Marked Steel: A Stand Alone Dark Romance (Steel Crew Book 8)

by Mj Fields

  As we make our way to the field, I ask her, “What are you doing here?”

  “I messaged your sister about her IG, trying to get some tips on what to do with mine. Then we started talking about yours, and she told me you came home. She suggested we do a band shoot on the Shore for PR purposes.”

  “You want your page to look like a Disney show, then—”

  “Chill, Tris, it’s beautiful.”

  I realize I’m being bitter, something I don’t want to be. I just can’t help wanting to be more like her, and the realization I never will be sucks. Sucked more after I found out I was pregnant, and I know how wrong that is.

  “I’ll look at it sometime.”

  “You’ve never seen your sister’s IG?” Rain gasps.

  “Nah, too many triggers pop up, via notifications. I wanna turn them off, but I just can’t so I delete my apps a lot.”

  “The ex?” she asks.

  Pretty much nothing I want to tell her, but I simply nod.

  “Let me get through this game, and I’ll rip his fucking face off.” Amias shocks me as he grabs me, spins me around, lifts me up, and spins me in a circle, all too happy to see me. “I missed you, Tris.”

  “We just saw each other, chill.” I smile awkwardly.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asks as he sets me on my feet

  “My big brother is going to make the big leagues, and I wanted to make sure, when I’m a washed-up pop star, he remembers I came to his last high school baseball game.”

  He grins. “Well, no shit, but why are you on the actual field?”

  “Get this shit. They asked her to sing.” Rain chuckles.

  “You tell them to stick it in their asses?”

  “Didn’t have a chance.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder, pointing at Rain. “She thinks it’s a great PR move.”

  “She’s not wrong.” He winks at her. “Hey, Rain.”

  “If I remember correctly, I helped change your diaper, so—”

  “I can assure you the bat’s bigger now.”

  She throws her head back and laughs as she reaches over and jacks his brim down. “That would be a strike, My.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the announcer stand.

  “First one always is,” he calls after her.

  “Then I’d change my game, Steel!” She laughs as she drags me behind her.

  Standing on the field, mic in hand, I look for a focal point. There are no blinding lights to get lost in; no roaring crowd, excited to see us perform. There is only my family and people who would rather see me fall flat on my face.

  I hear a loud whistle and know it’s Amias. I scan the line and see him taking off his hat and placing it over his heart.

  There, I tell myself, there is your focus.

  The track begins and, with it, Rain and I sing.

  I see one of the players shift and don’t even have to look to know who it is, but I do. I look and see him, hat turned backward instead of over his heart, because he’s such an ass.

  When he smirks, I know he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and I about miss my note when he takes it off and places it over his heart. I smile as I sing.

  When the song is done, he’s the first to clap, and when I look back at Amias, he’s glaring at him.

  Fuck.

  We quickly hand off the mics, and now it’s me pulling Rain behind me, because Amias, although even-tempered normally, seems to be about ready to flip shit.

  “My!” I call from across the field, hoping to stop him as he storms into the dugout.

  By the time I get there, he has already grabbed Marcello by the shirt and is pushing him against the cage.

  “You even look at her again, and I will fuck up your face. You feel me?” He slams him against it again.

  “My, no!” I push through his teammates and grab him. “My, he and I are good.”

  “You’re good. He’s a fucking punk-ass bitch.”

  “My!” I force my body between theirs. “It’s over. It’s been long over. It wasn’t all him.” I pry his hands off Marc’s jersey. “We should have stayed friends. We’ll be friends again, and so will you two.”

  “Debatable after that little show of aggression,” Marc says smugly.

  “Shut up,” I sneer at him then turn back to My. “It’s over.”

  In the most condescending tone, Marc starts his shit. “Tris and I are working—”

  “Say her name one more time, and I will smash your fucking teeth down your throat, and then I’ll break your fucking jaw!” My yells at him.

  “Yeah? Just like you and Maxi pad have tried to make a villain out of me so I don’t get laid? How’s that working out?”

  I glare back at him.

  “My bad, Tris. Come on home, and I’ll pick out all the red fruit snacks for you. Push you on the swings.” Marc steps back and spreads his arms out wide.

  “Oh my God, shut the hell up.” I laugh. Hell, he even laughs. And, in the most fucked-up situation, the most fucked-up day, I feel … okay.

  Better than okay.

  I feel free.

  “Come on; Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em.” Rain grabs Amias and jacks him back.

  On our way to the security of my family in the stands someone calls my name from behind and I turn around and mutter fuck under my breath.

  “Who’s that?” Rain snickers under hers.

  “Who would have known you had such a beautiful voice?”

  I cannot believe I seriously have to face this snatch; I think as she approaches.

  “My girls love your music; would you mind taking a selfie with me? They’ll love it!”

  What the fuck? I think as she stands next to me, arm extended and ready to hit the camera button.

  “I see your nose healed and clearly you don’t think I’m a threat anymore huh Pinkertits?” Mrs. Pinkerton gasps, I throw up a peace sign and hit the camera button for her. “By the way, your class sucked.”

  Wild Things

  Tris

  We did the band’s beach shoot and, even in the unseasonably cold Jersey weather, the sun was shining and I managed to smile and make it look realistic.

  I went shopping with Mom and Brisa for her graduation dress and to pick Amais up something because he had no interest in “doing that shit.” Spoiler alert: neither did I, yet there I was, doing shit.

  Today, I sit in the same office where I lost my shit and spilled all my tears with Marc so Marley and I could come up with a “sustainable mental health plan to fit my lifestyle.”

  She isn’t comfortable giving me a diagnosis. She says, in her years of practicing, she has seen clinicians who are eager to diagnose clients and those who prefer to take it slow. She prefers to take it at a pace that best benefits her clients.

  The first question asked of me is what I thought would change with a diagnosis.

  When I don’t answer, she leans back and waits for me to respond.

  I really don’t want to, but I need to make an effort to make things better. I desperately want to be able to tell people, those who need to know, what is wrong with me. I also want to understand it myself so that I can take the right meds.

  “Being vulnerable with your pain and suffering is one of the hardest things for a person to do. A person who is highly intelligent, like you, even harder. The first time we met on our video session, you closed up like a clam. The emergency sessions were hard, but you persevered. Because of that, I know beyond a doubt that you will get through. The other day, right here, you did it, Tris. You did what so many can’t. You let go of the one thing hurting you the most, and you stopped it by accepting any responsibility you felt you played in it. I’m not saying that’s how I would have handled it, but I am not you. So, for what it’s worth, I am proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of me, too, I suppose. But, in effort to being open and vulnerable, I feel myself getting dark again.”

  “Depressed?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I tuck my legs beneath me. “I just need to be so
mewhere else.”

  “You have a show in a few days to end your tour, right?”

  I nod.

  “Okay. And after that?”

  “How about before that? How about from now until then? I need—”

  “A change in scenery?”

  “I want to go back to Italy, like we planned before my epic breakdown.”

  “Let’s call it what it really was—your epic breakthrough.”

  “Right, and now I’m back to feeling like I wanna crawl out of my skin.”

  She scribbles something down. “You need to stay busy. Staying too long in one place makes you feel stuck.”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Then you are going to play on my stage for a bit. You’re going to help me come up with your treatment plan and, once a week, we talk about what is working and sustainable and what is not. Deal?”

  “Do you let everyone do that?”

  “No. Only the ones who truly want to get better and who I can tell need a sense of control.”

  “So, I’m a control freak?”

  She smiles. “I didn’t say that, but I think you need it to continue growing. Am I wrong?”

  “No. And will you write that down so I can show my parents?”

  “Sure.” She shrugs then stands as she grabs her pen and yellow notepad. Then she walks around her desk and sits beside me, handing me the pen and pad. “Write this down.”

  “You need to hire a secretary,” I joke.

  “This is a partnership; I listen, give advice, and explain where feelings are coming from. Therapy is meant to build your self-reliance, courage, capability, perseverance, and spirit. This whole process, you need to be honest with what changes you can make and stick to. We collaborate on problem-solving. It’s a journey, not a race; we take baby steps when necessary, but you are never alone.”

  “I haven’t been alone my whole life,” I huff.

  “You have, for a couple years, in here.” She taps the side of her head then her chest. “And it hurt here. We’re going to change that.”

  I feel a sense of hope, but no spark to ignite the flame that I wish I could feel.

  “Let’s start with diet. A little birdie told me you love Pop-Tarts and coffee, and would live on those two things alone if you could.”

  I know the little Birdie is Brisa.

  “I do.”

  “You want to cut back on the medication? They’re both gone. Write it down.”

  “How is that working together?” I grumble as I begin to write it on the pad.

  She points to the pad. “Just like that.”

  Sitting at the dinner table, I push around my food as Dad talks about how they will be at my last show, and how, after that, we will be returning home to watch Brisa and My graduate and spending some R&R here, just us, before heading to Italy for the extended family vacation.

  Looking down at my asparagus, I push it back to the other side of the plate. “I’d like to go back to Italy tomorrow.”

  Dad drops his fork, and I look up and see it’s not out of anger. He is shocked.

  “I can juggle a few things around and—”

  “I’d like to go myself.”

  “Senior prom is this weekend,” My states.

  “Yeah, I’m not going,” I say flatly.

  “But don’t you want to be here for—”

  “She smiled for pictures last year,” Brisa cuts Mom off. “Let’s not put her through that again. Hell, as much as I love dressing up, I couldn’t really care less if I go. I’m so over this place.”

  Dad clears his throat and sits back. “We’ll make arrangements—”

  “I’m not a baby. I can even drive myself to the airport. I didn’t screw up badly enough to get my license yanked.”

  “We’ll figure it out, Tris, just —”

  “Don’t tell me to relax.” I keep my tone even and my emotions at bay as I set my fork down. “I’ve kept it together. I’m seeing a shrink. I have no diagnosis saying I’m nuts. It was teenage angst, and I came back and faced it. I cannot relax in a house that I, a perfectly sane person, tried to—”

  “Okay,” Dad cuts me off. “Okay, we’ll figure it out.”

  “I do not want you or Mom to come.”

  “Tris, girl, chill,” My jokes.

  “I’m sure you can find a suitable adult, like … I don’t know, Patrick, who is two years older than me and going through a breakup, too, to chaperone my flight, if that makes you feel better. I also have a plan to stay healthy.” I push back in my chair. “I truly love you all. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.”

  I haven’t been in my room for ten minutes when there is a light knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I say as I continue packing my suitcase.

  Brisa walks in and closes the door behind her. “Just wanted you to know that I’d rather be going with you than the stupid dance.” She sits on my bed. “Like, seriously, how lame is high school compared to your life now right? How lame will college be compared to being a fucking rock star?”

  “Pop star,” I correct her. “I’m a—”

  “Talented, beautiful, too good for anyone around here kind of girl.”

  “Yeah, how awful to be the Homecoming Queen?”

  “Wasn’t easy. Do you know how many asses I kissed to get that crown?” She begins taking some of my tee-shirts off hangers and folding them.

  “Lots of competition now that your cousins are there, I bet.”

  “They’re not competition at all, but they sure as hell have been trying to climb the popularity ladder.”

  I turn and walk toward my dresser. “I bet sitting with you at lunch and stuff hasn’t hurt—”

  “Forever Steel doesn’t include the low-hanging, rotten as fuck fruit, T.”

  I look back when Amias, who I didn’t even see come in, interrupts me. He flops on the bed, and the shirts that Brisa just folded neatly go flying.

  “Seriously, My?” Brisa huffs then looks at me. “Your brother may be a dipshit, but he’s right.”

  “So, what? You guys treat family like shit?”

  “They stopped being family when they pulled that shit on you.” My grabs one of the shirts, a shit-ass grin on his face, and purposely folds it in a way that will drive Brisa nuts.

  “Family’s family.” I shrug, secretly hoping they don’t disappoint me by agreeing.

  “Family is a choice,” My says.

  “Relatives are relatives.” Brisa picks up one of my bras and tosses it at his head.

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” He bats them away like they’re a used condom.

  “Touch another shirt, and I’ll throw underwear,” she warns.

  “So, like, not ever?”

  They both look at me, and My says, “They tried. Brisa told them that they were dead to her, and unless they wanted to eat shit instead of roses, they better stay the fuck away.”

  “Then they started basically campaigning for one of Max’s GFs of the week, and I was forced to defeat them.” Brisa grins.

  “And Max had to dump a girl, who gave really good head, for being nice to them. So, as you can see”—My stands—“Forever Steel is Forever Steel.” He walks over and pops a kiss to my cheek. “Love you; mean it. But I love baseball more and need to step up my game so I get drafted. See you in Italy.”

  “Love you; mean it.” I give him a quick hug. “Now go.”

  He does.

  Brisa, she doesn’t.

  She pulls out her phone. “I want details on the hottie.”

  Amias turns back around. “He’s too old.”

  “He’s too old?” Brisa laughs. “Age is but a number. Look at the kiss. No, screw the kiss; look at Tris’s eyes. She’s all lit up for him.” She holds out the phone.

  “I don’t need to see it. Tricks says he’s some rich fuck who probably wants arm candy. Tris, you need a couple rebound flings. Focus on your music, your career, because shit like pop star and baseball players come with expiration date.”
r />   “Um, one iconic name. Cher.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Brisa, Tris isn’t going to turn herself into a plastic version of her younger self. She’s going to—”

  “Just gonna say my career will probably last longer than yours. Athletes don’t—”

  “Yeah.” Brisa jumps to my side.

  “Yeah?” My laughs. “And what will you be doing?”

  “Really? I have talents!” She chucks another bra at him.

  “But your focus is one that everyone else does, so you better figure it out.” He turns around.

  “I’m Valedictorian!” she calls after him.

  “So was the guy who pumps my gas. Focus on you, Brisa,” he says as he walks down the hall.

  She looks at me and holds her phone up, smiling, and says, “Spill it.”

  “Didn’t My just suggest you focus on—”

  “Fuck My, and fuck college. I think I might take a gap year and travel, without a leash, just like you are. I’ll find my passion then. Now, tell me about the Spanish guy in this picture, and I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “Tell me the secret, and I’ll tell you about him.”

  “He messages Dad every day and asks him how you are. Now you.”

  I try not to act as if what she just told me isn’t the equivalent of me telling her that all the princesses at Disney were actually not just people in costumes; they were real. ’Cause, like, seriously, I ruined that for her. I just didn’t want her to look like a dumb-ass at school. But my heart is beating faster, and my chest is tightening around it, as if to hug it and tell it that all will be okay.

  “I liked him. We wanted to be friends. I ended it and came home.”

  “More.”

  “No.”

  “Then I won’t tell you they Face-timed last night, and he told Dad that he would like to take you to dinner when you get back to Italy, just to see for himself that you’re okay. But, either he used an app or talks really fucked up, and if that’s true, I’d just seriously shut his tape his mouth shut and look at him. Tris, he’s, like, seriously hot.”

  “It was an app. His voice—” I close my mouth tight when I realize I almost spilled all the tea.