by M. Leighton
“For what you’re wanting, the only place to go is Summerton. So head for the interstate.”
I do. And I feel better already.
Nearly half an hour later, I’m pulling into the large and packed parking lot of a bar called Whiskey River. It only occurs to me when we’re getting out of the car and I straighten my skinny jeans and deep V-neck shirt that I might not be dressed appropriately for an outing such as this.
“Am I dressed okay for this place? I mean, it’s not like I—”
Tia smiles at me over the top of the car. “Oh no. Trust me. You’re dressed just fine.”
It’s as we’re making our way to the front doors that Tia stops, gasping and reaching out to grab my arm.
“What is it?” I ask, my eyes following hers to the enormous lighted sign near the door that announces the band Saltwater Creek is playing tonight.
“Holy hot damn and mother of all things sexy, I knew I’d seen that guy somewhere!”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
Tia doesn’t answer. She just looks over at me and smiles the biggest, most satisfied grin I think I’ve ever seen her wear.
“You’ll see. Come on.”
With that, she takes my hand and practically drags me through the front door and past the ID checkpoint.
Once we’re inside, I see that the big room is divided into two halves, separated by a humongous bar area. I can hear loud music and screaming arising from my left. It’s my guess that’s where this Saltwater Creek band is playing.
I try to get a peek at the stage, but Tia is pulling me around to the opposite side of the bar, where my view is obstructed. She gets the attention of the bartender, quite easily I might add, and orders two melon balls.
“Two?”
She ignores me until the bartender sets the twin bright green drinks in front of her and Tia pays. She picks them up and holds one out to me.
I shake my head. “You know I don’t drink.”
“Tonight you do. You are the one who insisted that we do this. If you wanna cut loose, this is where you’re starting—with a drink. This one is like training wheels. There’s only enough alcohol in here to give a buzz to you or a toddler.”
“Then why are you drinking one?”
“Because if your tolerance is worse than a toddler’s, then someone’s gonna have to drive you home. But I have faith in you. If this one does what I think it will, you’ll just be . . . relaxed, and I’ll order a vodka tonic next go-round.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s your first night out on the town. Ever. It would be a travesty for me not to celebrate.”
“How is it that you get to celebrate my liberation?”
“Solidarity, that’s how.”
I roll my eyes and take a tentative sip of the drink. Despite its off-putting color, it actually tastes really good. I can’t detect the alcohol at all.
Tia’s watching me like a hawk, of course. “Okay, now I’ve tried it. Can we go check out this band of yours?”
“It’s not my band. And don’t tell Dennis. He hated that I used to follow them so much, so I quit for the most part. In fact, this is only the second time I’ve seen them since Collin, the old lead singer, was replaced.”
“Then let’s go listen. It sounds like they do a great job of covering old rock songs.” They were finishing up a Great White song when we came in. Now they started a Def Leppard song called “Animal” that I love.
“Not until you finish.”
“Ti-a!”
“Don’t argue. Drink.”
I take a bigger sip of my drink, then another one bigger still, until I’m sucking liquid out from around the ice cubes. “Happy?” I ask, holding up the empty glass for her inspection.
“Yep,” she replies. “Okay, wild thing, here we go.”
Again, she takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd. We go around the back of the bar, which still blocks my view, until we are at the rear of a crowd of people, all standing.
“Excuse me,” Tia says as she nudges and wiggles her way through the crush of bodies, tugging me along behind her. I turn this way and that, trying to be mindful of people and their drinks. It’s when we stop, flirting with the edge of a group of thrashing females of various ages near the stage, each vying for the attention of the band, that I begin to focus on what they’re saying. It’s then that I realize whose specific attention they’re vying for. I hear one name over and over again.
Jet.
That’s when I look up. And I see him.
Jet. My Jet.
I hardly recognize him. But, then again, I couldn’t mistake him. The way he moves, the way his voice sounds, the way I feel when I look at him—it’s all too familiar.
But this isn’t the guy I’ve come to know. This guy is wild and likely drunk. He’s got a guitar strap over one shoulder and he’s wearing a torn tank top that shows an intricate tattoo on his right arm and shoulder. I’ve never seen it before because he’s always dressed like a normal person when I see him. But not tonight. Because tonight he’s not a normal person. He’s a rocker. Living the life of a rocker, right down to the screaming groupies.
As I watch, dumbstruck, one of the girls in the crowd somehow makes her way up onstage. She runs to Jet and shamelessly plasters her barely clothed body to his side, writhing against him. He smiles at her, wrapping one arm around her waist as she kisses his neck and puts her hands in the tear of his shirt near his chest.
I see the flash of metal at one exposed nipple. And then I see the ripple of his abdominal muscles as the girl glides her hands all over his belly. It’s when she brazenly reaches between his legs to cup him that I feel my stomach turn, and the true weight of what I’m seeing settles down on my shoulders. On my heart.
So this is the real Jet. This is who he is when he’s not at SAA meetings and visiting his rich father. And lying to me.
I feel an ache in my chest when Jet launches into the chorus of “Animal.” The words are perfect for the scene before me, for the way he’s acting. It’s like this person—fueled only by what he wants and what he needs, by his inner animal—is a total stranger to me, like I’ve never met him. The Jet I thought I knew, the one I was excited about helping and spending time with and getting to know, is dead. Or maybe he never existed at all.
In my mind’s eye, I see this realization like the flames of a raging fire, consuming my misconceptions and leaving me with only smoke and ash. It brings a sick feeling to my gut and tears to my eyes. I don’t know why I feel so wounded and betrayed, but I do. There’s no question.
I’m backing away from the stage, away from Jet, drowning in my disillusion, when he looks up to scan the crowd. I know the instant his eyes find me. Even if they didn’t stop on me, I would know. I can feel them. They light up my insides like napalm, fiery and destructive.
My chest is tight as I turn away. A fist of unusual and unwelcome emotion is lodged in my throat, and I can’t get away fast enough.
Weaving through the bodies as quickly as I can, I make my way to the door. It’s only when I’m outside in the crisp air, surrounded by nothing but night and humiliation, that I remember I didn’t come here alone. Before I can think to go back in after her, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Tia behind me. Sorrow is on her face. Sorrow for me. And it only adds to my embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, Vi. If I had known sooner, I would’ve warned you.”
My belly churns as I put all my focus into being nonchalant. “It’s fine, Tia. He’s obviously not the kind of person I need to waste my time helping. Better to find out now than later.”
I give Tia my easy, confident smile, but I feel it waver. Although the words spill smoothly from my lips because they are 100 percent true, they leave a taste in my mouth that’s like battery acid.
I try my smile again, turning toward the car. “Let’s go home. I think I’m ready for bed now.”
I have to make myself not run to the
car.
EIGHTEEN: Jet
I’m comfortable in my fog. I’ve numbed the guilt I felt over skipping the SAA meeting, and now I’m in the one place where nothing else matters. I’m on a stage, surrounded by people who want me. My head is buzzing with alcohol, my blood is singing with music, and my pulse is thumping with the energy of the crowd. There is no better feeling than being right here, right now. Dazed. Comfortable. Free.
The faces in front of the stage are a blur, and that’s just how I like it. I don’t need faces to go with these women. All I need are their hands and their mouths and their bodies. Their adoration. Their anonymity.
Our security guys know to let one hottie up onstage every now and then. It keeps the others wild, and I sure as hell don’t mind it. These girls are ready and willing. Very ready. And very, very willing.
When the nice-looking blonde crawls up onstage and heads for me, I brace myself, ready for her to slam up against me in a crush of big tits, long legs, and lips that never stop.
I sing the words by heart, barely focusing on them as the chick at my side drags her fingers over my nipple ring and teases my cock through my zipper. She’s straddling my leg, practically humping it. I can feel the damp heat from between her thighs all the way through my jeans.
She lets her hands wander as I let my eyes wander, not trying too hard to see through the haze.
Until I spot familiar smoky eyes set in a hauntingly beautiful face, watching me with all the disgust and disappointment that I so often see in the mirror.
Even from the stage, I see the tears fill her eyes. Every drop of moisture rocks me to my core. Of all the shamed looks I’ve seen in my mother’s eyes, none of them have ever felt like they were tearing out my heart. None of them.
I push the horny chick off my leg and glance to my left, giving Trent in Security a nod. He rushes out to remove the girl and take her backstage. Automatically, my eyes go back to where Violet was, but she’s already gone. When I find her again, she’s pushing her way through the crowd. It’s obvious that she’s trying to get away. That she wants to get away. She wants to get away from me.
NINETEEN: Violet
Not only have I refused to cry, to shed one single tear over something that wasn’t even anything, but I’ve also decided not to sleep evidently. I’ve been lying here for over two hours, trying to relax and clear my mind enough to drift off, but it’s becoming obvious that it’s just not going to happen. Sitting up, I reach over to snap on my bedside light and drag a paperback from my nightstand drawer.
Despite my feelings on love and relationships, I can’t resist a good romantic read. Whether it’s because the characters always find their happy ending or because I like getting lost in a fictional world with fictional problems, I don’t know. Either way, they’re my drug of choice whenever I need to escape.
Ten minutes later, I’m just beginning to fall into the arms of a gorgeous man when I hear my doorbell. I glance over at the pale blue LED numbers on my bedside clock. Two things register. Number one, it’s after one in the morning. Number two, the color isn’t that far off from Jet’s eyes.
The pang in my chest is short-lived by the immediate onset of worry. It’s far too late for me to be getting a visitor. Something’s wrong. What if someone is hurt? What if something has happened to my dad or Tia? What if DeeDee finally made her worst choice yet?
My pulse is racing as I leap out of bed and race to the front door, pausing only for a heartbeat to glance out the peephole. It barely registers that it’s Jet and that I probably shouldn’t open the door or even give him the time of day. I only act.
I fling open the door. “What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”
“I guess that depends on what you say next,” Jet answers slowly, his tone quiet and reserved.
I take a deep breath, giving my flustered mind time to settle down and process before I speak. I reach for coldness, but I can’t seem to find it. Only hurt, and a little aggravation.
“You mean whether I tell you to leave or I just cut to the chase and call the cops?”
A bit of an exaggerated response, but Jet didn’t do himself any favors by getting my feathers further ruffled in the middle of the night when I have to work tomorrow. I’m hardly feeling charitable.
“Not quite the choices I was hoping for.”
“Rest assured, your hopes are no concern of mine.”
“I deserve that, Violet. I know I do, but would you please just give me a chance to explain?”
“I don’t think an explanation is necessary. Everything was pretty clear from where I was standing.”
I hate that there’s hurt in my voice. I don’t want it there. I don’t want to feel it, much less show it.
“Can I at least come in? For just a few minutes?” When I don’t move to respond or to let him in, he adds, “Please.”
With a heavy sigh, I step aside so that he can enter. I’ve loved my little house from the first moment I set foot inside the cozy living room. I’ve never thought of it as small until tonight. But Jet’s presence is so big, so much larger than life, it overwhelms the space and makes it feel tiny in comparison.
“How did you find me, by the way?” I ask as I walk over to curl up on one end of my comfy chocolate-colored couch. I am hyperaware of my bare legs and arms, and the thin material of my sleep shorts and T-shirt.
“Tia. She wasn’t thrilled with a late-night visit, and neither was her boyfriend.”
“Dennis was there?” I ask, smothering a cringe. “Oh, boy.”
“I’m not worried about Dennis. Or Tia. I’m worried about you.”
“You might not be, but I am. Tia hasn’t exactly always been faithful to Dennis, and you showing up at her door in the middle of the night won’t do either of them any favors.”
Jet sighs. “Something else I need to apologize for then.” He sits on the edge of the sofa, his body angled toward mine, his elbows on his knees. “Look, this isn’t going the way I had planned.”
“You had a plan?”
“Well, no. I just left as soon as our set was over and headed straight here. I didn’t really think about what I would say. I just knew I needed to see you. To talk to you. To explain.”
His eyes are as sincere as his words. Once again, he’s the Jet I met at SAA, not the one I saw onstage tonight. But I resist the urge to soften toward him, reminding myself that this is the same guy. One I can’t trust.
“There’s no need. Really. It’s not like we were dating or I have some kind of claim on you.” And that’s true. There’s really no logical reason for me to be upset.
“Regardless, seeing that look on your face tonight bothered me.”
“What look?”
“That hurt look. And that disappointed, disgusted look.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were, Violet. You can deny it all you want, but I still saw it. I’m all too familiar with that look. It’s just never . . . never . . .”
“Never what?” I prompt.
I watch Jet’s eyes melt into puddles of pain and regret. “It’s never hurt me before. Made me feel shitty, yes. Guilty as hell, yes. But it’s never made me feel like it did tonight.”
“Well, it shouldn’t. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Maybe not, but I’d appreciate it if you’d humor me anyway.”
“Fine. Say what you need to.” I try to keep my frigid exterior in place, even though I can feel my inner ice melting with every word that comes out of his mouth.
“I was being completely honest with you last weekend when I told you that I drown out my problems, that I’m like my father in that way. But my ocean is the stage.” Jet stands and walks slowly to my unlit fireplace to stare into the cold, dark heart of it. “I’m not an alcoholic, but I have a drinking problem. I’m not a narcissist, but I have an ego problem. I’m not a drug abuser, but I have a drug problem. The drugs I use just aren’t ones that are smoked or shot up. They’re the ones that come in the form of women who want nothing
more than to please me and fans who want nothing more than to hear me. Music that I can lose myself in. A place where I can be someone else who has no problems and doesn’t give a shit about consequences. That is my addiction. That is my weakness.”
I forget for a moment how hurt and betrayed I’ve felt all night. “Does that really work? Does it really make you feel better?”
“Maybe for a little while. And that used to be enough. But . . .”
“But?”
Jet turns to look at me, his eyes deep and glistening and sincere. “But tonight it wasn’t. Tonight it felt like exactly what it was. Fake. Shallow. Temporary.”
I know my heart shouldn’t speed up this way. I shouldn’t react to the look in his eyes or the gentle huskiness in his voice.
And yet I do. I just can’t seem to help myself.
“Maybe one day you’ll stop. Maybe you’ll find some better way to cope, something that’s more important to you than escaping.”
“I’ve never wanted that before. Never looked for it. But being with you, just the little time we’ve spent together, makes me think I could be different. That I could be the person that I used to want to be.”
“And who’s that?”
One side of his mouth quirks up into a slightly bitter grin. “I used to want to be a songwriter. Being in the spotlight was never my intention. It just sort of . . . happened. The crazier shit got at home, the more I felt like I needed to get away.” He sits down on the couch again, leaning his head back and stretching his legs out in front of himself as he stares at the ceiling. “Shortly after Dad left, Mom told me she didn’t want me around my two younger brothers. They’re twelve and fourteen now. She told me that until I got my shit together, she didn’t want them exposed to my ‘ways,’ that one negative male role model was enough. For a while, I quit everything. I went back to school, got a few more of my architecture classes under my belt. That was my second choice, if I couldn’t write music. But then Collin, the lead singer of Saltwater Creek, left, and they asked me to come on full time. The gigs got better, the fans got better, which meant more money. But that also meant I could dive right into all the things that made me the person she hated. Just like my dad.” Jet laughs, the sound bitter. “I just didn’t really realize it until I told you. I guess I’ve been drowning that out, too.”