Chaos

by Jamie Shaw

  “Yeah, why?” I rest my elbows on the table and slouch forward, burying a set of fingers under my hair. My forehead hovers over the laminate surface until I give up the good fight and let my head thump down against it.

  “He’s blowing up my phone.”

  “Tell him to get bent,” I mutter to the floor.

  “Oh, I just might, Kiterina. Do you know what he said to me the other day?”

  “What?”

  “That it was easier for me to come out than it would be for him. Just because I won prom queen does not mean it was easier!”

  I wish I could laugh, but without the energy to even fake it, silence is all I can give.

  “Okay,” Leti says after I’ve been quiet too long. His tone has changed, becoming the tone of the guy who knew we were going to be friends before I even knew who he was, and who has always been there for me when I’ve needed him. “Tell me everything.”

  I unstick my forehead from the table and sit up, resting it heavily on the heel of my palm instead. “What did Kale tell you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve been talking to you and ignoring his closeted ass.”

  The impatience in Leti’s voice might sound like a joke to anyone else, but I know he’s getting irritated, and I know Kale knows it too. Ever since Out, he and my look-alike have been kind of an item, but Kale wants to keep Leti a secret, and that’s not the way to keep Leti at all.

  “So are you going to start talking,” Leti continues, “or should I start going into detail about the prom king and all the scandalous things we did in the limo after the—”

  I interrupt Leti to tell him everything—everything I told Kale, from the beginning to the end. When he asks for details, I give them. When I realize I’ve forgotten something, I go back. I tell him every secret, every lie, every mistake.

  “What did Kale say?” he asks when I’m finished.

  “He told me to come home.”

  “Which means you decided you’re staying.”

  “Do you think I should?” The question leaves me in a moment of weakness. I shouldn’t need him to tell me what to do, but I just need someone—someone who hasn’t inherited my stubbornness or infamous last name—to tell me something, anything, that will make this better.

  “I think you’re a bona fide rock goddess,” Leti says. “I think you should do whatever the hell you want to do.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Hmm,” he hums, and I get a pang of homesickness as I picture his face and the vintage cartoon tee he’s probably wearing. My Little Pony? Rainbow Brite? He pauses for a moment, and then he suggests, “Is Mike still single?”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the talk, Leti.”

  He snickers into the phone. “Look, Kit-stand, I’m not going to give you advice—”

  “Apparently.”

  “Because you don’t really want it. You only want me to tell you what you want to hear.”

  “And what’s that?” I counter, not even trying to hide how frustrated I am. He’s as bad as Kale. Worse.

  “Shawn is an asshole and you should castrate him while he sleeps.”

  “Is that what I need to hear?” I counter, and a faint sigh drifts through the phone.

  “Beats me. You’re asking someone who’s dating a guy who’s still in the freaking closet.”

  WITH NO HELP from Kale, and even less help from Leti, I finish my coffee, order another, and wait for the clock to tick down. I arrive back at the bus just before morning soundcheck, toting a carrier full of specialty coffees and giving them to the guys with the fakest smile I’ve ever delivered. They immediately ask where I’ve been, and I put on the performance of my life. I pretend to not be broken. To not be an absolute wreck inside. My brain wants to hate Shawn. But my heart . . . my heart is useless.

  Where was I? A walk to find a coffee shop. Why? Because I wanted to bring back a surprise. No more questions asked, and even though Shawn’s eyes are curious, he says nothing that would make him seem any more or less concerned than anyone else—because we’re a secret he’s determined to keep. Or maybe because he just doesn’t care.

  I still have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow, but for today, I have a plan, and that plan is to just get through it. I get through soundcheck, I get through lunch. I act normal. I play games with Mike, I make a casual phone call to my mom. I do whatever I need to do to avoid getting caught alone with Shawn.

  That evening, I think about changing into something that will make his blood pump in all the right places and give him blue balls for the rest of his life. I could grab something from our boxes of Dee’s merchandise, guaranteed to flaunt my ample chest, my tight stomach, my long legs . . .

  But then I just say fuck it and grab the first clean things I find, not caring in the slightest that I turn out looking much more grunge than gorgeous. My jeans are tight and worn to pieces. My tank top is loose and falling apart at the collar. Complete with an oversized flannel, I look like I’m ready for a night on the couch instead of a show on the stage. I look like I’m ready for a tub of ice cream and a marathon of Ice Road Truckers, and if I had just listened to Kale when I had the chance, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.

  Instead, I drag my ass outside and sandwich myself between Mike and Joel to avoid walking next to Shawn. We haven’t shared more than a few words since last night, and the short stroll to the venue is no different. But inside, swallowed by the darkness of the balcony, he places himself beside me.

  I can feel his gaze burrowing into the side of my face, searching for something that’s now missing between us, but I ignore it. And when he discreetly links his fingers with mine, one by one by one, I ignore that too. I silently stare over the railing, contemplating my next move. If I break this off between us—whatever this is—it will make things too easy for him. He’ll get over me as easily as he had before, and I’ll be the only one hurting.

  He is the one who needs to hurt.

  So instead of pulling away, I clasp my fingers with his, holding on tight and refusing to let go. I’m contemplating a million different ways to get even, each one threatening to destroy me just as much him, as I watch the crowd pour through the freshly opened doors. Red hair, brown hair, blue hair. Each one of those kids is already buzzing, ready for the best night of their lives, while I stand in the shadows with my hand trapped in Shawn’s. Blonde hair, purple hair, pink hair. And then . . .

  Black hair, black hair, black hair, black hair.

  My hand wrenches from Shawn’s when I suddenly gasp and grip the railing of the balcony, my eyes wide as I watch four extremely tall, extremely familiar, extremely far-from-home guys venture farther and farther inside. “Oh my God.”

  My knuckles flash white as I lean farther over the rail to get a better look. And, as if Kale can sense me, his chin turns up and our dark eyes lock. He elbows Mason, and Mason looks up too. Bryce, Ryan. “Shit!” I back away from the railing, running my fingers through the thick mess of my hair as I try to figure out what to do. My brothers are here. All FOUR of my fucking brothers.

  Doing a kamikaze jump over the railing is sounding better and better and better.

  “What?” Shawn asks, but I’m already making my way toward the stairwell. I look over my shoulder to see every single one of my bandmates following me. I hold up a hand. “Stay here.”

  Of course, they don’t stay there. When I get down to my brothers, who are already busy scaring the shit out of the security guard they’re dwarfing, four pairs of hard obsidian eyes skim over my face before stabbing a direct line of sight straight past me. They lock on the four pairs of eyes at my back—a rare gray-green, a boyish blue, a steady deep brown . . . and an enchanted, poisonous green.

  Mason takes them in, his gaze sharpening before it challenges mine. “Outside. Now.”

  To me, his growled order is just my pigheaded older brother being his pigheaded bossy self. But to anyone else—

  “Whoa,” Shawn says, stepping past me defensively. “What’s your p
roblem?”

  “Was I talking to you?”

  The warning in Mason’s voice triggers the sirens in my head, and instinctively, I grip Shawn’s arm to keep him from moving even another half centimeter forward. I may want him to pay for what he’s done to me, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want him to die tonight.

  Unfortunately, Mason’s black eyes narrow on my hand around Shawn’s arm, and I’m pretty sure I just signed Shawn’s death wish. I step forward in a hurry and do what I do best, throwing my attitude forward in an arrogant wave.

  “Stop being an asshole, Mason. Say ‘please’ and maybe I’ll think about it.”

  “Kit—” Ryan cautions, and I snap at him.

  “Why are you guys even here?” I know it’s because Kale opened his big fucking mouth, but I have no idea how much he told them. Enough to get them to come here, yeah. But judging by the fact that Shawn is still on his feet instead of lying in a bloody pulp on the floor, I’m also guessing that Kale didn’t tell them about what happened six years ago, or about all of the confessions I made over the phone this morning.

  “Kale told us you had a show not too far away,” Mason spits, and even though he confirms Kale didn’t say anything about me and Shawn, my twin is a dead man walking. I don’t even bother looking at him, because when I do look at him, I’m pretty sure his eyes are going to be bugging out of his head from how hard I’ll be strangling him.

  “Nice of you to tell us you were on tour,” Bryce complains, reminding me that I had told my family I wouldn’t be able to make it to Sunday dinners because I’d started giving weekend guitar lessons, just like our mom always wanted. It was easier than telling them about the tour, about the band, about the hundred fibs I’d piled on top of each other.

  “Nice of her to tell us she’s in a band with the clowns from her high school,” Mason snarls. Even without my brothers to back him, he’d still be this damn cocky. Big muscles, black tattoos, buzzed head. I cross my arms and stare him down.

  “And you wonder why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You didn’t tell them?” Joel asks, but it’s Adam’s voice that makes things go from bad to really fucking bad.

  “These are the crazy brothers you told us about?”

  “Who the fuck are you calling crazy?” Mason growls.

  “Uh, probably the big crazy dude with the big crazy eyes?”

  I throw myself in Mason’s path even before he takes his first step forward, knowing full well that he could knock Adam into next year and probably will if Adam doesn’t learn to keep his mouth shut. The club is getting packed, and it’s like every single light in the damn place is shining its bright heat on us—on the four giants at my back, the four giants at my front, and me in the middle, trying to control all eight of them like some insane miniature giant-tamer. “Look, guys,” I say in my biggest voice, “we’re about to go on. I’ll talk to you after the—”

  “No fucking way.” Mason grabs my arm when I start to turn away from him, and then, the worst happens. Shawn pushes his shoulder to knock his arm off me. And he doesn’t back down.

  In a blind panic, I push Shawn hard, so hard that he stumbles backward and nearly loses his balance. I’m so fucking pissed off, I don’t know who I’m angrier at—Shawn for breaking my heart, or Mason for being Mason. I slam my open palms into Shawn’s chest again, glaring at the way he looks at me—like I’m the one betraying him instead of the other way around.

  I spin around when I can’t stand to look at him anymore, getting all up in my violent older brother’s face. “What the fuck are you so mad about?” I bark. “That I lied? I’m sorry! That I’m in a band with a bunch of players from high school? Not your fucking call!” He starts to interrupt, but I raise my voice even louder, like I’m screaming to the back of the fucking pit. “That I’m touring with them? I’m a grown fucking woman, and if you don’t calm down right the fuck now, I’m getting you thrown the fuck out of here!” F-bombs are detonating left and right, each one doing nothing to calm the explosive rage inside me. Today was so not the day for Mason to push my last button. It had a big red sign on it that said Do Not Push, and like an idiot, Kale dragged him straight to it.

  “Do you hear me?” I continue, knowing damn well that everyone within a five-mile radius heard my every last word just fine. “You have two options. Wish me a good show and I’ll talk to you after, or keep pissing me off and go the fuck home.”

  My tone is deadly serious, and by the way Mason considers my words, he knows it. If he pushes his luck again, I’ll call security, and it’ll take ten guys to throw him out, but they’ll do it.

  Dark eyes stay pinned on me until they lift to Shawn over my shoulder, and I watch as they transform into deadly black diamonds, promising untold pain if Shawn ever touches him again.

  “You have two seconds,” I warn.

  Mason looks down at me, takes way longer than two seconds, and grunts. And when I see my opportunity, I lift onto my tiptoes and throw my arms around his neck like a snare, locking him in a strong-armed hug that I’m hoping cracks the shell he has up. I love my brother. I love my brother to death. And I won’t hesitate to love him to death right now if he continues acting like a silverback gorilla on crack.

  Luckily, his rock-hard shoulders soften under my embrace, losing the rest of their tension when I say, “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”

  His tree-trunk arms lift to hug me back. “You’re still in trouble.”

  “No, I’m not.” I kiss him on the cheek and turn toward our other brothers. “If you can behave”—I lock eyes with every single one of them—“then you can watch from backstage. Can you behave?” When none of them answer, I sigh and say, “Fine, come with me.”

  WITH MY BROTHERS standing just offstage, I put on the performance of my life—just like every other night we’ve been on tour. I should be nervous. I should feel insecure. But instead, all I can think about is why they’re here.

  They’re here to take me home.

  And I’m going to let them.

  Tonight is the last show. As soon as it’s over, the band’s plan is to drive the three hours to get back home. Adam and Joel have missed Rowan and Dee so much, I doubt they’ll even spend much time with fans before climbing onto the bus. Instead, they’ll probably pack the trailer in record time and get home well before sunrise.

  I don’t care when I get home. All I care about is that I don’t have to hold Shawn’s hand again tonight. I’ll figure out what to do about him tomorrow, or the next day, or never. I really don’t even care anymore. I just want to be home, in my own bed, in my own world. I want to be out of Shawn’s.

  I feel his green eyes on me as I play, and I gaze through the orange glow illuminating the stage to stare back at him. He’s shouting lyrics into his backup mic, his fingers viciously strumming the strings of his guitar, looking like the rock god I could never help falling for. Every girl in this place is wishing they could go home with him tonight, and I’m the one who could. I could ditch my brothers, pull him somewhere private after the show. I could let him take me and pretend it means nothing to me. I could be his secret.

  I could let him break my heart.

  Again.

  I watch him watching me, missing him already. I miss the dream of him. I miss the lie of us.

  I look away because stupid tears are stinging, and the only way I fight them back is by pouring myself into the music. I close my eyes, I bounce with the beat. I jump, I spin, I shred my fucking guitar like it’s never been shredded before. When I have a freestyle opportunity, I play my fucking heart out for him.

  Because I’m not that same pathetic girl who thought her name wasn’t worth telling. I’m Kit Fucking Larson. I’m a goddamn fucking rock star.

  When I open my eyes again, the faces in the crowd are wild, and so am I. The pit is the sea in my storm, pitching crowd surfers over its waves. They reach for us with desperate fingers before getting snatched by security and tossed away. Adam is singing his heart out,
Mike is pulverizing the drums, and the crowd is a thrashing, living beast dancing to our chaos. I play for them. For this.

  I lose myself in the music, the motion, the lights. My heart pounds, my blood rushes, my skin blazes. In a damp shirt, with numb fingers, I hit a break in the song and pin my guitar pick between my lips, yanking off my flannel and chucking it into the crowd. The churning ocean catches it, and I watch it sink beneath the swell. Then I drop the pick back to my fingers and hit my next note—flawlessly, like the mid-song striptease was fucking easy.

  It’s the kind of show that should last forever. I’m the kind of lost that should never be found. But all too soon, our first “last song” ends and the guys and I walk offstage. My brothers are still there, Shawn is still breathing, and even though Adam is normally the one to rave about how great everyone was, tonight Bryce beats him to it.

  “Holy shit!” he says while I wait for the backlash. I’m expecting my brothers to bitch about my career choices, clothing choices, life choices. But instead, he shouts, “You were fucking awesome!”

  He claps me hard on the shoulder, and my thoroughly worked body nearly topples. But Mason catches me before I stumble, wrapping a big arm tight around my shoulder to hold me steady. “You’re a damn rock star, sis.”

  I tilt my chin to stare up at his big smile . . . and then, I fucking cry. I hiccup, and then I cry.

  I don’t even know why I’m breaking down. Maybe because I’m happy my brothers love me. Maybe because I’m devastated Shawn doesn’t. Maybe because I’m homesick. Maybe because I never want these past few weeks to end. Maybe because I’m not dreaming anymore. Maybe because I can’t.

  Kale’s arms are the next to wrap around me, and I soon find myself smothered in a four-brother hug—in Mason’s big arms, under Ryan’s careful gaze, in front of Bryce’s twice-broken nose, with Kale squeezing my shoulder until I pull myself together. They shield me from the world until the hiccups stop coming, and I kiss each one of them on the cheek before I let them go.