by S. L. Scott
The expression on Kaz’s face is one of horror and confusion. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Never mind. I forgot you’re not from around here.” Resting my arms behind my head, I add, “If it gets to that point, it’s bad. That’s all you need to know.”
He leans back on the lounge chair of my deck and drops his sunglasses over his eyes. “You named a guitar after her. That was already crossing a line if you were trying to get her off your mind, don’t you think?”
“There was no other name for it. That guitar was created in her likeness—sleek, black wood to match her hair. The inlays on the face of the fretboard match the unique green of her eyes. The strings are taut and I’ve never seen such a well-crafted guitar. Jaymes.”
“I think you’ve already crossed it.” He pulls his fingers into a gun and shoots me. I don’t tell him that shit is dangerous even in jest. He knows almost everything about my past. He knows my history with gangs, but he never judged me. Kaz is a stand-up guy. He took me at face value instead of nosing around the baggage I was carrying. I’ve left a lot of it behind, but that guitar, like the girl—there’s no getting over her.
“. . . one week. Lara’s not happy.”
The tour. Like the rest of us, he’s been bitching about the time we’ll be gone. We got our new schedules yesterday. Instead of two weeks on and two off, we’re filling in the gap and adding shows to our sold-out tour. “One month on the road. How many shows is that?”
“Twenty.”
Joking, I say, “They’re going easy on us.”
“We have a few days off I guess, but I’ve never felt older than I have in the last two years.”
“That shit will age you, but I don’t know. These days I prefer the stage. For a show built on dramatics and performance there’s less drama there than in real life.”
He looks my way. “Brunch didn’t go well?”
The mocking tone can be heard in the way he says brunch. I would have been mocking him for that shit, so it’s only fair to get it in return. “No. Not well at all.”
Sitting up, his body angles in my direction. “You haven’t talked about her in a long time and now she seems to be back in play. What gives?”
I keep my shades over my eyes to hide what I’m feeling inside. When I don’t respond, he stands. “Since you’re not going to tell me why you’re suddenly thinking about your ex again, beer?”
“Nah, but help yourself. Grab me a Topo Chico while you’re in there though.”
“Fuck you and your imported water.”
“Let me enjoy the perks that I have enough money to splurge on mineral water.” Flipping him off, I laugh. “Thanks, brah.”
He laughs in response and goes inside.
My phone chirps with a text. Mom comes on the screen. Usually I’d be annoyed by all the extra texts I’ve been getting lately, but I’m not. Not when they involve a raven-haired beauty. I read what she’s sent: You didn’t want to talk about what happened yesterday, but I’m here if you ever need me.
I respond: I know. Thanks.
Mom: Nita said Jamie was in a foul mood.
Foul mood? Fascinating, and I need more information on this bad mood. Speed dialing my mom the next second, her phone rings. “Hello, son, how are you?”
“Tell me about the mood.”
“I thought you might find that interesting.”
Jaymes is never . . . I should say was never in a foul mood unless she was really bothered by something. She should have been pissed off at me more than she ever was, so to hear she was bothered yesterday, kind of inserts a little hope in my day.
“What happened? I know she told you, so spill it.”
“She said you would have thought your name was Satan’s himself.” There goes that hope. She continues, “But I guess she mumbled something about not just how handsome you are, which you are—”
“Okay, Mom, just say it.”
“Nita said she was drinking a strawberry shake and cursing some connection that has never gone away. And that seeing you has stirred up a whole slew of emotions that she doesn’t have time for.” Did my mom just giggle? “I think you should ask her out.”
My lips curve up. She always did like anything strawberry. “Wait, what? No. She told me no.” Did she mean yes?
“Derrick, listen to me. I didn’t think I had to tell you about women. I mean, you seemed to know quite a bit too soon for your age, but Jamie Grenier is showing all the signs.”
“Signs of what? That she hates me?”
“She doesn’t hate you. Quite the opposite according to Nita.”
Although I like that apparently Jaymes is thinking about me and might not hate me, I shouldn’t encourage this route to her heart. “Mom, you and Nita are trouble together. Stop the matchmaking. It’s not going to happen.”
“We’re not matchmaking. We’re simply pointing out the obvious.”
“No,” I say, standing and walking to the edge of the deck. Staring out over LA, I run my hand through my hair. “You’re so busy hoping for this to happen that you haven’t heard what she’s saying. Well, I did. It wasn’t pleasant, neither was her reaction to me. That’s not usually a good sign.”
“It’s because she likes you. Still.”
“God, Mom. Listen, we’re not ten and hitting each other on the playground because secretly we like each other. She has a kid, a kid who comes before me or any other guy. That’s her priority and I don’t blame her. I commend her for it.”
“I do too, honey, but—”
“No buts. Not this time. You gave it a valiant effort, but I can’t see Jaymes again unless it’s on her terms.” The silence on the other end of the phone starts to worry me. “Mom, you there?”
“I am. I’m just thinking about what you’re saying.”
“Good.” Kaz comes out of the house with my water and his beer. “I’ve got to go. Kaz is hanging out.”
“We’ll talk later.”
We’ll talk about Jaymes some more and run this topic into the ground is what she really means. “Fine. Later, Mom.”
“Bye, Mrs. Masters,” Kaz yells just before I disconnect.
“Back off my mom.”
An eyebrow lifts, along with a half smile. “She was a young mom. I hear the roadies talking about her.”
“Fuck me, no. Just no on this.”
“She’s what? Forty-five?”
“Fuck you. She’s my mom. And she’s older than that.”
He laughs. “What, forty-seven?”
“Maybe. Now shut up about it and if you ever hear anyone talking about my mom other than her being my mom, tell me so I can kick their ass.”
Reclining back on the lounge chair, he goes on as if this is the funniest shit he’s ever thought about, “Whoa. You said your ex has a son who’s five. Damn, brah. Crazy thought, but what if you were his father. The cycle would have continued. You would have been a dad at like eighteen or something. Can you imagine that?”
Yeah, imagine that. “Drink your beer and let’s play some music. I’m tired of talking.” I don’t know if it’s sad or crazy, but I can imagine it. Ace is a good kid. As for Jaymes . . . fuck, she was right. I felt it too. That damn years-old “thing” that was always there is still intact like it had never gone away.
* * *
I park and get out, but then get back in the car. “What the fuck am I doing?” Knocking my head against the steering wheel a few times, I hope to knock some sense into myself. I can have any girl. Shit, I’ve got a phone full of numbers and texts full of tits. I can have anyone.
But I’m sitting outside a used-car dealership with sandwiches from the same place where she once worked in one hand and a melting strawberry shake in the other. “What the fuck am I doing?” Just go, I force myself out of the car.
Stop thinking. Just go.
A guy in a tie, which means I already don’t trust him, fast approaches. “Good day, sir.” He eyes the food in my hands. “Are you stopping by sh
opping for a car on your lunch break?”
My pace never slows as I head for the door. “No. Is Jaymes here?”
He hurries next to me and opens the door. “We don’t have a James here.”
Shit. “Jamie. Jamie Grenier?”
“Oh. Yes,” he replies with a too happy to be thinking about my girl grin. Narrowing my eyes at this guy, I cross my arms to intimidate. He better not be thinking about my girl, or worse, have his eyes on her. I remind myself that she’s not mine. Yet. So I attempt to tamp down the emotions that rhyme with hellousy. The ones I have no right to be having much less acting on. I take a deep breath and walk inside. I recognize Leah from Nita’s house. She stands, her mouth open. Her eyes wide. I can see her tapping the desk next to her. My gaze shifts right and there she is—my girl. I keep going until I’m right in front of them. Jaymes has her back to me as she types away on the ancient desktop computer anchored on her desk.
I smile at Leah and she stutters, “Ja-Ja-mie.”
“Hold on,” Jaymes replies making me smile even wider.
“No,” Leah says, “You need to see this.”
In pure annoyance she swivels around in her chair. “What?”
When her eyes land on me, her mouth hangs open, and I say, “Hi.”
She’s standing. Straight up. Her palms run down the front of her gray skirt. I’ve never seen her dress like a “professional” but she makes that skirt look damn sexy. “What are you doing here?”
Holding the food out for her, I say, “I thought you might be hungry.” Her mouth opens. Her sweet pink lips part and I’m tempted to toss the food and devour her instead. When she doesn’t seem to find any words, I stretch my arms toward her. “I brought sandwiches.”
“From Ernie’s?”
“Yeah.”
“We should go to the back for more privacy.” She scoots around her desk, glances at Leah, and has completely managed to avoid any eye contact with me. Her skills are impressive. She’s honed them over the years. I follow her to the back break room that has no window, a large vending machine with dusty candy bars, and smells of rotten cheese, or a guy’s locker room. Kind of the same smell.
“What are you doing here, Derrick?”
“Like I said, I brought food.”
Her hands go to her hips. “No, for real.” She finally looks directly into my eyes. “Why are you here?”
“We didn’t get a chance to break bread the other day. I wanted a second chance.”
“You keep talking about second chances like I’ll change my mind.”
I set the food on the table and sit down in the metal chair. “Why are you so adamant about hating me? Can’t we lower our weapons and just eat a sandwich together?”
“Hating you? Is that what you think?” Her voice raises like her anger by looking at the red flooding her cheeks. “You think I hate you?”
“Sure feels like it.”
“Then why would you come around? Why would you bring food for someone you think hates you?”
“To make amends.”
Her fingers entwine behind her head and she takes a deep breath as if to calm herself. When she opens her eyes, she says, “No amends need to be made.” She maneuvers around the table, heading for the door, but I catch her by the wrist.
Her breath catches and it’s quick, but I also see the terror that crosses her face. My hands are off her and I’m standing. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes snap back to me, but she seems to be focused on her breathing. In the quiet of the room, both of us stand there motionless, but I hear the faintest, “. . . three. Four,” from her.
Holy shit. What the fuck? “Are you counting?”
“I um,” she says, shifting back, away from me. “It’s just something I do. Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“You looked worried. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“What?” I move closer, but her back hits the wall, causing me to freeze to the spot. “Are you afraid of me? Did I scare you?”
“No,” she whispers, looking at the door ready to escape. “You should go. Thank you for the food, but I don’t have a break today.”
I stare at her. Where’s the feisty girl I once knew? Where’s the fierce woman from Sunday? “What the fuck is going on here, Jaymes?”
The salesman from earlier comes to the door and peeks in. “Everything okay in here?”
When’s it more than apparent that she’s not going to say anything after a few seconds that feel like a time bomb’s about to go off if she answers, I reply, “Fine. I should get going.”
I move past him and walk through the car showroom. Pushing the door open, the sun is blinding, so I pull my sunglasses from the neck of my shirt and slip them on. They don’t just shield the sun, but they’re damn good at hiding the emotions I’m struggling to hide.
Angry.
Confused.
Defeated.
Hungry.
Hurt.
Concern.
Fuck.
Just seeing her—I feel everything all at once. Is there a name for that fucked-up emotion?
Yes. It’s Jaymes Grenier.
13
Jaymes
My heart sinks. I close my eyes and mentally beat myself up. How can I let him leave when he came here so sweetly searching for me? Damn it. I open my eyes and see Jose staring back at me. “You okay?” he asks.
He’s not nearly as interesting to look at as Derrick. “I am. I’m good. Really good.”
Jose shrugs. “Cool.”
I run past him, through the showroom, and around a Hyundai. Shoving the entrance door open I run out into the daylight. Derrick is getting in his car when I shout, “Hey!”
When he looks my way I suddenly feel like one of those girls on the tarmac when The Beatles came to America for the first time. Another fan vying for the great musician’s attention. My arms lower . . . ah, screw it. I run to him, wishing I were in sneakers instead of these high heels. Coming to a stop right in front of him, he stands still, door still open, sunglasses covering his eyes, hair lightened by the sun, and just enough stubble to make me wonder if he shaved for me today. “Hey,” he says.
But I’m still caught up wondering if he was always this gloriously handsome. “You’re tall.”
“You’re kind of short.” He looks down, but takes his time working that gaze back up. “Even in those shoes.”
“There are two sandwiches.”
“Thought you might be hungry.”
I can’t stop my smile listening to him try to act like what he did was no big deal at all. “That’s a lot of food. Maybe you might stay and eat one with me? And was that strawberry shake for me?”
Although he fills out the rock-star status nicely, I see the boy I once loved so easily when his shoulders shift down and he relaxes. “Yeah.”
“Come back with me. Please?” I hold out my hand, needing to give him those few minutes he asked for. I owe him that. I owe him more, but I start with this peace offering, “I’m sorry.”
The twitch in his neck isn’t exaggerated, but I see it. I know him. I know this man before me, like no other. He always hated apologies, even more so when they were mine . . .
The pads of his thumbs wipe away my tears. His lips caress my cheek, and then he whispers, “Lovers. Soul mates. Friends. Those three words come with three others—trust, love, and forgiveness. They’re not given. They already exist between us, baby.”
Looking up into his indigo eyes I get lost in my love for him. It’s deeper than the ocean and vaster than the universe, but it keeps me here, gravitationally pulled to him. I don’t know when it happened or why we fell like we did, but I cling to it, to him. “I don’t deserve you.”
He chuckles. “You’re right. You deserve better.”
“Don’t say that.” I run my hands over his chest, underneath the leather jacket and around his middle until I’m fully pressed to him with my ear over his heart. The beat is strong like his arms around me.
“It’s true, but guess what?”
“What?” I tilt my head up and wait.
“You’re kind of stuck with me.”
The smile on my lips feels good, like him. “Why do you love me, Derrick?”
Reaching down, he grabs my ass. “Because you’re hot.”
I giggle. “That’s it? You like the way I look?”
He leans against the side of his truck and crosses his legs at the ankle. Scanning me down and then back up, he runs his thumb over his bottom lip. When he finally speaks, he says, “It’s a nice package, but it’s your heart I’m after.”
“Such a charmer.”
“Maybe that will be my next tattoo.”
The glare is instant. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“It was inevitable.”
“I know,” I reply, the disappointment engulfed by the sadness I feel for our situation. “We’re never getting out, are we?”
Taking my hands, he parts his feet and pulls me close. The warmth of his hands cradles my face. “I promise I’ll get us out of here and I’ll always take care you.” The heavy breath tasting of peppermint fills my mouth as he kisses me. He’s always so gentle, but not now. Desperation fills our kiss, but we part, panting and searching each other’s eyes. “If anything ever happens to me—”
“Stop saying stuff like that. We’ll leave before it gets worse.”
Worse. He’ll be killed and where will that leave me? A body without a soul? “You’re marked for life, branded to them.”
“Branded to me. It’s only a tattoo.”
“It’s across your whole back.”
“Good. We won’t have to look at it much.” Rubbing my arms, he asks, “What was your plan anyway?”
“I wanted to stop them. I wanted you to stay you.”
Taking my hand to his lips, he kisses it and brings me back to him. “I’m me. As long as I’m with you, I’m me. No tattoo is gonna change that unless you hate Rebel.”
“I don’t hate Rebel. I hate what the nickname represents. I love you.”