by Layne Harper
Grace stares with fear in her eyes. “I’ve called Calvin. He’ll be right here.”
As if on cue, I hear the backdoor open and close with a slam. In seconds, Calvin is kneeling next to me. “Show me your hand.”
I’m able to move my arm enough to pull my fist out of my stomach. An ungodly noise that I didn’t know I could make exits from my throat. My hand is twisted in a grotesque way. My middle finger points at a forty-five-degree angle to my pinky, and my wrist is twisted perpendicular to my arm. “Do something,” I groan.
My heart pounds against my ribs. All I can see are shades of red. I’ve never felt anything like this before.
“What’s the pain level?” Calvin asks in a concerned, but controlled voice.
“Fucking crazy,” I yell. “This makes the first attack look like nothing.”
He pulls a needle from his bag. “I’m going to give you a shot for the pain.”
I feel the stick of the needle and moments later all I can see is black as my body relaxes on the couch cushions. As I move into the darkness, my mind throbs with agonizing thoughts of just how bad this really is.
When I can open my eyes again, I’m lying on top of the comforter of my bed in the house in New Orleans. I have no idea how I got here, or why. Looking down, I’m completely dressed and it’s still light outside. My head is filled with chaos. It’s like I know where my nose is, but I can’t seem to find it with my finger. I stagger out of bed so woozy I must use my hand against the wall for support.
That’s when I notice the white cast on my right hand. It’s not like when I was a kid, and I broke my arm falling off the monkey bars. The material is the same but my hand has been splinted as if I’m in the middle of playing a song on my guitar. My head turns, and I hear the theme music from Alice in Wonderland playing in my head.
“The fuck?” I yell as I stumble into the living room. It’s filled with my bandmates, Doctor Odom, Calvin, Grace, and MK. What’s she doing here?
MK rushes to my side. I drape my arm around her, and she helps me to a chair. When I’m finally able to study her features, her bloodshot eyes let me know that she’s been crying. “What’s wrong? What did those bastards do to you?”
She kneels at my feet and places her hand on my knee. “No one hurt me, Aaron.”
Holding up my arm, I ask, “Why is this on me. Why do y’all look like someone died?” My eyes dart from Grace to Sam to the doctor looking for the answers.
Doctor Odom adjusts his glasses. I’ve come to think of this as a nervous tick. “You had another incident. Grace heard you screaming when she got out of shower. Apparently, you’d been playing the guitar, and it happened.”
“I had my glove on.” I have no memory of the attack. When I try to remember the last thing that happened before I woke up lying on the bed, it was leaving MK’s store, then coming back here. I put the condom on my hand and was working on the new song on the guitar.
“Grace and I made the decision to splint your hand,” he continues ignoring my comment.
“Why do I feel like I’m coming down from a really shitty bender?”
“Calvin had to give you an injection for the pain. Plus, we had to manipulate your hand into that position. That’s not something you would have wanted to feel without the aid of a drug.” His eyes dart to Grace.
Mine follow his as everyone in the room looks at my sister. She cracks her neck and says, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we’ve postponed the rest of the tour indefinitely.”
MK’s grip on my thigh tightens, and I instinctively reach over and lay my cast on her shoulder. The inability to feel her through the thick material makes me crazy so I stand, offering her my left hand. She grabs it and joins me with her arms around my waist and her head against my arm.
“The show can still go on. I can sing, right? I won’t have my guitar. We can issue some sort of statement saying I tripped over my shoelaces. Y’all were willing to let me do it a couple of weeks ago. What’s changed?” They just can’t decide to postpone my tour without my consent. What kind of bullshit is this? I’m Johnny Knite. This is my band and my tour. ACE are my initials.
MK turns, and I meet her concerned eyes. “Doctor Odom has consulted with others in this field. Grace, Sam, and I were on a conference call with all of them.” She touches my pec. “Aaron, they were wonderful. You can truly say the world has come together to help you through this.”
My right hand goes to my hair, and I’m quickly reminded that I can’t use it to tuck the wayward strands behind my ear. “And?”
Her tongue swipes over her bottom lip. “And even though stress doesn’t cause this, everyone believes that it does exacerbate it. You’re going to have to take some time off and focus on getting better. Doctor Odom is going to work every single day with you. You’re going to fly to New York with him and Calvin, and they’re committed one hundred percent to making you better.”
Stepping away from her, I walk to the corner of the room. It’s like an out-of-body experience. This isn’t happening. It’s a bad dream that I can’t wake up from. I can’t seem to rectify this in my mind. I’ve never missed a show. I’ve played with a one-hundred-four degree fever, strep throat, and a broken ankle. I’ve played after finding out that the woman who birthed Jude killed herself. Now, they’re telling me I have to walk away from this tour because my hand hurts. It doesn’t seem believable.
“No.” I turn around and face all of them. The fight or flight instinct has kicked in, and I’m fighting. “No. We aren’t taking time off from the tour. Grace, undo whatever you did. Make this right,” I yell.
MK walks to the middle of the room and says with such force that I’m shocked she has it in her. This is the girl who let me storm out of the restaurant when the band was being disloyal. This is the girl who chose my band over me. Her voice booms. “Go. He’s upset. He’s going to lash out at all of you. I’ll handle him from here.”
Sam attempts to interject, but MK cuts her off. “He’s going to say stuff that he’ll regret. Let me help him through this.” Then in a pleading voice, she says, “Please just go.”
Slowly my living room empties. I get lots of pats on the back and a few “so sorry, man.” I can’t look at my bandmates. My eyes stay glued to the floor. I’ve let them down. My weakness has hurt them. They’re my family. They’re my everything.
Grace is the last to leave. She says to MK, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in the recording studio.”
MK nods and smiles. “Thank you for everything, Grace.”
Once the backdoor closes, she asks, “Will you come sit on the couch with me?”
“No.” I dig my heels into the worn, wooden floor.
“Okay,” she replies and remains standing. “Here’s the cold, hard truth, Aaron.”
“Give it to me.” I motion. “Tell me everything that I’m not going to listen to.” My left hand balls into a fist.
Her arms cross over her chest. “If you don’t take this time off and focus on you, there’s a chance that you may never play the guitar again.”
Her words are like a punch to the gut, causing me to double over. Now I know why she wanted me to sit down. She drops to the ground in front of me, but doesn’t touch my body.
“You’re getting worse not better. They can’t do anymore Botox injections. The side effects will be worse than the dystonia. You can improve. Everyone believes that you can retrain your brain and get back on stage, but you have to walk away from this tour and focus on you and your health.”
My head hangs. My brain reasons that every word MK has said is the truth, but my heart, well, that’s another story. It’s shattered. It’s broken like when MK gave up on me, and I had to take that pathetic flight back to Austin alone.
I don’t quit.
I don’t disappoint.
I’m a motherfucking rock star.
“This is my fault.” I laugh, but there’s nothing funny. My casted hand tries to drag through my hair again. “I’ve got you,
so my music career has to end.” Standing up, I start pacing, laughing like a crazy man. “I can only have one good thing in my life at a time. That’s the way the gods designed it. I just always thought I would lose you but not my music. Boy, was I fucking wrong.”
MK leaps to her feet. “That’s not true, Aaron. The doctor said that up to two percent of musicians suffer from this. Most are male, and it presents itself between the ages of twenty-five and forty. You’re not cursed. Think of this as an on-the-job injury.”
I hear her statics, but it doesn’t penetrate my racing, chaotic brain. I yell to the ceiling, “I can’t be happy. I can’t find the balance that the rehab doc told me to find. My life only skews in one direction. Height of my success, the woman who birthed Jude killed herself blaming me. I write the best album of my career. I lose you.”
Reaching my fists to the heavens, I yell, “Fuck you, God. Fuck you for cursing me with this life.”
Body Count by Manslaughter screams in my head. Ripping a painting from the wall, I slam it against the corner of the coffee table. It rips apart like MK’s cheek did.
She shrieks, “Stop it, Aaron.”
Ignoring her, I pick up the discarded alcohol glasses that my bandmates left behind. One by one, I hurl them against the raw, brick wall with my left hand, delighting in the sound of them shattering. I scream how fucking unfair life is. I beg God to give me use of my hand back. I make deals, promises if this situation can be reversed.
After the last glass is in shards, MK places her hand on shoulder. “Don’t do this, Aaron,” she pleads. “Don’t sabotage us because you believe in some stupid curse.”
Turning around, I look at her with disdain. It’s her fault that I can’t play my guitar—maybe ever again. I want to inflict pain. I want her to leave so my hand will work again. “Is your store hiring? I can be the stock boy, or the greeter. Or pretty, little MK’s washed-up, rocker boyfriend.”
Her chest bows as her feet go into a fighting stance. With a glint in her eye, she says, “I know you’re upset, and you’re taking it out on me. I’ll stand here and be your punching bag. What else do you want to hurl in my direction?” Black streaks of mascara slide down her cherry-pink cheeks. “Here. I’ll help. You’re under the kind of stress that contributed to this condition because I gave up on you when you used. This happened because I wouldn’t marry you last November when you asked. I have my own career and can’t be at your beck and call. You helped me paint. Because you fell in love with me, we’re the number one trending topic on Twitter. Anything else? Or did I cover it all?”
“You forgot that I can’t have my guitar and you.” My lip curls. “Get out. I choose my guitar.”
She rears back, biting the inside of her lip as her hand connects with my cheek. Fire blazes in her eyes. “Listen to the words that are coming out of your mouth, you fucking bastard.”
Touching the side of my face, I feel the sting from her palm. It’s the red-hot passion she has flowing through her Cajun-spiced veins for me, for us. She’s still here, taking my verbal abuse, because she’s committed to me. God, I love her for it. No one else in my life has ever cared enough to fight for me. This is me at my worst, and she hasn’t bailed.
“You aren’t pushing me away. I love you, and I recognize a wounded animal when I see one. What else you want to throw?” She picks up one of my Grammy awards and hurls it against the wall. Then, she marches back to where I’m standing. “What else you have inside that dark soul of yours, Aaron? Give it to me. I can take it.”
There’s no response. It’s like I verbally expunged every bit of rage trapped inside. I tested her. I showed her my worst, and she’s asking for more. I’ve never loved anyone this much. “I’m sorry,” I croak around a lump in my throat. Dropping to the ground, I sit like a rag doll amongst the shards of glass and ceramic. My bones no longer support my body. The sting of salty tears burn my eyes. I haven’t cried since Jude’s birth, and I fight like hell to keep them from falling. MK lets me pull her to my chest as I kiss her hair. “I’m so sorry. You’re right.”
The music in my head changes to an Enya song. Her tears wet my shirt and after a bit, mine join in the mix of pure agony. Devastation is not an emotion that I’m familiar with, but right now we’re becoming intimately acquainted.
We hold each other as the room turns from light to dark. Words are not exchanged. Sometimes quiet speaks louder. Her body is warm against my cold heart. Her light soul illuminates mine making it not such a dark abyss.
After my eyes have dried and her back has quit heaving, she says, “You need to talk to Grace. There are plans to be made.”
“And you?” I ask feeling emotionally depleted. It’s an open-ended question because I’m not sure how to ask what this means for us. Is she done with me? Did I push her away for good this time? Was my rage too much for her to handle? Has she seen the worst in me and decided she can’t do this for the rest of her life?
She stands and I join her, hanging on to hear her answer, convinced it’s the only thing keeping my heart still beating.
The tight bandage wrapped around my hand reminds me that swimming, my one lifeline to sobriety, is no longer an option. Will she still support me if I use again?
“I left the store and raced over here when Grace called. I need to finish a few things. Then I’ll pack an overnight bag and come back here if that’s what you want?”
“I’d like that,” I reply as relief oozes from every pore. Stripping off my shirt, I toss it on the floor. The toe of my sock digs at an imaginary wood knot. “You’re going to be here with me while I do this? Right? While I remap my brain.”
Her hand goes to her hip and she gives me the smartass smile that I love. “I’ve already asked Doctor Odom if he can also fix your inability to properly use a towel and your obsession with sugary breakfast cereal.”
As I follow her to the front door, I swat her ass. I say the words that my heart has been screaming. “I love you, MK.”
She turns around, and her soft lips brush against my stubbly cheek. “And I you. Aaron, we’re going to get through this and come out stronger on the other side.”
“This is burnt sugar, right? Life not turning out how we planned.” Leaning against the door frame I feel a tornado of emotions churning in my gut: heartbreak, devastation, anger, fright, passion, and hope.
With a slight turn of her head, she blows me a kiss. “It’s the definition of burnt sugar, but we’re going to use it to make something even sweeter.”
Dear Reader,
Thank you for stepping into MK and Aaron’s world. This is the second book in my new series ACE. I know how hard it is to wait for more of their story so I created MK’s website www.NoPinkCaddy.com. You’ll find pictures of the actual places in New Orleans that are featured in this book. I also share the recipes that MK prepares as well as some of my favorite Cajun inspired dishes. Oh! And did I mention there will be teasers for the next book? It’s true. As you witnessed in No Pink Caddy and Burnt Sugar, MK has a difficult time staying off social media. You can follow her here:
Twitter www.twitter.com/NoPinkCaddy
Facebook www.facebook.com/NoPinkCaddy
Instagram www.instagram.com/NoPinkCaddy
Pinterest www.pinterest.com/NoPinkCaddy
As always, I so appreciate your reviews and recommendations. Most of all, though, I love hearing from you. Email me at [email protected] or find me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/LayneHarperAuthor.
Until we meet again . . .
Muah,
Layne Harper
About Layne Harper
Layne Harper is the Amazon bestselling author of the Infinity series. Her first book, Falling Into Infinity, fulfilled her lifelong dream of bringing Charlie and Colin to life. The kid who grew up in a small town in Texas never dreamt that one day, people from six continents would read her words.
Layne is married to her college sweetheart. They have two young children who are so similar to their parents that it’s a bi
t eerie, one perfect dog, one dog who really is perfect, a puppy, and a four-pound cat who runs the house.
When Layne isn’t driving carpool, scratching book ideas on the kids’ homework, or volunteering, she’s watching sports, rooting for the Texas A&M Aggies, or listening to music while imagining what the stars’ lives must be like.
Burnt Sugar is the second book in her new series, ACE.