever see needing—is the last place I want to be. It’s the last week of school, only four days left until we’re let out for summer. The seniors aren’t even here. They finished all of their exams last week so I won’t see Jamie until late tonight because he just started a job this week.
Have Mercy Page 6