by Layne Harper
Burnt Sugar
By: Layne Harper
Burnt Sugar is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Burnt Sugar
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2017 by Layne Harper
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without express consent of the author Layne Harper. If you steal this work, I wish you genital fleas.
ISBN: 978-0-9960854-7-2 (ebook)
Cover Design: Michelle Preast
Editor: Missy Borucki
Formatting: Polgarus Studio
Other Works by Layne Harper:
Infinity Universe:
Falling Into Infinity
From Now Until Infinity
Finding Infinity
Infinity.
The World: According to Rachael
The World: According to Graham
Infinity Series Short Story:
Aiden’s Broken Heart
ACE Series:
No Pink Caddy
A huge thank you to a few people who have made this journey just a bit sweeter . . . Christi, Nikki, Jennifer, Missy, Melissa, Jenn, Stephanie, Karrie, and Michelle. I appreciate all you do more than I can adequately express.
Table of Contents
Other Works by Layne Harper
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dear Reader
About Layne Harper
“One of the hardest decisions you’ll ever face in life is choosing whether to walk away or try harder.”
Prologue
November
(Seven hours after leaving MK’s home)
Aaron
“We’ll land in Austin in ten minutes, Mister Knite,” a female voice says somewhere in my proximity. I don’t bother opening my eyes to acknowledge her.
The sound of rain hitting the small, round plane windows mixes with the ukulele playing in my head. Jude and I watched some drama one night. She’d popped popcorn and used her pleading eyes to talk me into putting my guitar down and focusing on the TV for two hours. I think the movie was called Blue Valentine. It was raunchy as fuck, and there were a couple of scenes that I had to walk out of the room. That’s when I learned to check Rotten Tomatoes before I watch anything with my daughter.
But there was this one scene where Ryan Gosling asks his wife to dance while he plays You Always Hurt the Ones You Love. It’s like the saddest song ever, but the idea to lay it over the tiny, four-string, instrumental guitar was brilliant. It’s cemented in my brain. Since I left MK’s place, the song has played on repeat in my head.
It’s a metaphor for my life. My body aches all over, but it doesn’t even hold a candle to the pain in my chest. I don’t know what happened. I’m so confused. I asked her to marry me, and then suddenly we were fighting and she was pissed that I did coke. In the middle of our argument, she dropped the shittiest line in the history of breakup lines: Give me the whole and complete man I deserve. The hell if I’ll ever be that or even know what it means.
MK. She was my one chance at love.
Jude shared her blog with me long before I accidentally/on purpose bumped into MK at the bar in New Orleans. When I watched her YouTube channel, her smile got me. I loved when she messed up a recipe and laughed at herself, or when she did something spectacular and beamed with pride. She was beautiful, self-deprecating, and smart, and seemed like a girl who could love someone like me. But she was one hundred times more radiant in person.
She intrigued me enough that I gave getting to know her a shot. The way her dark brown hair covered the left side of her face, and how she rolled her eyes at something I did shot me straight in the heart. She smelled like heaven, and her heart is pure gold.
Then, like everything else in my life but music, I ruined it. I think. She told me how she felt about drugs. When she saw the coke I bought cut into thin lines on the bedside table, she lost her mind. She scooped it into her boot and dumped it in the toilet while she yelled. She gave enough of a damn to yell at me. That doesn’t happen often in my world.
But did I listen? Of course not, because I never do, and most of the time I’m not called out on my bullshit.
I poke the sharp end of the silver shark tooth necklace she gave me that night into the pad of my thumb. She cared enough to give me this. She said it would help me find my way when I needed direction. Well, right now I’m about as lost as it gets.
Why didn’t I put faith in this talisman instead of snorting the fine, white powder up my nostrils? I couldn’t fucking cope any longer with the red gash on her face and the thought of losing her. She was mine, and I let her get hurt. I didn’t protect her. It was like Jude all over again—seeing that bastard kid kneeling between her spread legs. Me ripping him off my baby girl.
My palms press against my temples and my eyes water as I attempt to make the images of my girls vulnerable and injured exit my head.
I reach over and grasp the tumbler beside me. The ice tinkles against the crystal glass as I bring the amber liquid to my lips. The contents spill down my burning throat.
I want to die. Why can’t plane crashes ever happen when I want them to?
The wheels touch the runway with a bump. I undo the seatbelt and wait for the plane to pull into the private hangar owned by Johnny Records. The words the bartender yells at the club I own in downtown Austin ring in my head. It’s closing time. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
Coming back to Austin without MK feels like I’m visiting a foreign country and counting the hours until I can climb back on this plane and have the silver wings take me home. But my home told me to be the man she deserves, so I have everything I’ve ever wanted except the girl who makes it all worth something.
I can tell when we enter the hangar because the sound of the rain stops, and all I hear is the roar of the engines and, of course, the morose song on blast in my brain.
The plane comes to a stop. I stand, grabbing nothing but my phone and guitar. They’re all I have. I bolted so quickly from New Orleans that I didn’t bring any of my stuff with me. Seamus is supposed to be packing and closing the house.
As I step off the plane and descend the metal stairs into the hangar, my sister runs, throwing her arms around my neck. “I told you she was a witch. I told you not to meet her.”
Her hug is unexpected, and I tumble backwards. My
right palm slams into the metal hand railing of the stairs. Dropping my guitar case, I double over in pain. It feels as if a baseball, thrown at one hundred miles per hour, has hit my fingers.
“Oh my God. Are you okay?” Grace asks as she tries to examine my injury.
“Need some ice,” I groan as I push her away.
She runs up the stairs and emerges from the plane a few moments later with a clear bag filled with ice cubes. I place it over my injury and sink my ass to the first stair. My head hangs as I stare at the yellow painted line on the grey cement. It’s really not possible for this day to get any worse.
Grace joins me. “I couldn’t believe it when Seamus called. I mean, what a bitch. She’s a sorority girl that never left her little college world. She’s one of those girls who will always go running to their daddy when the world kicks them in their teeth. She used you, and at least you got out of the relationship quickly.” She leans in. “I mean, it was only like two weeks. Imagine if it had taken you two months or even two years to see her true colors?”
I turn towards her, feeling as if I must vindicate MK’s reputation and admit the truth. “I’m the one who fucked up. She didn’t.” I swallow hard. “I used again.”
She shrugs. “Well, that doesn’t make me happy, but you’re an addict. What does she expect?”
Her words clank around my head like the ice cubes in the whiskey I was just drinking. Is being an addict an excuse to get fucked up when life screws you over? I don’t think MK would agree with Grace’s logic, and I don’t either.
I adjust the cold pack. “She’s a smart girl. She doesn’t want to deal with the eighteen-wheeler full of issues I warned her about. She needs a frat boy with an eight-to-five job. She needs someone who isn’t covered in tattoos with long hair who makes his living playing music. I mean have you seen me? What would a girl like MK want with me?”
Grace jumps to her feet while accidentally connecting her fist with my knee. It jostles my hand and causes pain to travel from my fingertips to my shoulder as if I’ve been electrocuted. I grimace, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You always tell the band how you value loyalty.” She paces back and forth in front of me. “That girl wouldn’t know loyalty if it smacked her upside her head. She’s a rich princess who doesn’t know anything about hardships and struggles. She was born with a silver spoon between her dermatologically altered lips. When the going got tough and you used, she ran for the hills. Loyalty,” Grace huffs as her platinum blonde bob swings forward. “That girl doesn’t even know the meaning.”
“You think?” I ask with a head turn. I hadn’t thought about it that way.
“I know. She could’ve never dealt with your touring schedule either. MK’s the kind of girl that needs a boy there twenty-four/seven to hold her delicate hand. If this hadn’t broken y’all, touring would have. Consider yourself having dodged a bullet.”
I listen to Grace’s words and turn them over to see if there’s any truth to her statements. Did I dodge a bullet? I didn’t know how to respond when MK was so angry. So I did what I always do, I ran. I thought I was being a dick for using again and leaving her. It never occurred to me that I might be the one who is right.
Grace is my sister, and I know that she always has my back, but she isn’t crazy about MK. Does she see something that I missed?
The flight crew walks down the steps. Standing, I let them pass.
The pilot asks, “You going to lock up?”
I shake my head. “No, we’re leaving. Y’all finish up here.”
I pick up my guitar case with my left hand and walk to the passenger side of my sister’s car. After placing it in the backseat, I get in gingerly, fastening my seatbelt as I adjust the icepack to numb the pain.
Grace slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car. As she pulls out of the airplane hangar, raindrops bounce off the windshield. We’re quiet as I think about her words. Grace might be right. MK wasn’t loyal. We had our first major hiccup in our relationship, and she told me to be the man she deserves. What kind of shit is that? Maybe Grace does know what she’s talking about, and MK was always going to leave me—just using me for my name and the fame that could come to her blog. She’s no different than the groupies who just want a piece of the image named Johnny Knite.
“Let’s go drink the memory of MK away,” I announce.
Grace slaps my thigh. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
But there’s this little tiny voice in the back of my brain. An itch that I can’t scratch. It keeps yelling loudly over Welcome to the Jungle which is what my head has currently chosen to play. The little voice says, “Maybe, just maybe, Grace is wrong, and you left your chance at true love crying on the worn hardwoods of her carriage house apartment.”
Chapter One
MK
February
I’ve waited . . .
I’ve waited long enough to share this news. Here goes nothing . . .
Hi! For those of you who are new to my site, and if my blog stats are correct, there are a bunch of you, my name is Mary Kay Landry, MK for short. I hope you spend some time here reading and watching the years’ worth of posts. If your social life is more hopping than mine so time is an issue, here’s a brief synopsis: I began No Pink Caddy more than seven years ago. It was a way for me to connect with other single girls who were also in their early twenties and disappointed by the real world. Over the years, it’s grown to be a place where I’ve shared my dating woes, thrift store finds, sold the repurposed furniture I’ve breathed new life into, and taught you how to make some rockin’ Cajun dishes.
Damn. There’s that word—rockin’.
I also fell in love with a rock star, who the world calls Johnny Knite, and tumbled into the corner of my fabulous marble coffee table, suffering a concussion and a nice red gash from my cheek to my eye socket.
Let’s pause this story here. I was completely sober and, honestly, just had a bit of a spill. Contrary to what you may have read, I was alone at the time and found by Bella (faceless, snarky voice you hear off-camera).
If I’m being completely honest with you, and I always strive to be, I wasn’t sure I was going to continue this site. My accident was just that—an accident—but because the man I love is famous, my little oops turned into headline-making news. What I also have come to learn is that I’m more well-known than I ever believed.
I must admit, that’s taken some getting used to. Before I began my relationship with Johnny Knite, I considered myself to have an online presence. Now, I feel as if I’m the Lion Fish in the New Orleans Aquarium, and you are the school children pressed against the thick glass watching my every move.
I’ve taken some time away from No Pink Caddy to evaluate my personal and online life. Here are my conclusions, in no certain order:
I will continue this site. Robin Roberts (good Southern girl) says to turn your mess into a message. That’s what I intend to do. I’m going to share my vulnerabilities and flaws, but I’ll also share my joys and triumphs. What I’ve come to realize is that I can’t NOT post here. No Pink Caddy is my metaphorical child. Abandoning it would be like cutting off my arm, and goodness knows, I don’t need any more medical bills.
Alis volat propriis. It means with her own wings she flies. Yes, the influx of followers of this site were not gained through my hard work, but well, you’re here. I do believe that in this crazy world sometimes people come into your life when you need them the most. Maybe you and I were meant to find each other for purposes yet to be defined.
I am taking more precautions. As it was pointed out to me, I live a free-spirit lifestyle. I believe the term he used was vagabond. It seems everyone in North America now knows my address, and I no longer feel safe in my own home. This is crazy to even type, but I have a privacy fence installed around my wonderful carriage house. So far it’s working well keeping the creepers out.
Notice to Johnny’s Fans: Johnny Knite is NOT he
re and even if he was, he’s probably doing something very normal like watching a movie or eating a bowl of cereal and doesn’t want to be interrupted.
I walk over to the closest window, peering through the slats of my plantation shutters. Every single day, rain or shine, the same reporter is outside. His name is Stan. I tried politely explaining that Johnny Knite will no longer be visiting my home. He picked up his black camera, which hangs around his neck, and snapped my picture. Hopefully, this post will finally convince him to take a hike.
It would also be nice if the hordes of Johnny Knite fans, especially female fans, would lose my address. I’ve been woken up in the middle of night by their knocks on my front door, chants of his name, and rocks thrown at my windows. Fortunately, nothing has been damaged, but it’s only a matter of time.
There’s no need to detail the horrible insults that have been hurled my way by his “biggest” fans. Somehow the anonymity of a screen name makes it okay to call me a whore, bitch, troll, and to dissect every appearance flaw I have.
But for every Tweet that made me want to quit No Pink Caddy, there was a positive comment. Girls from around the world found my site and sent wonderful, encouraging messages about how they could relate to my journey or tried a recipe. One of my favorite connections is a girl who emailed me from Nicaragua. She’s opening the first Cajun restaurant in her town using my recipes modified with local ingredients. I inspired her to follow her own dream. That gives me goose bumps.
Walking back to my laptop, I sit down on my only barstool and review what I’ve written so far. Sigh . . . That wasn’t so bad, but now comes the hard part. Staring at my screen, I wonder if I’m able to type the rest. A stirring in my stomach compels me to reach out to him one more time, to give him one last chance to renew my faith. I open the messenger app on my Mac.