Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3)

by Stevie J. Cole

  I felt like I had to defend myself for some reason. “I just had a lot on my mind, and he said he didn’t need a kid, you know. It wasn’t just the drugs, it was just everything.”

  Rush glared at me, narrowing his eyes as he took a few steps in my direction.

  Stone stepped between us. “The kid wasn’t his.” His eyes filled with tears and he swallowed, wetting his lips with his tongue. “He wasn’t his.”

  My shoulders fell. Jag hadn’t been lying to me, and now I felt more like shit for accusing him of it. “Well, I thought he was, which made me think he wouldn’t want another one.”

  “What?” Stone asked, his eyes widening.

  I felt warmth spread over my chest, up my neck, and flush its way across my face. I nervously rolled my bottom lip underneath my teeth, chewing on the inside of it. My eyes fell to the sidewalk between our feet as I tried to figure out a way to cover up the fact that I was pregnant.

  “What kid? Hey, Roxy…look at me, would you.”

  Slowly, I raised my head and forced myself to look Stone in the eyes.

  My nerves, my shame, my confusion with everything must have been evident by my expression, by the tears flooding my eyes.

  Stone closed his eyes and sighed, mumbling, “Shit,” underneath his breath.

  “It was just too much. Everything blew up at the same time. Damn it!”

  “I didn’t think. I just didn’t want to get hurt. I don’t want this kid to get hurt.”

  Stone stared at me. His face softened and for a second, I thought he understood.

  Rush huffed. “Oh, shit! He fucking knocked you up?” Flinging his hands in the air, he turned and walked back toward the door of the record company. “Fucking great. That’s the end of that. You probably did it on purpose.” He opened the door and disappeared inside the building.

  Pax stood on the step, looking me over before he followed Rush inside.

  “Jag knew you were pregnant?” Stone narrowed his eyes on me.

  “I told him that night. After he’d already said he didn’t need a kid. I just—I didn’t know what to do. I was upset. Scared.”

  He tilted his head up, staring at the sky, and shaking his head. “He just doesn’t know how to handle things.” Rubbing his palms down his face, he muttered, “I thought it was all because of me. I had no idea you were pregnant.”

  “You?” I asked, and realizing I didn’t really care why he thought he could be to blame, I blurted out, “I want to see him. You’re going to go see him, right? I want to go with you.”

  My throat tightened, burning and straining to hold back the sobs that were forcing their way up. “Stone, I want to see him. I have to see him!”

  He remained silent. His eyes tore into me, and I saw the hesitation.

  I was a threat.

  I’d hurt his brother.

  Just as he opened his mouth to speak, I heard a car door slam shut. Stone looked over the top of my head, and his eyes fluttered with agitation.

  “Get the hell away from here. Go the fuck on!” An angry male voice shouted to the people gathered around.

  A news anchor’s voice broke over the crowd. “James, is it true that Jag Steele is dead?”

  That sentence made me nauseous.

  “No, he’s not dead. Now fuck off.”

  That is James. That’s the asshole that’s done nothing but make things worse for Jag. I glared at him as he jogged up to the stairs.

  His face was weathered, his hair more grey than I’d expected, and he looked much smaller than you’d think an asshole like him would be.

  He spit the gum from his mouth when his eyes landed on me, and his jaw tightened. His eyelids twitched as they trailed up my body while gritting his teeth.

  A short laugh escaped him, and he pulled his shades down the bridge of his nose, arching one brow. “You must be the girl? Hmm.”

  He pushed the glasses back against his face and turned to Stone. “Not exactly Jag’s type. But she got under his skin real good.”

  He grabbed Stone’s arm and pushed him toward the door. “Joe said he left everything to some girl. Even his part in the band. Fucking idiot!” Turning to glance at me over his shoulder, he growled, “You realize you almost killed the biggest damn rock star since Zeppelin, right? You should be proud. You must have some killer pussy.”

  He shoved Stone through the doorway, barking back at me, “Leave him the hell alone. He doesn’t need you. I make his decisions. I can control the drugs, I can’t control a fucking woman.”

  The door closed behind them, and I turned to face a thick sea of reporters, bystanders, and paparazzi armed with cameras.

  My entire body trembled as I made my way back to my car. All of the questions being shouted in my direction jumbled together, and I just shook my head, placing my hand out in front of me as I pushed through to the door of my car.

  I ignored every question. And just as I was closing the door, the tears finally finding their way out, one of the men shouted, “How does it feel to know you may never see him again?”

  Slamming the door, I glared through the window, and flashes from cameras nearly blinded me.

  Jag’s fame had polluted me. And the way I felt about him, the thought that I may very well never see him again, made me feel like death had wrapped me up inside its cold hands, suffocating me with emptiness.

  That man had completely wrecked me. And I realized that if I had it all to do over again, the only thing I would change is that I would have given him another chance. I would have loved him for all those little pieces that were perfect, and for all those bigger flaws that made him real.

  Chapter 28

  “They’ve sent him to a rehab unit in Arizona,” Stone muttered into the phone.

  My eyes drifted over to a picture of me and Jag. He’d taken it with his phone, printed it off, and taped it up on my mirror one day, instructing me that I wasn’t allowed to ever take it down.

  “I need to see him, Stone.”

  A puff of air flew across the receiver. “You can’t. They don’t allow visitors—”

  “I’ll call him then.”

  I had to talk to him. I just needed to hear his voice. I just had to tell him that I loved him. I needed him to know he didn’t do anything wrong, that I should have tried to help him.

  “Roxy, you can’t call him.”

  My breathing grew deeper. Heat trickled over my skin. “Like hell I can’t. You know, I tried to call him when he was in the hospital, and James had them divert my call every fucking time. I mean, does he even know I was trying to call him? Did anyone ever tell him, huh, Stone?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused, then groaned into the phone. “No, no one ever told him.”

  “Why not?” I screamed into the phone. “Why?”

  I couldn’t stand the idea that Jag thought I didn’t care about him.

  “He tried to fucking kill himself. You understand that, right? Not only does he have a problem with drugs, Roxy, he’s fucking depressed. He doesn’t need any triggers to make things worse.”

  The fact that I was toxic to the guy I was in love with, whose baby was inside me, was more than I could bear, and I broke down.

  “I’m not going to make it worse. I’m going to fix it,” I said through sobs.

  “You don’t know what it will do.”

  “I love him,” I whispered through my trembling lips.

  That comment was a plea for Stone to do something that would get me to Jag, something that would make him understand that I needed to see him, that I needed to physically put my hands on him.

  Stone sighed sympathetically. “Yeah, I get that. But if you love him, you’ll just wait until he’s better. Give him time. He needs to figure this shit out first. He’s stuck in there for three months, and even if you guys worked everything out, he can’t leave and he’d drive himself crazy thinking about how he could get to you. He needs to get well, Roxy. If you love him, you’ll just let him get better first.”

  I managed
to stop crying and wiped my face with my sleeve. “The day he gets out. You better let me know.”

  “I will. If you need anything, you can call me, you know that, right?”

  Making my way toward my dresser, I said, “Thanks,” then hung up the phone.

  My finger traced over the picture, and my gaze focused on Jag’s face. He looked like a normal guy in that picture, not a rock star. No eye liner, no crazy hair style. And we looked like we belonged together. We understood each other in ways I was certain no one else ever would. We were broken and isolated, just from different things. I’d been isolated by pain, he’d been isolated by fame.

  The pain caused by drugs had broken me, and he had used drugs to numb him from all the pain that had broken him.

  He needed a reality, and I needed a dream.

  We were flawed, imperfect, and to anyone else, it may seem like loving him would be a disaster, because at first, honestly, that’s what I thought.

  To people looking in from the outside, our story wasn’t a romance, it was ridiculous. We were two broken people, and what’s romantic about that?

  But to someone on the inside, it was healing, it was grace, and it was personal. What we were to each other was salvation. And how can saving someone that is utterly irreparable not be considered a beautiful story of love?

  We.

  Were.

  Fire.

  And the second I realized that I couldn’t help but smile.

  I had actually thought that Jag was a wildfire that would consume me, destroy me, and leave me with scars. And I was right, Jag Steele was a fucking wildfire, but the thing I didn’t realize is that wildfires tear through a place, leaving it in what looks like ruins; but really the fire nourishes something deep in the soil, and after it has burnt out, new life grows. Wildfires restore balance. And it was only after the fact that I could see that that’s exactly what Jag and I were to each other, wildfires.

  We could burn all those ugly things deep down inside one another, and although it was nearly unbearable while our souls were being purged of those things, in the end there would be a balance; we could give each other those things we never had. And I don’t believe there was another person in the existence of the world that could heal me the way Jag could.

  If that’s not love, then I will never believe that love exists.

  Raw.

  Gritty.

  Angry.

  All-consuming.

  That was Jag. That was us. That is love.

  Chapter 29

  It had been seven weeks since Jag had overdosed. He had five more weeks until he’d finish his program, and every day things grew more complicated.

  The media had gone nuts when the news I was pregnant finally came out. The headlines, God, the headlines were ridiculous. I’d been said to be his lover, the reason for him nearly dying…I’d also been called a gold digger, and then, according to a few of the less reputable tabloids, I’d evidently stolen his sperm form a sperm bank and impregnated myself with a turkey baster.

  Everywhere I went, I was stalked by paparazzi and Pandemic Sorrow fans. I had learned how to shut down and completely ignore it most of the time, but sometimes people really know where to cut you when they want to see blood.

  “Oh, my God. Really?” Layla bitched, glaring at the girl who’d just taken a picture of me. She yanked on the shopping cart. “You can’t go to the freaking store without someone taking a picture?” “That’s insane!” The cart was stuck, and she furiously jerked it again to free it.

  “Yeah, it’s annoying. I feel like the slut of the year. I’m not famous—well, I am now, thanks to this baby,” I said, rubbing over my ever-growing abdomen. “I can’t imagine how shitty it must be if you’re actually the celebrity. No wonder Jag was always flipping them off and cussing them out. They’re relentless.”

  Layla stared at me. “So weird. So, so weird.”

  We walked through the entrance of the store and Layla stopped. “You know, none of this would have happened had you not bought those tickets for my birthday. That’s crazy to think about. Your life totally changed because of a concert.” She giggled and pushed the cart again.

  “Hey! Roxy Slade!”

  I turned to see who was calling me and came face to face with three girls; three red-faced, tight-lipped girls.

  Before I had a chance to respond, the one in the middle’s lip had snarled and she began to lay into me. “I hate you! You are pathetic. What the hell were you thinking? How could you fuck Jag Steele over like that? I really hope someone puts you in your place. You don’t deserve him, and I hope he gets that baby. You don’t deserve it.”

  All I could do was stand there in absolute shock.

  “Fuck you!” Layla screamed, jumping out from the grocery cart.

  The group of girls shrugged and made their way toward the automatic doors. The middle one glanced back over her shoulder and said, “I don’t care what anyone says, I will always believe it was all your fault!”

  My jaw dropped, and I couldn’t control the gasp that had worked its way up my throat.

  “Stupid whores!” Layla growled. “Come on, Rox, they’re just jealous.”

  That girl had believed it was my fault. I could see it in her eyes. I didn’t care that she hated me, but it slaughtered me that people actually thought I drove Jag to the point of suicide.

  I loved him, and no one else seemed to see that.

  Each breath came faster than the last until I was panting at the front of the store, still staring at the doors. The baby jerked, like it was punching me, agreeing with that girl that I was to blame.

  “Jealous? Jealous of what, Layla?” I looked down at my rounded belly, then back up at her, trying to ignore the people staring at me.

  “Jealous that I’m knocked up? That I’m alone? That my boyfriend—actually, he’s not even my boyfriend, because I broke up with him instead of telling him I was pregnant. I left him because he was at his wit’s end and desperate and drowning it all with drugs.” I nodded and made my way out to the parking lot. “Yeah, a lot to be jealous of!”

  *****

  When it rains, it fucking pours.

  Later that same day I had an encounter I never wanted to have. It was one that had occupied my nightmares for years.

  I’d just finished loading my dishwasher while listening to my Pandemic Sorrow playlist. I was wallowing in self-pity. I just wanted to hear Jag’s voice, and this was the only way I could.

  I shut the door and cranked the knob, and water immediately rushed through the pipes as the motor growled to life. Using the sleeve of my robe, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and made my way to my room.

  I’d just picked out a book to settle down with when there was a knock on my front door. It was loud and demanding. My gut told me that whatever was on the other side was something I wanted nothing to do with, but I ignored it, and walked to the door.

  I didn’t have to look through the peephole because I heard his voice rumble through the aluminum.

  “Roxanne? Please open the door.” He knocked again. “Please.”

  My heart fluttered before picking up speed and hammering up into my throat. That raspy voice was my father’s.

  I froze in front of the door. Then he knocked again. “I know you’re in there, Raggedy Ann.”

  My muscles tightened even more when he uttered that name. He’d called me that as long as I can remember, and when I had gotten older, all it did was remind me of what I’d come from. Poverty, rags; I really felt that was how he’d felt about me, that I was just a rag doll that could be tossed to the side.

  I should have just gone back to my room and shut my door, but sometimes life gives you opportunities to purge yourself; that’s what this was, and I needed it.

  Slowly, I slid the chain from the lock and twisted the deadbolt. When I opened the door, I wedged myself between it and my apartment so he couldn’t come inside.

  I wasn’t prepared for the way he looked. It had been years since I�
�d seen him.

  He was wrinkled and frail. Most of his hair had fallen out, and the scraggly pieces that were left were white. Large bags hung under his eyes and the once-large man I’d feared as a child seemed small and puny, not nearly as intimidating as he had in my dreams.

  “Roxanne.” His voice fell to a whisper and his eyes flooded with tears. “Baby, I’ve missed you. I’m—I’m so sorry. How’s Layla and Sean?”

  The mention of my brother’s name punched me in the stomach, and my baby jumped.

  He didn’t even know his own son had been dead for two years.

  He went to hug me, but I jerked away. “Don’t.”

  His face softened and he slowly nodded. “I know. I was a terrible person. Terrible.” He ran his hand up the scruff on his neck. “I just wanted to see you.”

  “Why?” I felt my nostrils flare, and much to my surprise no tears stung my eyes.

  I really didn’t love him. I couldn’t.

  Shrugging, he offered, “You’re my daughter. I don’t need a reason.”

  We stood there in silence for a brief moment. And just when I was about to break the news that Sean had died, he pointed at my stomach.

  “Is it true? Are you having a baby with that rock star?”

  That rock star has a fucking name. “You mean Jag? Am I having a baby with Jag Steele?”

  “Yeah, the rock star.”

  There it was.

  Why he had come to find me.

  I was no longer a nobody, at least not to him. I was in tabloids, I was with a celebrity, which meant that I may have access to loads of money, and my father had never been above begging for handouts.

  Between everything that had happened with Jag, with my losing my privacy, my guilt; really, just from everything that had happened in my life this, was the last piece. This reunion totally numbed me. I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t sad, dejected; I really felt nothing.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. Hope I made you proud, instead of getting knocked up by a random bottom-of-the-barrel addict, I went for a famous one.” I narrowed my gaze at him. “I may be your daughter, but you haven’t been a father for almost twenty years. I don’t want you in my life, I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want this baby to be exposed to that part of my past, so please forget that you have any ties to me and Layla.”