by T. I. Lowe
Mona nervously twirled the flashy diamond ring around her finger as she kept her eyes trained out the window and away from Max. He was relieved she was still wearing it. His body instinctively demanded he reach over and pull her close, but the stifling tension warned him to stay put on his side of the limo.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured. The gauzy skirt of the dress touched the top of her tanned knees. She wrapped her hands there as though she could sense his gaze zoned in on that area. “Stunning,” he reiterated, the rasp in his voice proving his sincerity.
Mona finally glanced over and studied him. His hand began easing over the long expanse of seat between them.
“And you look like you just rolled out of bed.” Her words were delivered with no bite, just stating the obvious, but they successfully halted the progression of his hand.
Max moved back to his side, knowing it’s what he deserved.
Scrubbing his hands over the stubble shadowing his jaw, he admitted, “I didn’t feel like buttoning up in pretenses tonight.”
“How ironic?” She huffed out a forced laugh.
“I know. Stupid choice of words.” He grunted in discomfort. “I am who I am.” He wasn’t referring to his lackluster wardrobe for the evening. His composure began to slip and that starving kid screamed and begged for help. The haunted man knew if the layers of his defense were peeled back, it would reveal him bleeding profusely with regret so debilitating he felt his demise would surely follow.
“You are who you are,” Mona echoed, eyes focused on her hands grasping a gold clutch in her lap as if it were a lifeline.
Max felt things slipping, so he demanded the shadows to retreat as he carefully resurrected his goofball façade, the lopsided grin guiding him into character. He knew he had no right to pull Mona down any farther than he already did.
“I’ll have you know, sweetness, I did wash and put on deodorant.” Max lifted his collar and sniffed dramatically. “And I’m pretty sure this is clean.” The white V-neck tee was in stark contrast to his tanned arms and the black music notes of his only visible tattoo. The sheet music swirled up his right arm and disappeared underneath the short sleeve, but peeked slightly out at the base of his neck. He flexed his lean bicep when noticing Mona’s focus was there. He ran his hand over his short hair, mussing it to stick every which-a-way. “Brushed my hair, too.”
He received his desired effect, pulling a faint laugh from her coral glossed lips. Being able to offer her even the frivolous laugh empowered him to push a little more.
Leaning into her personal space, so close her stuttered breath touched his lips, Max whispered, “Glad I wore my boots, ’cause you looking so killer leaves no doubt I’m gonna have to kick the men away from you tonight.” He licked his lips and winked. When her bronzed cheeks warmed with even more color, he couldn’t help but reach over and brush his fingertips there to capture some of her warmth.
“Max…” Mona released his name on a lingering sigh.
The estranged couple overlooked the angst of their reality for a moment, both heartbeats fluttering under the other’s touch and scrutiny. The tension pulled in another, more appealing, direction. Max cupped his hands gently under Mona’s chin as his gaze drifted along her feminine features—high cheekbones, thick eyelashes, heart-shaped lips…
Something shifted between them, maybe a reality check out of the flirty delusional spell he tried weaving around them, as the lusty haze cleared from her eyes and left a watery sheen in its departure.
“Mona—”
“Please don’t do this… I’m here because you asked. I’ve agreed to whatever you’ve asked… I just… I can’t keep this up anymore. It’s confusing… It hurts…” Her voice broke on a tremble, instantly cooling the heat between them.
The anger he had deliberately provoked in Mona months ago had evidently receded in his absence, leaving something in its wake that Max despised—pity. He saw it in her light-aqua eyes in that moment, knowing he deserved her wrath more so. She said it hurt, but the reflection only held pity…
He moved back over and said through gritted teeth, “I know. I’m a selfish bas—”
“Max!” Her eyes now held shock over his unusual outburst.
“I’m just stating the truth. A fatherless, self-centered punk is all I am. You deserve better.” He kept his glare aimed at the guitar case across from him, knowing she wouldn’t deny his claim of her deserving better. She did in the beginning, but he had told her enough that he thought she finally got it.
The limo pulled up to the black carpet that had silver music notes dancing along in a pattern all the way to the entrance of the substantial music hall. Max was livid with himself for casting such a dark mood on them only seconds before arriving. He grabbed the fedora and shoved it low on his head, wanting to hide from the undeserving sympathy she continued to offer him, even after what he had done.
Failure.
All I am is a failure…
The words had been on repeat in the back of his mind for the past year and revved back up as he trained his attention on the sea of people undulating with excitement.
“After tonight, baby, I promise you’ll be free from all my madness.” His words were muttered in defeat as Joe opened the door.
“Your guitar,” Joe reminded as Max emerged from the backseat.
“Nah, man. It’s all electric tonight. That’s for later. Will ya keep an eye on it for me?”
“Sure,” Joe responded, moving out of the way so Max could offer his hand to Mona as she stepped out of the back of the limo. “Always the gentleman your momma raised you to be.” Joe smiled.
Max could barely muster a smile in response, knowing good and well his momma would knock him upside the head if she knew the mess he had made. Brushing the remorse off like a nagging fly that refused to completely go away, he eased a relaxed smirk on his face, knowing that’s what the public expected from him. He lazily wrapped his arm around Mona’s waist—a waist he just realized had withered to way too thin. The billowy layers of the dress had hid that tidbit well.
The onslaught of fans screaming out and the flashes of cameras engulfed them before they took a few steps. A few more steps and the barrage of questions began in a staccato chant to Max’s ears.
“When’s the wedding?”
A wry smile is all he offered in response as he ushered Mona forward. He paused to sign a few autographs for the fans enthusiastically reaching over the partition before moving on. The carpet felt miles long instead of yards.
“Are you taking home the Golden Guitar this year?”
“Straight up,” he said over his shoulder to the reporter, the shelf back in Georgia flinted through his head. It held five of the gaudy trophies already.
“Is it true that the two of you are already married?” another reported shouted out.
He gave the guy a shoulder shrug and smirk, knowing the media would draw their own conclusion on that one soon enough.
The questions continued, and Max continued to be blasé about it until one hit him like a hot skillet, searing every part of him.
“How do you feel about your estranged father checking back into rehab?”
Max froze for a split second, but felt Mona tighten her hold on his back, reminding him to keep moving. The lump lodged into the back of his throat, knowing he was freeing his anchor after tonight, and not knowing how he was going to survive without her. Thankful for just one more night, he brushed a kiss against her temple as they walked past the slanderous questions.
Ignore, ignore, ignore. He kept chanting this silently to himself until they finally reached the doors. Sweat trickled down his back, making him feel he had just crossed a firing line, barely dodging the bullets aimed right at his heart.
The cool, dark space of the building was such a vast contrast to the tempest just outside. Max blinked several times, trying to adjust to it. He felt Mona move away from his grasp, but he instinctively clung tighter to her. Her stiff back relented, shoulders sl
umping just enough for only him to catch, as she allowed him to keep them tethered for a little longer.
An usher guided them past the marble lobby and on into the grand hall where everything was dripping in swankiness, from the crystal chandeliers to the fancy china dressing the tables. Max’s stomach growled with remembering the main perk of the evening was they actually lavished decadent food on the guests instead of just the normal and disappointing alcohol. Drinking was something none of his crowd partook in.
They found the band gathered around a long velvet booth midway of the room. It was the VIP section and at a glance, Max noticed each of the long line of fancy booths held other performers for the evening’s event. He nodded at few familiar faces, some already trash-talking about taking his title of guitar master this year. He donned the expected cocky grin and pretty much told the few rivals to “bring it on” as he swaggered on to his table.
Everyone stood, the women looking like gorgeous blonde dolls and the guys looking like ultra-cool hipsters in their formal yet not quite attire. Each guy had the sleeves of their tailored button-downs rolled up, displaying colorful art on their forearms. Will was the only one with no ink, but Max had a feeling that was all in due time. The young member was proudly showing off the rebellious one behind his ear tonight with the mohawk spiked out of the way.
The girls attacked Mona first, wrapping the brunette in hugs, whining about missing her.
Jen perched her sassy hand on her sassy hip and glared at Max. “You need make more time for this chick. We miss her!”
Max ignored her and tried lightening things up. He pulled Mona out of Izzy’s embrace and draped his arm over her shoulder before pointing at Dillon. “Dude has jeans on, too.”
Mona easily played along with his light banter. “But there are no holes in his pair.”
“Plus I’m wearing this hip vest with my dress shirt.” Dillon smirked as he smoothed the front of the black suit vest that he had paired with a white button-down. The vest had a muted pattern on the upper right reminiscent of a tattoo design. Between that and his thick hair styled in a faux mohawk style, the rocker somehow pulled off an edgy formal appearance.
“But I’m sporting this swanky hat with my holey jeans.” Max winked one of his dark-brown eyes at Mona.
The guys taunted one another for a little while longer as the hall seemed to reach full capacity. All the while, Max kept a firm grasp on Mona, needing his anchor. Everyone in their group had their acts together, but he still found himself flailing around in uncertainty. As he watched them chat and mingle so free-spirited, bafflement clamped his jaw firmly.
What is wrong with me? The words whispered through him.
Eventually, an announcer encouraged guests to find their seats and enjoy the meal before the festivities got underway.
Max helped Mona scoot in before taking a seat beside her, his hand not leaving her shoulder. He looked up and caught Dillon staring at him.
“What’s up?” Dillon said, voice impassive yet all-telling.
Max played dumb and grumbled, “Food, I need food. Like yesterday.” He needed to put something in his gut besides the aching dose of guilt and regret, so that he could to get through the next several hours.
Dillon kept his eyes trained on Max as he casually lifted a hand. The small gesture made a waiter appear instantly.
“Hey, my man,” Dillon greeted. “We need some food.”
“Lots of food,” Max and Mave added simultaneously, pulling a needed chuckle from the group. It was obvious they had picked up on the tension Max and Mona brought along with them.
The night progressed on in a sluggish pace with eating lavish food, receiving a few coveted awards, watching performances, and then finally the anticipated guitar showdown. An attendant guided Max backstage where a bevy of people rushed around. Someone handed him his custom electric guitar he had specially made for this performance—the body glowed in gold metallic with a vivid blue outlining the curves of it. It made a statement and that statement pulled a wry grin to his face when he caught a few of his competitors eyeing the impressive instrument.
The announcer’s voice bellowed from the speakers out front. “All right, ladies and dudes, who’s ready to see if anyone can steal Maxim King’s longstanding reign of Guitar King tonight?” His voice picked up volume at the end as the roar of the crowd got fired up.
“You punks know there’s only one King here,” Max declared with cocky attitude.
“We’ll see about that,” Ace, a lead guitarist from one of Max’s favorite bands taunted back.
The half-dozen men standing in the dimly lit space, caught up with one another until a stagehand motioned them forward. Each took a designated spot on the stage, with instructions to move to the center when their time of five minutes in the spotlight came up. Max was in the middle of the lineup this year and he was relieved to not have to open nor close.
The energy vibrated on the darkened stage even before the first high-pitched sound was beckoned from the performers. Max adjusted the strap along his shoulder and pulled the brim of the fedora even lower just before the stage lights flooded him and the others in an array of techno color. And then the dam of talent burst forth as the first performer lit up his guitar with bright riffs. The guests erupted close to the stage, hands in the air, bodies thrashing in accord to the guitar shredding.
Max looked toward the middle of the vast room where he knew the judges, blindfolded and turned to face away from them, could feel the energy brushing against their backs from it being so tangible.
The next guy stepped forward, pierced and heavily tatted with his long hair completely shrouding his face. The intense sound reached up several biting levels as he amped it up, fingers working in rapid-fire along the fretboard.
With his head bobbing and eyes closed, Max let the aggressive sound take him away. The adrenaline began to course through his body well before his turn, sweat trickling down his taut back and a delicious hum building in his chest. Performer after performer showed their instruments who was boss, making the sounds submit at their fingertips.
By the time it was his go, music begged to be released from his soul. Without giving the audience any regard, Max began a hostile riff of his own, freeing it in almost an earsplitting scream from the instrument. He manipulated rage and passion from the strings, the two emotions tangling in a complicated force. As he moved to add a hot lick, the tempo changed without his permission. Gone were the violent chords, replaced by a bluesy melody so complex it confused even him. The guitar still wailed loudly, but the anger transformed to melancholy.
The crowd stilled instantly, spellbound in the emotions he elicited from the riffs. Despair, longing, bitterness, and perplexity merged in and out of the dramatic performance. Tears mingled with sweat as Max expressed just how he felt, knowing he could never put it into words. Music allowed a freedom of expression he had never found with anything else.
Max dug his fingers into the strings as forcefully as he could, yearning for the bite against his skin. He continued to play as he eased out of the spotlight to allow the next guitarist his time to shine. Even after the last note finished out, his fingers continued to grip the instrument to stave off a panicked tremor ricocheting inside him.
Without looking up to confirm, he felt eyes trained on him, even though his body was back in the shadows of the show. As the last musician concluded, the stage lit completely to cue the guitarists to finish out in a rehearsed performance, bringing the house down.
The judging was concurred before the guitars hushed. The MC moved to the stage, carrying the coveted gold guitar trophy and a mic. He made eye contact with Max as he passed by. It was a look of wonder and respect. He spoke to the guests about it being the best guitar shred in history, and they all cheered their agreement. Max tuned it all out, still bewildered by his own performance that ended up being on the fly instead of the one he’d prepared.
The building erupted to a deafening leveling, pulling him out of his hea
d. Looking around, all eyes were on him again.
“Do you want this or not?” the MC held up the trophy as he addressed Max.
Snapping to attention, he offered his lazy shoulder shrug and strutted to center stage. As he accepted the trophy, Max noticed Logan and Dillon lifting Mona to the stage. His heart sank seeing her hesitantly walk over to him, knowing she was doing all of this for him tonight.
Selfish…
So selfish…
Not allowing his spot-on thoughts to rob him of the moment, Max tossed the trophy toward Dillon with the giant of a man easily snagging it.
With both arms free, Max pulled Mona to him and whispered into her ear, “I’m so sorry,” before dipping her and laying claim to her lips. Her posture remained stiff, but her hands laced around his neck anyway to allow him even more than he deserved.
The crowd erupted in catcalls and whistles, totally oblivious to the truth hiding behind the charismatic rocker’s charade.
•♫•♫•♫•
Silence encapsulated the back of the limo with only the faint echo of passing traffic breaking through every so often. The ringing continued a languid vibration in his ears from the performance as Max reached for Mona’s hand with her allowing it. He knew it was only going to make the sharp sting of him severing their ties that much harder. Mona knew, too, which made them both a masochist.
The imminent finality of their situation seemed to cause Mona to tighten her grip on his hand as she spoke, “Joe, do you mind dropping Max off first?”
Joe’s eyes searched for Max in the rearview mirror. Max nodded his head, knowing they needed the privacy the beach house’s gated drive would allow.
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Joe navigated to the right lane to begin the new trek.
They remained quiet until the limo was parked in the dark driveway.
“Give us a sec, Joe,” Max muttered as he pulled Mona out with him. After closing the door, he pinned her to it and greedily inhaled her subtle scent, memorizing it.