by Jane Anthony
“Yeah, I suppose so.” I pick up her daisy bouquet and hand it to her. “I’m sorry you got stuck with me walking you down the aisle instead of Dad.”
“I’m not,” she replies, taking the flowers from my hand. “You’re every bit as important to me as he was.”
Today, my little sister is getting married—to my best friend. The only two people I care about in the entire world are running off with each other, leaving me in the dust. I’m happy for them and all, but being the odd man out is lonely. For so long, it was just the two of us in that big house together. She was my partner, my friend, and someone who always had my back. Jillian understands me in a way no one else ever has.
Ever since we were kids, protecting her has been my number one priority. She relied on me. I avoided relationships because I was all she had. I swore I’d always take care of her. And I have. But in a few minutes, I’ll be passing the job to Jameson.
He's a great guy, and he loves her. I should be thrilled, but instead, I feel ... lost. We’re still close, but the dynamic is different. It used to be Jillian and me against the world. She looked up to me, idolized me. Everywhere I went, there she was. It was a good feeling—I’m not going to lie. But as she grew up and moved on from needing a big brother to needing a man, I no longer fit the bill. I became obsolete.
She tugs at the bodice of her plain white gown, the very one our mom wore. Just like the old framed photos Jill keeps scattered around the house, the memories of our mother have faded over the years. Still, they look so similar. Jill’s grown into a carbon copy, a mirror image of the woman taken before she got the chance to see us grow. But now, seeing her in that simple satin dress—one that, much like Jill herself, is pretty without any embellishments—I can visualize exactly how our mom looked as if she was standing in front of us.
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? Thinking about this shit has me choked up …
“One thing I am regretting is this dress choice. I can barely breathe in this thing.”
Regrets. Sometimes, I have so many I feel like I'm drowning. I'm twenty-seven years old, and I've done nothing with my life. I go to work, fix cars, and go home to my empty house. The only thing I have is my music, and even that depresses me these days. What’s the point in playing if no one’s there to listen?
“Stop fidgeting. You look beautiful. You can go back to your ripped up metal tees in an hour.”
“Why, Mr. Morello, is that a compliment?” she asks, smiling.
“It’s a special occasion. Don’t get used to it,” I deadpan and look right past her, but the corners of my mouth turn up, giving away my stone façade.
“You’re an ass!” She laughs and smacks my chest.
Jill tells me that I’m too picky, but I know what kind of woman I want. One who allows me to be myself but makes me strive to be better. A trustworthy partner who's going to stick by me at all costs, who understands me, sees beyond the lost little boy, and brings out the man I know I can be. I want what Jill has found with Jameson, what our parents had. Love. Real, true, can’t-live-without-each-other love. I refuse to settle.
“It’s about that time. You ready to give me away?”
I extend my elbow, and she slips her petite hand into the crook. “Nope.”
Chapter One
AJ
“Come on, big boy. Come for mommy.”
The woman beneath me—Alyssa, I think she said her name was—hasn’t stopped with the baby talk since I stuck my dick in her twenty minutes ago. I’m cool with kinky sex, but this mother-son fetish shit is about to make me lose my hard-on. It doesn’t help that she’s well into her fifties and has a kid my age. As usual, tequila starts with great intentions and ends with nothing but bad ideas.
“Ut-oh. Is wittle AJ having trouble? Maybe mommy needs to take over?”
No, definitely not. Mommy needs to shut the fuck up so I can come and get her the hell out of my house. I flip her onto her stomach and hoist her ass in the air, pushing her face into the pillow just long enough to blow my load in silence.
Tired and panting, I roll to the side, praying to God that she gets up. Instead, she settles into my bed and gets comfortable. Fuck. Why do I keep bringing these one-night stands to my house? Now, I have to be the dick who tells her to leave, and I hate that. Especially since they can come back to The Wreck and find me.
“So, uh, you okay to drive, Alyssa?” Hopefully, she gets the hint.
The flint of my Zippo sparks in the dimly lit room as I light the tip of my cigarette. It’s the only thing I have that belonged to my mother. It was a gift from my dad before they got married. The pad of my thumb grazes over the deep etching in the front: AM & GD Forever. Ironic. Anthony Morello and Gabriella Donofrio didn’t live long enough to see forever.
“The name’s Alice,” she says, rolling toward me and grabbing my Marlboro Red with two spindly fingers. Like it matters. The cherry glows bright orange as she takes a long drag, smoke curling out of her nostrils like a dragon.
“That’s what I said,” I lie, taking back my smoke and switching it to the opposite hand. Sharing a cigarette in post-coital bliss is a little too intimate for me. It’s the kind of shit you see in romantic comedies after the guy and girl finally get together before something tears them apart again.
Alice reaches for me, but I’m already halfway off the bed and on my way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. “Your band was awesome tonight,” she calls from the bedroom.
“I wasn’t with the band. I’m the sound guy.” The second it comes out of my mouth, I cringe with regret. Me and my big fucking mouth.
“Oh! So I know where to find you when I want to see you again!”
Dammit.
The Wreck is a local hotspot for up and coming bands to gain exposure. I’ve been working there Saturday nights for a few months now, in addition to my regular job at Morello and Tate Restoration. The pay is shitty, but it’s a fun job and comes with the nice fringe benefit of easy sex. The girls are pretty docile by night’s end. Whoever isn’t paired off by the time the lights go on is generally liquored up and ready to go home with whoever is behind door number two. Yeah, I’m an asshole … Save the feminist spiel. I already know.
“I was hired for the night. Usual sound guy didn’t show.” It’s easier to lie and hope Mrs. Robinson doesn’t check up on me. If she does, I’ll worry about it when it happens. Right now, I just need her to go.
Disappointment hits me when I walk back into the room and find her still in my bed. Jesus, you bang one old lady, and she clings like a genital wart. “So, uh, I hate to do this, but my girlfriend’s going to be home soon. You should probably get going.”
“Your girlfriend?” Her eyelids narrow. The haggard look on the woman’s face tells me this isn’t her first trip to the rodeo. She sees right through my bullshit.
“Yeah. She’s kind of nuts. It’s best if you’re gone by the time she gets here,” I reply, swirling my finger at my head for effect.
Dropping the girlfriend is something I only do when absolutely necessary. Making up fake girlfriends is the equivalent of telling your boss you have a dead relative to get out of work. You don’t want that kind of karmic juju coming back to bite you in the ass.
Alice grumbles something about me being an asshole before rolling out of my bed and grabbing her shit, but I don’t stick around to watch the walk of shame. Instead, I head to the kitchen and poke around for something to eat. One thing I miss about living with Jill is the food. She kept the fridge well stocked and always had bowls of leftovers individually wrapped with instructions. She idiot proofed shit for me. It was awesome. All I have in here is cold pizza, some bread, and a six-pack.
I slam the fridge door, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see what’s-her-face hovering behind it in the dark. Chick snuck up on me like a ninja.
“You’re just as bad as my son is. He never takes anything seriously, either. Everything’s a party to you people.” She stands, arms crossed over her chest defia
ntly, hip jutted out. In this light, she can almost pass for a younger woman instead of the aging beauty queen with over-processed hair and too much lipstick standing before me.
Once upon a time, this lady was probably a knockout. Bet she had dudes lined up around the corner, but somewhere along the lines, she ended up like this. Lonely. Desperate. Willing to go to bed with anyone just to feel connected to another human being for a few hours. How does this happen to a person? If I don’t start changing my ways, I’m going to end up like this.
Who am I kidding? I already am.
“We had fun, Alyssa. Let’s not spoil it,” I warble around a mouthful of cold pizza. The last thing I need right now is a lecture from Mother Time. She doesn’t know shit about me, and if she did, she’d know that I take everything seriously. Too seriously, in fact. It’s the reason I took the job at The Wreck to begin with. I hoped working around music would help me relax.
Music has always had a calming effect on my soul. Whenever shit in my head got too loud, banging away at my drums chased it away and put everything into perspective. Ever since the accident, my shoulder hurts too much to wail on them the way I used to. Yet another regret in a string of many.
Speaking of regrets. I casually try to shove my current one toward the door without making it too obvious that I’m literally throwing her out at this point. My buzz is gone, I have a headache, and her two-pack-a-day voice is starting to grate on my nerves. I want to go to bed and forget this ever happened.
Opening the door, I usher her through it as she snaps her name at me for the second or—who am I kidding, probably fifth—time. “Adios, Alyssa,” I say to myself as soon as the door closes with her on the other side.
Music wails from the backyard as I pull past the shop into my sister’s driveway. The gravel crunches under my feet, while loud howling guitar riffs and growling vocals waft through the warm evening air.
“No more Twisted Sister!” I shout, straddling the picnic bench across from her.
Jillian smacks the volume on the speaker, turning it to a less ear-splitting decibel. “The prodigal son returns! And he looks like shit!”
“Rough night,” I grumble, fishing for a beer in the cooler. Hair of the dog, right? “What are ya cookin’? Smells good. I’m starving.”
Ever since I moved out, Jillian insists we get together for Sunday dinner. Yet another tradition she claims she does for our parents' benefit. It's not enough I have to see her and Jameson every day at work, but I have to spend time with them on my day off, too. Personally, I think she worries I'm not going to eat unless she feeds me. She's an old Italian grandma trapped in the body of a twenty-five-year-old.
“Good because Jameson grilled enough sausage to feed an army.”
“You talkin’ shit about me out here?” Jameson emerges from the house, sliding the screen door shut behind him.
“S’up, man?” I chuck my chin, imitating his greeting.
Jillian tilts her head with a wry grin. “Yeah, I was telling AJ how much I hate you.”
Jameson snorts. “That’s not what you were saying this morning.”
“Gah ... I'm already hungover! Don't make me puke." I shake away the disturbing imagery Jameson loves to put in my head.
The initial thought of my little sister and my wayward best friend didn't exactly thrill me. Considering the hell I put these two through, a little light-hearted ribbing is the least of my worries. Still ... gross.
Jillian rolls her eyes and laughs. "How was the band last night? Any good?"
"Eh," I say, curling my lip. "Classic rock. The place was full of middle-agers."
"Tell me you didn't bag an old lady last night." Jameson shakes his head and uses the edge of the table to pop the cap off his beer bottle.
"She wasn't that old!"
He cringes. "You'll stick your dick in anything, won't you?"
"What can I say? I'm a giver."
"You're disgusting. You're never going to have a quality relationship if you keep eating at the taco truck," Jillian shoots.
"Whatever." I tip my beer to my lips. My delusional sister seems to think a secret pool of women is out there just waiting to be discovered. Just because she was lucky enough to meet her significant other as a kid doesn’t mean the same fate is in the cards for the rest of us. It’s rough out there.
A screeching cry blasts through the little speaker box on the table, taking the unwanted attention off my love life for the time being. “Zakk’s up,” Jillian announces with a sigh. Her exhausted eyes scream Calgon, take me away as they roll toward Jameson.
My nephew came barreling into this world about six months ago and hasn’t stopped screaming since. Kid has a metal set of pipes, a guitar player’s name, and a front man’s attitude. When he hits puberty, my sister is fucked.
“I’ll get him.”
I step out of the spotlight and into my childhood home. Every time I come back here, I can’t help but feel weird. The bones of the house are the same, but everything inside has been changed. The worn hardwood floors seem even older next to the new furniture. Mom’s old lace curtains are gone, replaced with sleek modern panels in vibrant colors. New photos depicting a new life have replaced the childhood photos of Jill and me that used to grace every wall. A new life where I may as well not even exist. But I do. And if these walls could talk, they’d tell stories about the family that was here before. A family that loved each other with a fierceness so bright they literally burned themselves out.
“Hey, Lil’ Shredder,” I say, poking my head in the room. The very one I once called mine. The walls are the same shade of midnight blue, but all my shit is long gone. Toys, books, and baby paraphernalia of all kinds lie strewn about. Zakk stops screaming and shoots a drooling toothless grin in my direction. “You just wanna join the party, huh, kid?”
He reaches for me. As I lift him from his crib, I see the drumstick sheets I bought the day Jill told me she was pregnant. Instinctively, he clings to my side as I cradle him in the crook of my elbow. “You got me out of some this-is-your-life crap I wasn’t interested in dealing with. You got my back.” He responds by blowing a raspberry in my face, bubbles of saliva popping around his tiny lips. I nudge my finger into his pudgy stomach as big gales of cackling belly laughter explode from him.
I love this kid. More than I thought I was capable of loving another person. Whenever I’ve given up hope on having any kind of life, Zakk reminds me that some things are definitely worth fighting for.
Chapter Two
CASEY
“You’re not going to believe this!”
My roommate crashes into my room at lightning speed. Light from the living room filters in through the doorway. I crack open one eye and see her bouncing from foot to foot.
“Marisa, it’s three in the mornin’. Can I not believe it at a more reasonable hour?” I roll over and pull the covers over my head.
“No! I’m way too wired to sleep. If I don’t tell you now, I risk not being able to tell you tomorrow, so you have to hear it now!” Marisa is babbling a mile a minute and not coming even remotely close to using her indoor voice. She gets like this every time she comes home from The Wreck. Pumped up on loud rock ‘n’ roll and far too much vodka. Sometimes, it’s better just to let her get out what she needs to say rather than bother to argue with her. She always ends up winning anyway, and it takes twice as long.
“Fine. Hurry up then get out,” I whine.
“Lady Roger got into a huge fight with one of the customers tonight.”
“You’re right; I don’t believe it. Good night.” I yawn, adjusting my covers again.
“That’s not all!” she yells, pulling my comforter back. Mental note. Crash Missy’s party at eight a.m. tomorrow. “Frankie D. said he’s tired of Lady Roger’s bullshit and fired her. The Wreck needs a bartender. The job is yours if you want it!”
Now, I’m awake.
I sit up in my bed, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark. The sliver of light from the doorway refle
cts off Marisa’s disco ball earrings, casting millions of tiny shining fractals dappling across her face. “You got me a job at The Wreck?”
“Yes! He’s desperate. Needs someone who can start tomorrow. I told him you’d fit in perfect!”
I don’t know whether to kiss her or kill her. I don’t fit in at The Wreck. At all. On one hand, I seriously need a job. I’ve been out of work for weeks now, and whatever savings I have is starting to get dangerously close to the red zone. But on the other hand, my interest in being that entrenched in the rock scene is even smaller than my bank account.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not going to be like that, okay?” Marisa says, reading my mind.
She knows exactly what I’m thinking. Musicians are dogs. Everyone in that God forsaken industry is only out for themselves. No one cares who they hurt. “It’s just tending bar two nights a week. No one has to know about you and Davis. Just do your job, collect the tips, and come home.”
“All right, fine,” I say, defeated.
Marisa claps her hands and does a little shuffle on the spot. “Awesome! You’ll love it! And now, we’ll get to hang out on the weekends!”
Silver linings.
At exactly five minutes to seven, I pull open the heavy wooden door of the abandoned warehouse currently known as The Wreck. It’s dark and reeks of stale beer and sweat. This time of the evening, the place is a ghost town, but later, there will be so many bodies in here, they’ll have to turn people away at the door. It’s insane how busy this place gets. Hopefully, the patrons are good tippers.
“Hello!” My voice echoes through the wide empty space, while my Cavender boots thump on the ancient hardwood. Cowboy boots in a rock club might be a little contradictory, but they cost a small fortune, and I love them. “Anybody here?”
An enormous dark wooden bar stretches along the entire length of the wall at the back of the place. Bright lights shine below the rows of bottles behind it, making the liquor inside them glow. A door at the end bursts open and a stout man with a five o'clock shadow comes barreling through carrying a rack of clean glassware.