by Jane Anthony
“Me first,” Jill coos, cuddling Gabby in the crook of her neck. “Jameson, look how sweet she is. I want another baby.”
“Oh, jeez. I’m going to have to get a vasectomy after this trip, aren’t I?”
“Y’all are crazy. C’mon, I set up lunch outside.” Casey grabs a platter of salad and ushers everyone out the back door, while I head to the sink to wash up.
Through the window, I see them all laughing and playing. Talking like no time has passed at all. The bitter sting of emotion hits me as my gaze falls on the pasture. It is a perfect day. The sky is like a painting. It’s one of those stop-and-take-it-in kind of moments. Everything I ever wanted is here, except for the one person I miss most.
“What’d I miss?” I ask, joining them in the yard.
“Jameson was tellin’ us about the time y’all were sellin’ Christmas trees by the shop.”
Laughter cracks the sky as I throw my head back; encased in a memory I’d long forgotten yet remember like it was yesterday. Business took a hit that year, so to supplement our income my dad got the brilliant idea to sell Christmas trees off our lot after the shop closed for the day. He hired Jameson and me, only fifteen at the time, as his lackeys. “We froze our asses off! What a nightmare that was!”
“Seriously, dude. Your dad was a sheisty bastard!” he cries, rolling with laughter so heavy it’s pooling in his eyes. “To this day, the sound of Christmas carols still gives me the chills, and not in a good way.”
“Man, the things he used to make us do. Remember when he took us down the shore and insisted we all wear matching sweatbands? Mom refused because she was worried about her hair.”
Jill smacks the table, sucking in wind while cackling like a hyena. “Oh, yeah! Mine was pink. I was so pissed!”
I grab a plate of uncooked burgers and carry it to the grill, still laughing. He would have loved this. I feel his presence all around me and see it in the smiles of my children, but it’s not the same. He should be here. Laughing about old times and sharing a cold Bud with us. The life I live isn’t the one he’d planned for me, but I know he would have been proud of the man I’ve become anyway. He would have been sixty today, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.
The cold meat sizzles on the grill, and I turn to back toward the table. “To Dad.” I raise a beer, and everyone follows suit. “Thanks for the laughs, old man. Until we see each other again.”
Playlist
Twisted Sister – “I Wanna Rock”
Judas Priest – “Touch of Evil”
Johnny Cash – “Ring of Fire”
Pantera – “Cemetery Gates”
Jason Aldean – “She’s Country”
Tim McGraw – “Meanwhile Back at Mama’s”
Luke Bryan – “Move”
Lee Brice – “I Don’t Dance”
Queensryche – “Spreading the Disease”
Luke Bryan – “Pray About Everything”
Carrie Underwood – “Heartbeat”
Metallica – “Fade to Black”
Randy Houser – “We Went”
Florida Georgia Line – “H.O.L.Y”
Jason Aldean – “Burnin’ it Down”
Kansas – “Dust in the Wind”
Tesla – “Love Song”
Rush – “La Villa Strangiato (An Exercise in Self-Indulgence)”
Carrie Underwood – “Starts with Goodbye”
Iron Maiden – “No More Lies”
Guns N Roses – “Estranged”
Lee Brice – “You Don’t Sound Like You”
Eric Church – “Springsteen”
Jennifer Nettles – “Unlove You”
Scorpions – “No One Like You”
Dierks Bentley – “Say You Do”
J. Geils Band – “Love Stinks”
Maren Morris – “My Church”
Cam – “Burning House”
Metallica – “The Four Horsemen”
Tim McGraw – “The Highway”
Zebra – “Tell Me What You Want”
Chris Young – “Who I Am With You”
Garth Brooks – “You Move Me”
Cole Swindell – “You Should Be Here”
No Regrets
An Exclusive Off Limits Collection Novella
Book Three
For…
My parents
Chapter One
GABRIELLA
Bodies grind on the dance floor, moving and crashing along with the bleeding bite of the guitar solo screaming from the tiny stage. The lead singer turns his head to watch, then grabs the mic and swings around. Bending from the force of his cry, he howls into the silver metal.
It’s electric.
Energy jolts around the room, pinging off the glinting stage lights as they switch from pink to purple to blue to green, but my eyes are fixed on the man with the Gibson. His fingers fly across the fret bar before sliding down the neck, his face pinched in earsplitting agony. He shakes back a sweaty swath of hair, stepping toward the mic stand in front of him. A low baritone adds a layer of depth to the high-pitched vocals singing the chorus.
“C’mon, Gabs. I see an open spot at the bar.” My best friend, Maribelle, latches her hand onto mine. I rip my attention from the guy on stage and throw my free arm around her shoulders. “You get the drinks. I gotta pee.”
Butterflies sway in my stomach. She pushes me into a spot near a Steven Tyler wannabe, and I shove my body into the tiny opening between him and the Aqua Net victim on his right. I stand for a beat, waiting to catch the bartender’s eye, while behind me, the guy onstage mumbles something about taking a break.
The music shifts from the Marshall stacks to the overhead speakers hidden in the ceiling. The gritty growl of Ratt takes over, making the guy next to me holler in appreciation. “Thank God!” he slurs. “Steele Hammer sucks!”
Christmas lights blink above the shining bottles. Posters cover every inch of the wall behind them. Bands like Bon Jovi and Poison, their insignia highlighted by the twinkle of a thousand stars. The stale stink of beer and sweat invades my nostrils as I push my chest across the sticky bar top, waiting to be noticed. It works. “Two Cuba Libres!” I shout as the bartender meanders toward me.
A suspicious edge crosses his dark eyes. “Got ID?” His question punches me in the gut. With shaking fingers, I fumble through my bag for the bogus license I bought last week. He takes it from my hand and holds it up to the light.
Sweat soaks the black lace of my fingerless gloves. In the sunlight, the hologram is an obvious forgery, but the guy who made it assured me it would pass if the place was dark enough. “What year were you born?” he asks, trying to trip me up.
“Nineteen sixty-six,” I lie, meeting his cynical stare. His eyes glaze over as he tries to do the math in his head. I stand firm, squaring my shoulders. It’s all about confidence, which I have in spades.
That, and a set of double-D’s.
I developed early. By fifth grade, I was the only girl in my school who wore an actual bra. Ever since, it’s all boys see when they look at me.
I’m not a person.
I’m a walking set of tits.
“She’s cool!” A rich baritone floats in from behind half a second before its owner sidles up beside me. A flutter ripples in my chest like a kite in the wind. A thick black curtain falls across the red bandana tied around his forehead and settles around his chin. The rest is pulled in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. “I vouch for her, Mike. She’s with me. Add on a beer and put it on my tab.”
The bartender chucks a disdainful glance at the guy who saved my ass but walks off to make my drink anyway. “Thank you,” I tell him, reaching for the ID Mike lobbed on the counter, but the guy who saved me grabs it first.
A crooked smile creeps across his face. “Where did you get this thing?” In the darkness surrounding us, it's hard to make out the color of his eyes, but the jovial gleam inside dances like summer sparklers.
“The
DMV.” My heart rams against my ribcage, and I can’t be sure if it’s from the bad fake ID or the realization that I’m standing next to the guitar player I couldn’t keep my eyes off of.
And he’s twice as tasty up close.
The black sleeveless tee stretched across his torso reveals a thick set of sinewy arms. A skeleton graphic appears to be safety pinned to the front. The frayed hem sits above his taut stomach, leaving a band of skin between his shirt and the studded belt hanging on low-slung jeans. He’s a reformed Catholic girl’s wet dream and every father’s worst nightmare.
The left corner of his mouth joins the right in a wide grin. “C’mon, babe. This is the worst fake ID I’ve ever seen.”
I feel my face twist in a sarcastic scowl. “I’m not your babe. Thank you for the drink, now kindly hand over my license, dude.” I extend my palm in a huff, but his devastating smile doesn’t waiver. Nor does the quiver in my knees as he continues eyeing me with that hungry gaze.
“Anthony.”
“E-excuse me?” I stammer.
“My name.”
“Oh. Yeah. Okay . . .” I pinch my lids, trying to shake sense back into my head. The guy’s affecting me in more ways than one.
Sweat glistens on his muscles, his chest pressed close to mine in the tight corner of the bar. There’s a minuscule amount of space behind me — enough to add a gap between us — but his masculine scent seeps through the haze of smoke and brew snaking through the air, creating a drug-induced high I find myself leaning into.
“And you are . . .?” He squints down at the tiny print before dragging his chocolate gaze back up to mine. “I’m assuming Janet Jackson is just your alias.”
A wry smirk tugs the corner of my mouth. “Gabriella. Miss Donofrio, if you’re nasty.”
A chuckle rumbles from somewhere deep inside him. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Donofrio.” He lifts the ID between two fingers. When he extends his hand, I can’t help but notice the immensity of it. Big and broad, much like the man himself.
A nervous giggle stalls on my tongue. I snatch the useless piece of plastic from his grasp and return it to its rightful spot inside my purse. That’s fifty bucks down the drain.
Reaching for my cigarettes next, I bring one to my mouth then dig through the tiny satchel for a pack of matches. “Shit,” I warble around the filter stuck to my blood-red lips. “Got a light?”
Anthony twists around and snatches a Bic from the bar. He flicks the flint, and the orange flame flares around his hand, highlighting the mangled fingers of a man who works hard for a living.
“Thank you,” I tell him, tipping my head back to exhale into space. “Your band is really good,” I muse, wrapping my lips around the skinny red straw sticking up from the plastic cup. The sugary fizz melts on my tongue. I swallow it down and take another sweet drag of cloves and tobacco.
“No, we’re not. But it’s something to do on a Saturday night.” His gaze falls to my chest. I feel it slide across my cleavage as I lower my chin in a frail attempt to recapture it.
Lifting two crimson-tipped fingers to my face, I snap. “My eyes are up here, Bucko.”
A shit-eating grin rolls across his mouth. His name booms out beyond the tiny dance floor. He looks toward the sound, then back again. “Wait for me after the show.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Maribelle fight through the crowd, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze from the man blazing a hole clear through me with his expectant stare. “Why would I do that?” I ask, crossing my arms. The movement inadvertently forces my breasts higher.
But Anthony’s heated glare never waivers, even after Maribelle saunters over and stops beside us. “The bathroom was repugnant,” she whines but quickly recovers. “Oh! Gabs, he’s the guy from the stage.”
No shit, Sherlock.
I volley my hand between the two in a quick introduction. “Maribelle, Anthony.”
She lifts a pencil-lined brow as Anthony tips his chin in her direction. “Hey,” he grunts.
She wriggles her fingers in a curt wave then uses them to steal my cigarette. “Pleasure,” she grumbles, closing one eye to the cyclone of smoke circling around her nose. “This place is a dive, Gabs. All the guys here are rank.”
“Hang around after the show. I’ll introduce you to my buddy, Lizard.” Anthony gestures to the stage where a tall drink of water with a bleach-blond mane adjusts the bulge in his snakeskin pants.
Maribelle rolls her eyes. “You have a friend named Lizard?”
“It’s a nickname well earned.” Anthony wags his brows, then turns his intense scrutiny back to me. “Stay.” With that, he disappears through the grinding wall of dancing bodies.
Maribelle lifts her dark gaze to mine. “Lizard?” she asks again, passing back my clove.
I shrug. “He’s kinda hot.”
“He’s a refugee from the Vince Neil collection.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat as a shriek peels through the stacks on stage. Anthony glides his fingers from one end of the fretboard to the next as if slipping on ice, a high-pitched wail that demands attention.
Intensity buzzes through the crowd. It shifts like water funneling into rapids, each body leaning toward the sound as if it holds them upright. Smooth as silk, he falls into the beginning chords of “Girls Girls Girls”.
The audience erupts. I suck back the last of my drink and link arms with Maribelle before pulling her into the swaying sea. Feathered heads bob in unison. Lizard wails the words, and we scream them back, but the only man on the stage I watch is Anthony.
He’s incredible.
The sound rumbles the floor under my feet. My heart beats in time to the hard-rock ruckus until I can barely breathe. My throat dry, my pulse pounding. I’m glued to the stage until the moment they say goodbye.
Sweat pools at the base of my neck. I lift my hair and fan it with my opposite hand, but they all stand tall when I feel him approach.
“You stayed.”
I spin on my heel and come face to face with him for the second time that night, only this time, the butterflies flap higher in my throat. They steal the sarcastic comeback I’d planned to say, leaving room for only the truth. “You told me to.”
Another knee-buckling grin splits the ebony stubble around his mouth. “I can’t even make a collie stay.”
Nervous laughter stalls on my tongue. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“Yeah, that was dumb.” He pulls his dark brows together with a head shake. “Lizard!” he shouts, raising his arm.
His friend weaves past people stopping him on the way. “’Sup, Ant?”
Anthony drapes a thick arm around Lizard’s shoulders, which is quite a feat since he’s at least a foot shorter than his flaxen-haired friend. “Ladies, meet the voice behind Steele Hammer.”
“Charmed,” Maribelle purrs, offering her hand.
His gaze swallows Maribelle as if she’s a treat meant to devour whole. Half Puerto Rican and half Italian, she’s as beautiful as she is fiery. She’ll kill you where you stand and make you fall in love while she does it. It’s a gift, and Lizard looks as if he’s more than willing to unwrap it.
“You stickin’ around for a drink?” he asks.
Maribelle shrugs. “If you’re buyin’,” she laments with a disinterested sigh; meanwhile, the heat in her Bette Davis eyes says she’s ready to climb Mr. Tall, Blond, and Pretty like a tree. “But first you gotta tell me why they call you Lizard.” His smile stretches ear to ear. He glances at Anthony then back to Maribelle. His lips part, and his tongue unfurls to a point that surpasses his chin.
She quirks a brow. “Impressive.”
A deep rumble of laughter beats in his chest. He swivels toward the bar, splaying his long fingers over the wooden top and leans in. “Mike! A malt liquor, if you will!”
The bartender makes quick work of his request.
“Colt 45?” Maribelle lifts a questioning brow.
“It works every time,” he muses, tapping the
bottom of the bottle against Anthony’s Budweiser. “Haven’t seen you guys in here before. You go to the college?”
“Yeah,” Maribelle answers before I get a chance. My eyes widen as I watch her take a seductive little sip of her drink. I guess it’s not that big of a lie. I mean, we’ll be in college soon enough.
We just have to finish high school first.
“Cool,” Lizard replies.
A moment of silence zaps between us. The overhead wail of Dee Snyder fills the emptiness. I pull a cigarette from my bag and once again dig for matches I already know aren’t in there.
But Anthony’s quick on the draw. He takes the same Bic from his pocket and flicks it to life. The tip crackles as I draw the sweet smoke into my lungs. “Why don’t you keep it?” he suggests, holding it out.
“She’ll only lose it,” Maribelle interjects. “She loses everything.”
I press my lips together. “I’ve been trying to lose you for years, but you won’t take the hint.”
“Don’t even play. You love my Latina ass, and you know it.” She scrunches her nose and reaches for my cigarette the way she always does. Maribelle likes to pretend she’s not a smoker, but every time I light up, her grubby little fingers show up to steal a drag. She may as well admit it — she’s as addicted as I am.
Truth be told, I don’t know what I’m going to do without her next year. Maribelle’s been my partner in crime ever since I was eleven and my father decided I was better off at an all-girls’ Catholic school than the public one I’d been going to my whole life. But, in a few months, she’ll be leaving for college while I’m forced to withstand the agony of commuting locally.
All I want is to get out of this town and away from the dictator I call dad.
The weight of Anthony’s stare pulls me from my silent reverie. His soulful gaze picks me apart as I stand before him, exposed.