Rock

by J. A. Huss

  I get back in my car and the reality of what happened this past weekend hits me. Blackout. Again. This is Monday morning, so I lost all of Sunday. I stare out my window as the sun rises over the peak of the eastern mountains, wondering what I missed this time.

  At least I’m not in jail.

  And no one is dead.

  Chapter Six

  I take Chancer’s advice and don’t hand over the oxy prescription when I get to the City Market in Granby. Addiction is a fucked-up monkey and I really do not want to go through withdrawal again. Never. Beating that shit was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Well, it’s high up on the list, anyway.

  “Hey, RK,” a girl says, coming up to me. I scan her face and come up with a name. Lizzy. “I heard you were back.” She gives me a weak smile. Her brother was a friend of mine in junior high, but she looks just like him, so it’s hard to make that memory disappear.

  I grab my throat, hoping she’ll understand I can’t talk.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I know. I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you came home.”

  I don’t bother telling her I was forced by the Grand County Sheriff, and she doesn’t wait anyway. She just grips my upper arm as she passes me by, giving it a sympathetic squeeze, as a toddling little blonde girl of about four tags along behind her.

  It’s pretty sad when the town teen mom feels sorry for you. And you’re a rock star. And she probably lives in the trailer park out off Highway 34.

  I linger in the City Market, picking up some liquid nutrition like Chancer suggested, and a few other things I might need—shaving cream, toilet paper, soap, shit I haven’t had to pick up in years because my house in LA has a whole staff of people to do that for me—until they finally call my name on the PA system. “Rock Saber, your prescription is ready. Rock Saber.”

  I roll my eyes at the Rock part. What the hell is wrong with these people? That prescription said Rowan Kyle.

  If they did that shit in LA, I’d have a swarm rushing me for autographs and selfies. But there are only about eight people in the City Market, and none of them are interested in me. Not even Lizzy.

  I wander back up to the counter and slap my gold card down.

  “OK, RK,” the overweight woman at the pharmacy register laughs. “Sounds funny. Rhymes, right? RK, OK.” She laughs again. “Rowan Kyle, have you ever taken…”

  I just nod yes as she babbles on about side effects. Get me out of here. I put my basket of shit up on the counter so I don’t have to check out twice, and can’t help thinking I could get used to this no-talking thing. It’s nice, actually. I love not having to participate.

  My phone buzzes in my pants as I walk back out to my truck. I throw my sack onto the passenger seat as I get in and then look at the message as I start the engine.

  Kenner: dude help me man tell me what the fuck is happening

  I’m still staring at his text when the next one comes in.

  Kenner: what the hell is happening

  Kenner: come see me

  I hold my thumb over the letters on my screen, unsure what to say.

  Rock: I can’t I’m not allowed

  Kenner: don’t leave me here man they r telling me things rock I don’t know what’s happening

  My phone rings. I decline and text back real fast.

  Rock: i can’t talk Kenner

  Rock: my voice won’t work

  Rock: i can’t talk

  Rock: just texting OK

  He never replies and I’m not sure what to do, so I pull out of the parking lot and head back to Grand Lake, wondering if it’s going to warm up today. Even for the mountains, it’s pretty late in the year to be so cold.

  My phone buzzes just after I pass the bar and I check the message.

  Jayce: Kenner is disoriented, Rock. Please don’t talk to him until he has a few sessions with his therapist. He’s in shock.

  I throw the phone back onto the seat but she texts me seven more times trying to get an answer before I get to the house. I turn the truck off and pick up my phone to text back.

  Rock: i was driving, sorry. and i can’t talk anyway, so no worries there.

  Jayce: No texting either. OK?

  Why no texting?

  Jayce: Rock?

  Rock: why no texting? he’s my best friend. i’d sure the fuck like to talk to him if the situation was reversed

  A long pause from Jayce. The sun is starting to burn through the clouds over in the southeast, so I take that as a good sign.

  Jayce: He’s in shock. He needs professional help to deal with the deaths of Ian, Mo, and Elias.

  The phone rings and I answer it on the truck’s navigation panel, but don’t say hello.

  “You there, Rock?”

  I grunt a little so Jayce knows I am.

  “Just please don’t communicate with him yet. He needs some time.”

  Well, no talking sucks when you want to argue. But I’m very interested in getting this pain under control, so I end the call and text back, OK.

  Kenner. That’s the only bright thing in my life right now. I still have Kenner.

  I get out of the truck and immediately hear the music blaring from my house. I look over at the Vetti house, wondering if it’s bothering Melanie, decide I don’t give a fuck, and continue up the stone path leading to my front door.

  I push it open and Son of a Jack’s biggest hit, Tell Me Something I Don’t Know, is so loud, I don’t even hear the door when I slam it.

  What the fuck? I guess my blackout is due to the one-man party I threw? I throw my keys down on the side table and notice all the furniture has been uncovered. The white sheets are nowhere in sight.

  Since when do I tidy the house when I’m drinking? I have to laugh it off because what choice do I have?

  The kitchen is nothing but empty beer bottles, the empty Scotch bottle, and a pizza box from Buzzard’s, none of it eaten. I set my bag of things down on the counter, fish out the pills, and grab a glass. I take the two pills and decide I need a shower. And bed.

  It’s funny though, I think as I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. I don’t have a hangover.

  I start the shower and then walk across the hall to my room, flipping on the light as I go.

  Melanie is sleeping in my bed. Her legs are bare and tangled up in the dark gray comforter, and she’s topless.

  I back out and walk to the bathroom, locking myself inside.

  What the fuck? Did I sleep with her? What the fuck would possess her to want to sleep with me after that fight we had?

  I know I do a lot of weird shit when I black out, but I don’t think I’ve ever slept with a girl during one. I wake up hungover, dizzy, and still half-drunk. I’m typically confused, but not overly so. I might not remember everything, but most of the important shit comes back in a few minutes. A few hours at most. It’s been a couple hours and I have no fucking memory of sleeping with Melanie.

  I strip down and get into the shower as I think this through. Sometime in the middle of washing my hair, the music stops.

  I freeze, waiting for Melanie’s knock on the door.

  It never comes.

  I resume washing, finish up, and then wrap a towel around my waist, listening for any sound to give me a clue where she’s at. Where she might be waiting to ambush me. Silence. I open the door and walk out into the hallway. “Mel?” I say, not loudly. I walk into the bedroom. Nothing. Then the kitchen. Just the mess I made.

  Whew. OK, Rock. You have issues, man. Fucking your dead girlfriend’s sister is not cool. Not. Fucking. Cool.

  I throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, all shit left over from when I last lived here, and I’m just about to close the closet when I notice there’s a pair of woman’s shoes on the floor.

  What the fuck? Why would Melanie leave a pair of shoes here?

  I turn around and notice a lot of other things too. A gold necklace on the top of my dresser. A receipt from the local grocery store. I open a
drawer and find girls’ panties mixed in with my socks.

  Did Missy keep things here before she died and I forgot?

  No.

  Then what the fuck?

  I pull on my boots, grab a black hoodie, and make my way out of the house and down the driveway to Mel’s.

  Our fathers were best friends all growing up. Both semi-famous, washed-up rock stars for a gold-record hit their band had back in the nineties. Mel and I are both the products of trust funds for that little bit of success, although I’ve never touched mine. It’s still sitting there in the bank where I left it five years ago.

  The custom homes on the side of this mountain are part of that legacy. Mine sits a little higher up on a ridge than Mel’s and that’s why I always had such a good view of them growing up.

  I knock on the thick hardwood door, then ring the doorbell for good measure. But I don’t hear it inside, so maybe it’s broken.

  I try the handle, it turns, and I open the door a crack.

  I should call out. Let her know I’m coming in. But I don’t. I slip through and close the door quietly behind me. I want to see Missy’s room and I want to do that alone.

  I walk through the great room, empty of furniture, expecting to be caught any second, but there’s no one in there. Just a pile of pillows and a blanket neatly folded and stacked on the floor. Hmmm. I continue down the hallway, all the doors are closed, and stop in front of Missy’s room. My hand lingers on the doorknob. I know I should not do this. I should get the fuck out of this house right now. But I can’t stop myself. I open it and look inside.

  Empty.

  Well, that sucks.

  I go down the hall and try Mel’s room.

  Empty.

  The master.

  Empty.

  In fact, once I circle my way back to the great room, I realize the entire house is empty. Just a few towels on the floor of the bathroom and the pillows and blankets on the floor.

  “What are you doing here?” Melanie asks from behind me.

  I turn and take her in. She’s dressed in jeans and that same black leather jacket, her hair slicked back into a neat ponytail. Her boots have mud on them and her face is flushed from the cold morning.

  I make a writing gesture and she shrugs. “I don’t have any paper. Now why the fuck are you in my house?”

  Thirty minutes ago I saw her sleeping in my bed, now she’s acting like it never happened?

  “You fuck me and then talk shit to make me walk out? You’re sick, RK. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you’re sick and you need help.”

  “Were you in my house?” I croak. I need to understand what’s happening.

  “If you think that little display the other night will excuse the fact that you just broke into my place and were snooping around then—”

  I walk out. Down her driveway, up mine, go inside, and slam the door.

  I’m not in the mood to deal with Melanie Vetti’s games. Really not in the mood. She fucked with my life so bad when we were kids, I can’t go back to that.

  Chapter Seven

  Seven Years Ago

  “Hey,” Melanie says from the open garage door. I’m working on my dirt bike, trying to get it ready for a weekend of off-road fun. It’s hot as fuck today and sweat is dripping down my face with the grease and grime. Mel is dressed in those shortie-shorts she always wears, flashing the outline of her nipples through the thin white tank top.

  “What’s up?” I ask, barely giving her a look as I turn back to the bike.

  “Do you mind if I tag along with you and Missy this weekend?”

  I give her another quick glance. “What does Missy think about that?”

  “She said whatever.”

  “Well,” I say, mentally cursing Melissa for that, “we’re just gonna have a date weekend.”

  “But all the guys are going.”

  “Yeah, but they all have girlfriends.” I stop again and look over my shoulder. “You got a guy who wants to come? So you don’t feel left out?”

  “Forget it,” she says, walking back down my driveway.

  “Forgotten,” I mutter to myself as I go back to work.

  Thirty minutes later Missy walks up chattering about lunch. “Ham sandwich with chips or ham sandwich with chips?” She holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting her nose the way I think is so damn cute. She can’t cook worth a shit, so I think I’ll be eating cold sandwiches for the rest of my life.

  I’m OK with that.

  I laugh as I put down my tools, wipe my face with a clean rag, and stand up. Missy is wearing faded jeans. Her hair is hanging down her back in a braid and the promise ring I gave her is shining in the midday sun. I slip my hands around her waist, hoping I don’t get her dirty, then plant a quick kiss on her nose. “Whatever you have is perfect.”

  She leans up and kisses me full on the mouth, her tongue slipping inside mine to tease me. I smile into her lips. “What’s up with you?”

  She kisses me harder, her hands reaching around my ass so her fingers can slip inside my back pockets. “I can’t wait for this weekend.”

  “Me too,” I say, opening my mouth to kiss her more thoroughly. One of her hands comes out of my pocket and reaches around to grab my dick.

  I step back and push her away. “What are you—”

  “RK?” Missy says from behind me. “What the hell, Melanie?” Her hair is all wet, like she just got out of the shower.

  Fucking Melanie.

  “Hey,” Melanie says, all her Missy mannerisms gone. “Can’t blame me for trying.” She slips off Missy’s promise ring, tossing it at her sister as she walks past.

  We fought. Missy loved me, I know she did, but she loved her sister too. I went dirt-biking alone that weekend over that bullshit. It wasn’t the first time Mel tricked me into thinking she was Missy. And it wasn’t the last either.

  Chapter Eight

  I spend the entire next week alone, only venturing out in the evening to shop at the drug store in Granby. Melanie never comes back, although I find more and more of her shit stashed away in the house.

  She’s psycho, I remind myself. But it pisses me off that she’s been in my house while I was away. I think she’s been sleeping in my bed. What kind of freak does that? And I love how she accuses me of being sick. Shit. At least I’m not sneaking in her bedroom to sniff her sheets.

  TJ came by once but I didn’t answer the door. He stood out there calling me names for almost fifteen minutes before the sheriff showed up and yanked him back to his car.

  I didn’t call the sheriff, so maybe Melanie did that?

  Kenner never called or texted back.

  Jayce did. Does. She calls every morning and every evening to “check in with me”. Like I have anywhere else to go. She also had about ten boxes of shit sent here. I only opened two of them, all clothes. So I guess I’m expected to just settle in. Why didn’t they just put an ankle bracelet on me? Then I could ignore Jayce too.

  My throat feels a hundred percent better. But no talking suits me. I might never talk again.

  The piano taunts me from the front room. I walk by that thing ten times a day thinking I should smash it. I don’t know why I blame it all on the piano, I just do.

  And right now I’m sitting on the back deck, checking out the sunset over the mountains, feeling a little less sorry for myself than I did yesterday. I try not to go online to see what people are saying about the band, but I did log into Facebook once and there were so many sympathy notifications on my personal page, I just couldn’t do it. I can’t fucking look at those pictures of Elias, and Mo, and Ian. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  But each day I make progress. Maybe it’s just getting out of bed before noon. Maybe it’s being able to drink some ice water without clutching my throat in pain. Maybe it’s almost enjoying a lukewarm cup of coffee. Maybe it’s not reliving a play-by-play of the accident in my nightmares. Maybe it’s hope that Kenner will play again.

  I’ll
take all these maybes because they’re all I have. This is RK’s sad, empty life. This is RK’s punishment for living. Twice. This is RK’s bottom.

  Well. No. RK’s bottom happened a year and a half ago when they found me unconscious in an apartment bathtub I have no memory of entering, needle sticking out of my arm. I was missing for days and the papers pronounced me dead when people reported seeing me jump off the Santa Monica pier.

  Tabloids.

  But the truth was worse, right? People feel sorry for out-of-control depressed artists who try suicide. They don’t feel sorry for addicts who throw their charmed life away on drugs and blow jobs from high-class prostitutes.

  I never did that anyway. The prostitute thing. That girl who sucked me off in Bangkok was a friend.

  I blacked out for two weeks after they took me to the hospital. I still don’t remember all of it. Not the needles, not the party, not the cold—I was almost hypothermic when they finally did find me.

  It was my lowest point, although the day Missy died and the day the band died, those points are up there with the lowest of the low too.

  I probably should’ve died in that bathtub and they only found me after serving my phone company with a warrant and tracking me down using Find My iPhone.

  After Jayce checked me out of the hospital she flew me to rehab somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Six months of treatment to get me through the heroin withdrawals and another two to monitor my adherence to the new me, and I was free.

  The band went into the studio, wrote ten new hits, released them old-school style on the internet along with a one-hour biopic video on how we rose to rock stardom so quickly, and planned a vacation before we went out on our second world tour.

  We will never play that tour.

  It hits me hard as I think about it.

  We will never play that tour.

  The world will never hear us play live again. I will never sing. Kenner will never drum. Ian will never do another solo and Elias will never find the rhythm. Mo will never pound keys.