Flawed Body Rock

by Nora Flite

  Following her out, I spotted the source of her anger. The rear left tire was shredded, useless. Covering my mouth, I crouched beside her on the empty road. “Did we hit a nail or something?”

  Fingering the rubber, Brenda wrinkled her nose. “If 'something' means a knife, then yeah, guess we hit one.”

  A knife. The implication was horrifying. “You mean someone did this on purpose.”

  Dusting off her knees, she straightened and dug for her phone. “I'm guessing it was those idiotic girls back there. Are they insane? We could have been seriously hurt!”

  It felt impossible to look away from the ruined tire. Someone—maybe multiple someones—didn't even care if we got killed. The pattern of my heart was erratic. “They must have been following us from before,” I said softly. Turning, cell phone to her ear, my manager leveled a look of disbelief at me. “It's the only way they'd have time,” I explained. “We left from the mall so fast...”

  Her face was blank. Not responding to me, she spoke into the line. “Hey, it's me. The car just busted a tire. Send someone down Pine Creek, off of—yeah. Yeah, not far from the mall. Just hurry, the show is in a few hours, and... yeah. Mmhmm. Fine, thanks.”

  Shivering in spite of the warm air, I reached for my phone on reflex. “I should call Drez, let him know what happened.”

  “No, you should not do that.” Popping the trunk, Brenda tugged out two bottles of water. “It'll only make him freak out. Last thing I need is him hijacking a car and driving around in a panic looking for us.”

  “Would he really do that? I could just say we're fine, someone is coming for us.”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Brenda tossed me a water. “This is Drezden Halifax. He won't trust someone else to handle this. Let him be, it won't take long for someone to reach us and change the tire.”

  Groaning, stiff like I'd been in a fight, I stood. The water was heavy in my hand. “I kind of hate that you won't let me call him.”

  Stepping around the car, she settled on the hood. “Just trust that I know best. I swear I'm suggesting this for a reason, not to be a jerk.”

  With resignation, I sat beside her on the car. The water was fresh, welcome on my sticky tongue. “I know you aren't being a jerk. I just—I don't know.”

  “You want to talk to him.”

  Turning my head, I was faced with her knowing smile. “...Yeah. Yeah, I sort of do.”

  She stretched languidly across the car. “Take a breath. You'll see him tonight, and knowing Drez, when he gets his claws back in you it'll be hard tearing you two apart.” Shutting one eye, Brenda grinned at my glowing blush. “Sorry, mostly joking to calm the air.”

  “I know.” Fluffing my hair off my neck, I relaxed the tightness in my shoulders. “That whole thing was pretty insane.”

  Brenda considered me for a long moment. “Earlier, you mentioned not being surprised about being hated. What did you mean?”

  Ah, shit. Tucking my chin, I hid behind a wall of dark hair. “It was nothing, just something that crossed my mind.”

  The car creaked, a hand closing on my elbow. Gently, Brenda guided me until I was half-stretched beside her on the hood. “It was more than that. Something happened to you before, similar to this.” My muscles became steel, and I knew my wide-eyes gave it all away to her. “Yeah,” she said softly, “I'm right, aren't I? Lola, talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

  Faces.

  Everyone laughing.

  “It's nothing. Nothing at all,” I muttered. Tugging away, I crumpled forward with my knees by my ears. I wanted to become a solid knot, to protect myself from her prying—No, no she isn't prying. Recalling how Brenda had run off to tip the bag-boy, how she'd taken me shopping even if it had gone poorly, I let out a tiny puff of air.

  She was watching me. I felt her stare, appreciated her quietness. That poignant silence said so much about her curiosity.

  Her concern.

  Brushing my hair from my cheek, I turned just enough to meet her gaze. “You really want to know about this? It's... heavy stuff.”

  “Of course I want to know,” she said firmly. A sparkle grew in her eyes, warming down with her tender chuckle. “Only if you want to tell me, though. Hell, it'll give us something to talk about while we sit here, right?”

  Trying to smooth the tension again. I copied her expression, but laughter evaded me. “Alright. But remember, you asked for it.” Draping an elbow over my knee, my attention went to the scrawling tattoo across my right forearm. It was there to remind me of who I was now.

  Yet Brenda wants to know who I was.

  Taking a breath so big it made me dizzy, I grasped at that last instant of ignorance. The one little moment where Brenda wouldn't know what I'd been through. Then, with a simple spreading of lips, the secrecy ran off my tongue. “I wasn't supposed to be born.”

  The hood clanged from my manager sitting up. She was patient, but when I said no more, she finally blurted her thoughts. “Oh, Lola, that...” I could feel her struggling to talk to me, to rationalize what I'd said. “I'm sure that isn't right.”

  Cocking my head sent hair scrambling down my shoulder like insect legs. “You can't know that. Let me finish. I don't mean I was just unplanned, or something so simple.” The vitriol in my voice surprised me, and clearly unsettled Brenda. “My mother cheated on my father. It wasn't much of a secret. He had a vasectomy after Sean was born, that was how he knew at first, how... everyone knew.”

  Everyone.

  The word was sharp in my skull.

  In front of me, Brenda squirmed. There was a strange thrill in seeing her like that. A confirmation bias that this was something I should, indeed, feel was worth hiding. “It wasn't possible to disguise it. Small towns, you know?” At her tiny nod, I pushed on. “My parents would have aborted me, if they didn't feel so strongly against it. Instead, they let me be born, willingly let me become their shameful burden,” I spit. “I was the living mistake of their broken marriage. Of my mother's weakness.”

  “It wasn't your fault!”

  The cynicism in my words was unyielding. “That never mattered to anyone.” Brenda reached out to brush my hand where it rested on the car. Like she was made of fire, I jerked away. “Like I said, everyone knew about it. It was obvious even when I was little, it just got worse as I got older. Especially when I entered high school.”

  “Why would high school—”

  “The man my mother had the affair with was the fucking principal.” Grimacing, I wrenched my hair back and held it in a painful knot. I imagined every single hair tugging in its root, threatening to rip free. It was torture; it grounded me so I could speak. “His daughter, she was the same age as me. She hated me the most, I think. I don't really get why—not exactly,” I said under my breath. “Maybe she was just channeling the rage and humiliation of her own mother. Either way, I suffered for it.”

  “That's awful!” Brenda gasped. I hadn't noticed her inch closer, a manicured hand suddenly clamping onto my shoulder. Going stiff, I managed to not shove her away. “You did nothing wrong, surely someone had to realize a child was being punished for no reason? Did no one step in?”

  “The town blamed my mother for the scandal, but they all took it out on me—teachers, businesses, my own parents—everyone but Sean.” My mind's eye flickered with my brother's grin. “He was there to step in when I was being bullied.” Memories of being pushed around, of having my hair ripped or my clothes stolen, were far less welcome. “Sean always came to help me.”

  No. Not always.

  The time everything fell to pieces. When those girls took my guitar and busted it. In Brenda's grip, my fingers twitched sympathetically. My first guitar had meant so much to me. It had been Sean's hand-me-down, but it had been mine.

  And then they broke it.

  And then I broke them.

  Blood, busted knuckles; my veins raced, reliving the day I'd finally snapped and fought back. The day I had stood up for myself and risked losing everything.


  And Sean wasn't there to help at all. Not then. Where was he that day? Why wasn't he around when I—when I...

  Her hand tightened on me. “Your face just went from almost happy to defeated again.”

  For once, I hated her perceptiveness. I debated telling her about how I'd almost gone to juvenile detention, that it had taken a miracle I still didn't understand to convince my parents to keep me out of it. They, of all people, had loved the idea of hiding me away.

  No, she doesn't need that part of my past. “This conversation started because you wanted to know why I'd be used to people hating me.” My body tugged away from her, I hated how sadness bloomed in her eyes. I didn't want anyone else to be sad over this. I was plenty sad enough. “Here's the thing. I'm not used to it, not really. I never magically adjusted to the hate. I just dove down inside myself, made a shell, found things to—to distract me from everything.”

  Found ways to give myself pain instead.

  Shivering, I ran a finger-tip over the inside of my right arm. I could feel the slight raised edges of old scars, pretended they were the texture of the tattoo's castle walls.

  The red-head leveled her stare on me, then like molasses, moved her eyes down to my tattoo. She didn't voice it, her suspicion; the accusing flash of pity in her face told me she knew.

  Brenda knew what I was alluding to.

  Good, I thought selfishly. Now I don't need to say it out loud. Yes, Brenda. I was the kind of girl who fell into self-harm. My palm crushed over my right wrist until the skin went white. But not anymore.

  Not anymore.

  “What changed?” Brenda asked suddenly, hushed like I was a deer who'd run.

  Blinking, lost in my wandering thoughts, I focused on the lines furrowing over her eyebrows. She's so worried for me. And here I am, worming myself into this ball of solitude and guilt. The realization made me chuckle.

  Brenda's mouth contorted in shock, pushing me further until I was wiping my eyes. “What is it, Lola?”

  “Sorry, sorry.” Stress crawled away as I reveled not in her question, but my coming answer. “You asked me what changed.” Reaching out, I closed my fingers over her own. The pleased surprise in her eyes gave me a thrill. “The answer might make you laugh, too.”

  Her tongue darted over her bottom lip. “Tell me.”

  What happened that made me change? What turned my life around back then? On my milky skin, the tattoo burned with my memory.

  “I heard Four and a Half Headstones.”

  Chapter Four.

  Drezden

  The venue, a bar known as Belly Up, was surrounded by eager fans. I could see them all from the window of the bus. Though I was sure they couldn't see me, it was clear many of them were trying.

  “You want to head out there?”

  It was Colt who spoke. I didn't bother to spare him a glance. “I want Brenda to answer her god damn phone, is what I want.”

  Crouching low, the drummer's ear-gauge swung in my face; it no longer sported a bandage from the bar fight with Johnny. “She isn't answering for a reason.”

  “No shit,” I mumbled. “It's the 'reason' that worries me.”

  “You try to call Lola?”

  My fingers traced the hard lump of my cell phone in my pocket. Three fucking times. I called her over and over, she didn't pick up at all. “Yeah,” was all I said.

  Bathing in the aura of my grim mood, Colt tapped his nails to an unheard rhythm. For some time, it was the only noise; that, and the muffled roar of the crowd. “Listen,” he started, speaking more to the window than me, “you can't sit here worrying. They're fine, just running late. Brenda was pissed at you earlier, right? I bet she isn't picking up because of that.”

  I considered him thoughtfully. “And Lola? What's her reason?”

  “I—look, Drez,” he sighed heavily. “I don't know. Maybe she's just busy, or maybe Brenda won't let her answer. That's possible, yeah?”

  Leaning away from the window, a tiny frown grew. Brenda could do that, knowing her and how she likes to make her 'points' and shit. When I glanced at Colt, I realized he was grinning at me triumphantly. “Since our attentive manager isn't here with the groceries, want to go find something to eat out there before sound check?” I asked.

  “Hell yeah!” Laughing openly, Colt stood and cracked his back. “Hey, Porter!” The bassist craned his head out from his room. “Come on, let's go get some grub. I'm starving.”

  As a group, we stepped out of the bus. The wave of screams welcomed us to the world, security holding back the throngs with metal fences. Girls waved signs, each proclaiming their love for the band, or for me specifically.

  Porter and Colt were more generous with their returned smiles than I was. Even under the crush of adoring fans, my mind was stuck on where Lola could be. Not knowing was acid in my blood. It gnawed deep, never giving me respite.

  Rounding the corner, we vanished behind the building. Trailers and food trucks filled the parking lot, the familiar caravan that heralded our tour. Enticing, greasy smells softened my worries. I was furious with hunger; maybe meeting one of my primal needs would give me some peace until Lola returned.

  It's a stronger urge that wants to be satisfied. A hamburger won't fix it. That didn't stop me from grabbing one from a cart, the vendor beaming at my appearance. His gloating face said 'you don't need to pay me!' But I'm not such an asshole.

  Digging into my back pocket for my wallet, I tried to yank it free in between bites of food. A hand, coming down hard on my shoulder, froze me. “Here, I'll get that for you,” Sean said.

  Lola's brother.

  “There,” he said, tossing a five at the vendor. “That should cover it.”

  Pushing backwards, not hiding my suspicion, I glared at the guitarist. Sean was shorter than me, but not by much. “I don't need your fucking charity, Sean.” Hamburger dripped down my wrist; I ignored it.

  His smile wavered, yet he kept it on. “No shit. It's called being 'nice.' Familiar with it?”

  In my peripheral, Colt and Porter appeared. Likewise, the vaguely familiar members of Barbed Fire moved in behind Sean. I didn't know them well, but in the rising static tension, I noted the size of the long-haired blonde on the left. The drummer, if I'm right. My eyes moved slowly. And that skinny-fuck there must be the singer. It struck me that I should feel some shame over not knowing the bands on my tour.

  But it was my tour. I knew what I needed to.

  “So you're being nice to me,” I said, not tempering my distaste. “Why, what do you want?”

  Sean lifted his chin, eyes—blue as anything and too similar to Lola's—rolling to Colt, then to Porter, before falling back on me. “You're acting like it's weird for me to be nice to you.”

  I just took a bite of my burger.

  He continued staring me down. I half expected him to throw a punch; wished he'd dare to. This guy, I wasn't convinced he didn't hate my guts. Outside of how I'd told him he wasn't good enough for my band years back, even if he'd let that grudge go...

  Last night I'd fucked his sister.

  And I was positive he knew about it.

  I finished my meal before he finally spoke again. That was good; I'd have choked otherwise. “Listen,” he mumbled, looking away awkwardly, “Lola won't answer my calls. Okay? I just wanted to go talk to her. Could you get her out of the bus for me?”

  The food sank like a fishing weight in my guts. “She won't answer your calls either?”

  Sean jerked his head around, shock openly glistening in his eyes. It unnerved me, again, how similar they were to the girl I was obsessed with. “Lola isn't with you?”

  “She went with Brenda to grab us some supplies earlier,” Porter said, stepping in and destroying the private bubble. “They probably just got caught up in something.”

  Face rippling with furious grooves, so deep his eyebrow ring nearly vanished, Sean coiled his fingers in my bassist's shirt. He yanked Porter until they were nose to nose. It was quick, too quick for anyone to re
act to. “How the hell would you know if they were fine? Tell me where they fucking went!”

  The guy was wiry; I didn't think he was a threat to Porter. I still didn't fucking like him touching my friend, though. Guided by the disgust dancing in my blood, I trapped Sean's wrist, yanking him off the bassist. “Back the fuck off, man. You don't want to get physical here.”

  “Aren't you even worried about her?” he spat, trying to wrench himself free from me. To his credit, Sean was strong.

  I was just stronger.

  Pulling him towards me in one smooth motion, I shoved him down onto the pavement. “Of course I'm fucking worried!” The surge of energy was so tempting. It filled me with a goal, gave me a place to aim my rapidly growing delusion about what had happened to Lola. My body heated with the memory of adrenalin fueled fight-or-flight.

  On my lower back, the scar burned.

  The big, blonde guy with Sean moved forward. I thought he was going to help his band mate up. Instead, he swung one meaty fist at my skull. Bending away, my dodge wasn't necessary; Colt slammed into the dude, arms tangling around his waist as they hit the rough parking lot.

  Sean yelled at the pair as they wrestled. “Shark! Back the hell off, man! Stay out of this!” Both men ignored the call. Their scuffle only ended when Porter and the last, unnamed member of Barbed Fire jumped in. Together, they pulled the guys apart... but I was done watching.

  Reaching down, I grabbed Sean Cooper by the hair and squeezed. His gasp of surprised pain was alluring. “Listen.” The raw growl of my voice remained low. “If this is your idea of 'nice' then, honestly? I can get right fucking behind it.”

  His fingers dug into my forearm; I didn't feel the skin break. “Let me the fuck go!”

  In my chest, my lungs rattled with my hunger for chaos. I had Sean at my mercy. I knew I could slam him into the ground, break his jaw, make him taste his own rusty blood. My hands became claws, my desire to hear his nose crumble as I drove it into my knee and—

  “I'm just looking for my sister!”