Jesse: That you can see in pictures.
Mila: Ohh, interesting. Tell me more. Where’s the one I can’t see?
Jesse: Why, so you can rip me up about it in a blog post? No thanks.
Mila: Aw, put that lip away, love.
Jesse: You really didn’t have to message me to tell me I have a birthmark. Must be boring over there in Yorkshire.
Mila: You know where I live?
Jesse: I know a lot about you.
Mila: Oh aye?
Jesse: Black hair, blue eyes. Prefers actors over musicians for some reason.
Mila: Oh there’s a lot of reasons.
Jesse: I’m sure. Good to know I’m safe.
Mila: Yep, quite safe.
Jesse: Great. What’s this about?
Mila: I’d like to propose a truce.
Jesse: Ah. Not used to people calling you out on your bullshit?
Mila: You’re a brave man. I’ll give you that.
Jesse: Yeah, well, thanks to you I have nothing left to lose.
Mila: And I know you’re too clever to say somat like that.
Jesse: Nah, just well-acquainted with rock bottom.
Mila: Yeah right. I’m sure the son of Jonas Everett really had it tough. Let me just get my violin out.
The boulder returns, crushes my ribcage. I clench my eyes shut until it stabilizes.
You’re one to talk, I type out.
Mila: Why do you think I started my career in food blogging instead of music? I only want what I can have off my own back. My doing and no one else’s.
Jesse: And you think I don’t?
Mila: Tell me Pops didn’t put a word in and get you that deal with SauerStreet. Great bands work their arses off from nothing to get noticed. You toured with A-list talent from the off. Must have been well hard getting started when your father is an iconic producer. All I did was level the playing field.
Jesse: Fuck you. You don’t know a thing about me.
And I log off.
∞∞∞
I stare into the darkness for a long time. Confused, furious, and completely turned on. I hate that woman so much it’s ignited a fire in my gut. A blaze I can only get from the inferno of the stage anymore, at the pinnacle of locking into the moment. It’s a hatred so different than the bitterness I feel for my father. This one rages hot, awakens a fight instinct that shoves my world into sharp focus.
Mila Taylor. That name has become a spark I despise and crave.
I pick up my phone and reopen the chat.
You consider yourself a journalist? Do your research.
I finally fall asleep.
10: DAYLIGHT MUGGING
I wake up the following morning to a binder outside my door. After leafing through the pages, I toss it on the bed with a grunt.
Parker and Jonas’ genius plan. What, I’m supposed to change my mind because they figured out how to use a three-hole punch?
“What do you want to do this weekend?” Parker asks as I shuffle into the kitchen. “Derrick and Reece just headed out on that snowboarding trip.”
“How about the same thing we do every weekend?”
“Come on. There has to be something.”
“We could cuddle.”
I feel Parker’s eye-roll in my back.
“I had an idea for Jonas,” Parker says.
I’m hoping he means the song not the man. It’s too early for a fist fight.
“Yeah?”
“We should layer in some orchestration throughout.”
“Strings?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a simple cello on the verses and then a full-on symphony for the chorus. With that sick groove of the song, it would be cool.”
“Maybe. Let’s play around with it. Want to work this afternoon?”
“Can’t, man.” Sly smile. Waiiit…
“You have a date?”
“Maybe.”
“Please tell me it’s not the chick from the coffee shop.”
“What if it is?”
“Two disastrous attempts weren’t enough for you?”
“Third time’s a charm.” He shoves a croissant in his mouth, whole damn thing.
“In a hurry?” My coffee is way lazier in its journey down my throat.
“Yeah. We’re doing Christmas shit.”
“Christmas shit? Christmas was a month ago.” Why did I ask? I don’t want to know.
“Yeah, there’s some tourist village or some shit up in Bucks that does Christmas forever. She wants to go look at discount wreaths and drink hot apple cider or whatever.”
“Sounds amazing,” I mutter, refilling my cup.
Parker shrugs into his jacket as he grabs another pastry. “Whatever. She’s hot. Sweet too. You’ll like her.”
Uh-huh. “Well, have fun. Grab me a scented candle or something.”
“I will. Anything to mask the stench of weed in this place.”
∞∞∞
Music blasts through my stereo, filling the gaps in my consciousness. Some band called Clown Irruption, I don’t know. All I care about is the pain in the lyrics, the raw agony that claws through my closed eyes and wraps itself around the daggers in my head.
The neighbors are at it again. Early today. It’s not even dark yet. The echo of an indecipherable yell, then a crash. This one feels close. Wait, are they in my yard?
I turn down the volume for a better read.
“Anyone home?”
I bolt up from the bed, heart hammering. The voice is in my house, in my foyer.
“Hello?” Moving down my hallway. To my…
I’m shaking when the specter appears. Face drawn and twisted in pain, it studies me slowly.
“Jesse,” it breathes out as only a ghost can.
“I’m calling the police,” I hiss, reaching for my phone. Jonas grabs my wrist, and I jerk away, eyes wide. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Just… hear me out?”
My head shakes, violent in its protest. Instinctive because my mind is a black knot of nerves.
“You deserve better than what you got. Better than… this.” His gaze scans my walls, my disheveled desk, my floor still stained with blood from last night’s visit.
“Leave,” I croak out.
“I’m clean, Jess! I swear it.”
“Leave!”
“I want to make things right. I’m sorry for—”
“Fucking leave!”
A chair flies toward the door. From my hands? Probably, but I’m not in this scene anymore. No, I’m back in a shitty living room. Backpack dropping from my middle school shoulder. A third-chance guardian passed out on dirty shag carpet and demonstrating once-and-for-all where his son ranks against the synthetic peace in his veins. Back to strangers. Back to caseworkers and group homes and expectations I couldn’t meet because I wasn’t a normal kid. Only the unconscious bastard on the floor could’ve understood the weight of every thought and neuron firing through my confused brain. Only he could’ve helped me tame my torment. But he chose a needle. He chose strike three and the same fate for his son.
Jonas has backed into the hall now. I still see his shadow hovering, watching me from a safer vantage point.
“I’m sorry about SauerStreet,” it says.
SauerStreet? Interesting how it ranks its crimes.
“I…”
I’m too impatient for whatever useless defense is coming next. “What’d you do with the money, Jonas? What’d you do with our money?”
I already know the answer. Flushed it through his bloodstream. He stole my art, my soul, and enslaved me to the corporate suits for a fucking high.
Traitor. Fool me once.
“I screwed up, Jess. I make no excuses. Just please, give me a chance.”
“What makes you think I would ever trust you again after that?”
“I don’t expect you to trust me. Just hear me out. Let me make it up—”
“Get out!”
“Jesse—”
“Out!” I’m shouting now, breaths coming in sharp hisses that can’t seem to find their way to my lungs.
It’s all right in the candlelight. It’ll be all right.
Basement locks. Spider webs. Towers of debris haunting the shadows.
It’s all right.
“Stop your goddamn crying! You want a beating too?”
Throbbing cheek. Damp floor. Icy howl through ancient concrete.
“I’m sorry! I couldn’t—”
“Shut up, you little shit! No one wants to look at you.”
Tattered blanket. Forgotten candle—a flicker!
It’s all right. It’s all right.
“Jess?”
I blink and pull myself back to the surface.
“Please just go,” I whisper.
I’m looking at you, traitor, faker, promise-breaker.
∞∞∞
I can’t get the filth of Jonas off me fast enough after he leaves. The memories have jammed every inch of my room, pressing on my head until I’m fighting a scream. I grab my phone and dial Natasha.
Voicemail.
I try again. Voicemail.
Stop calling me, lights up on my display, and I shove my phone in my pocket.
Fuck.
I zip up a hoodie and jog toward freedom.
∞∞∞
“Damn it!” A voice growls from the other side of the door.
My fist aches from pounding against the wood, but it’ll all be better soon.
“What do you want?” The shaved head of a late-twenties thug pushes through the crack.
“Natasha here?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Just tell her—”
“Jesse? Fuck.”
“You know this prick, Tash?”
She nods, dark nails tapping the doorjamb. “Used to.” Her gaze scans me slowly as the door opens the rest of the way. “What do you want, Jesse?”
“Can we talk?”
“Yeah right,” she snorts. “Get lost.”
“Wait!” I block the door with my foot when she goes to close it.
“Watch it, asshole. She ain’t interested,” Bald Head tells me.
I ignore him. “Just something to get me through tonight. I won’t ask again.” Her eyes narrow, and yeah, maybe I’m desperate. “Jonas came back.”
The tapping freezes as her expression softens. “Shit. Your dad?”
I nod, pleading for one hint of mercy.
“You look familiar,” Bald Dude interrupts.
Natasha shifts uncomfortably and moves to block his view. “Nah, he’s no one. Just some junkie I used to know.”
Bald Dude’s stare turns direct. “No no. I know you.”
“Not sure, man,” I say, and focus back on Natasha. “Please. I’ll never ask again.”
“You said that last time.”
“Yeah well, it’s not like I was expecting Jonas to show up at my house.”
“Damn. Just out of the blue? What did he want?”
Her companion/roommate/I have no idea is still slicing me up with his gaze.
“Um… just the usual bullshit.”
“Looking to score?”
I shrug. “Kind of, but not drugs. He wants to help us he says.”
“What?”
“I know. It’s fucked up. I kicked him out. Just—”
“That band! You’re the dude from that band who used to play The Wharf all the time! Damn, what was it…?” His forehead scrunches in a painful search for information. “Lemon-something. No, wait.”
“Limelight?”
“Yeah!”
“No, he’s not,” Natasha rushes out.
Bald Dude laughs and slaps her arm. “Hilarious, Tash. Why didn’t you tell us you were fucking a celebrity? Damn. Come in, come in. What do you need? We got it all, man.”
“Trav….”
“Get us some drinks, will ya?” he barks at Natasha who slinks off to the kitchen with a grunt.
“Trav” makes quite the show of organizing two ratty throw pillows on a recycled couch before offering me a seat. VIP treatment for the “dude from the lemon band” I guess.
“Yo, T, guess who’s here,” Trav calls out.
A younger man shuffles out from an adjoining room, eyelids sagging with sleep and chemicals. Envy, anticipation, that’s the burn in my stomach as I will the pleasantries to end.
“’Sup, man,” the new guy says, slumping to the other end of the couch.
“This is the dude from that band,” Trav says.
“T” raises his hand. “Sweet. ‘Sup, man.”
I doubt his vocabulary is any more developed when he’s sober.
“Hey,” I say. He doesn’t care which band so I focus back on Trav. By now Natasha has returned with mismatched glasses of amber liquor. Her gaze locks on mine as she hands me one. She’s upset? Of course she is.
“Okay, so before we talk business, I just got some new shit in you want to try.” Trav crosses to a safe on the floor and pulls out a bag of large white pills. “This stuff is the shit. Here. On the house.”
“What is it?”
“Cracked Pearl.”
“Never heard of it. Is it like white pearl?”
“Nah, nothing like that. It’s new.”
He hands me one before I can protest. “Appreciate it, man, but—”
“Dude, I said on the house.” His smile falters into something darker.
“He doesn’t want it, Trav,” Natasha cuts in.
“Stay out of it. The guy knows what he wants. Trust me, once you try this, you’ll be changing your order.”
Fuck. The warning flares blast through my head. Little shoulder-Luke is screaming at me about breaking my rules, but Jonas. The basement. Darkness. Vicious demons that circle and shriek without warning. I can’t go back to that empty rowhome without a weapon.
I pop the pill in my mouth and swallow.
∞∞∞
It’s dark when I come to. I groan as I try to adjust to a less awkward position. My body won’t move. I squint at the unfamiliar surroundings. A barred window, a door. The only light comes from a distant streetlamp. I’m definitely not in the grimy living room where I left my consciousness.
My head throbs; sandpaper lines my mouth. Cracked Pearl, my ass.
My limbs start to cooperate, and I push up from the bed. The room spins in a manic testimony to my latest screw-up. I reach for my phone and my pulse races. Gone. So’s my wallet.
Fuck!
I stagger to my feet and lurch toward the door. It’s not locked, which brings the briefest flutter of relief.
Three sets of eyes greet me from the familiar living room.
“Morning, sweet cheeks,” Trav drawls.
“What the fuck was that?” I hiss. “Where’s my shit?”
“Relax. We’ll give it back once we’re compensated.”
“Excuse me?” But I’m not confused. No, this relationship is painfully clear.
“Just call your manager or whatever and we’ll get this straightened out.” He flashes a gun, and my heart hammers against my ribs. I send a silent plea to Natasha but she won’t look at me.
“Okay, look. There’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t have any money.”
The men snort. “Right. A big rock star like you? We looked you up while you were out.”
“I’m not a big rock star. I’m not even with a label anymore.”
“Whatever, dude. Fifty Gs and we’re good.”
I almost choke. “I’m telling you. I don’t have money.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate. Guess you better get comfortable.”
The fear starts to transform into anger. “Fuck you,” I spit, heading toward the exit.
Damn, they move fast.
“T” blocks the door, while Trav crowds me from behind.
“So what, you’re gonna hold me hostage? Hope your schedule is clear. I’m telling you. I’m fucking broke.”
“I told you,” Natasha calls over. H
er gaze brushes mine before centering on the others. “I’ve seen his place. Trust me, you’re wasting your time.” She crosses her arms and leans back. “S’why I kicked his sorry ass to the curb when I found out.”
Trav’s glare cuts into me. Over to Natasha, then back to mine.
“Dude, you have my wallet. I’ve got like twenty bucks in there. Any rich bastards you know carrying a single twenty around?”
Trav pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck!” He slams his fist into the wall. The next one connects with my side and my vision blurs.
“Travis, stop!”
Natasha screams again when a foot collides with my ribs. My face, my groin. I try to push myself up but the blows come too fast. This is rage. Frustration. The worst kind of motivation because nothing can make it stop.
Until it does.
I’m fighting for consciousness when the violent kicks become violent pacing as the men mumble curses to each other. Natasha sobs from the couch. God, I just want them to finish this.
They grab my arms and yank me to my feet. T opens the door and Trav shoves me into the hallway. My phone and empty wallet come flying after me.
“Don’t ever come back here, you fucker,” he growls and slams the door.
I almost laugh before the darkness takes over again.
11: MEMORIES
I tell Parker I was mugged. I’ve got plenty of my own self-condemnation to keep me company and don’t need to face his as well. Still, I’m on the verge of confessing if it’ll stop the painful compassion.
“You need to call the police,” he tells me for the fifth time.
I shift the bag of ice from my eye to my jaw. “What are they gonna do? I didn’t even see the guys. They jumped me from behind.”
“Still, they can—”
“Park, I love you, but you need to drop it. How was your date?”
“Fine. I got you something.”
He pulls a glass container from a fancy paper bag, and a laugh leaks through my cracked lips. “Nice. What scent?”
“Uh…” He examines the label. “Spruce Tree.”
“Wow. So no weed-flavor?”
“Want me to light it?”
“Sure, man.”
Soon our kitchen is a winter wonderland of bagged ice and evergreen stench. I force more water down my throat to combat the nausea swirling through my stomach. Can’t tell if it’s from the mystery drug, beating, kidnapping, or near death experience. Just another day in the fragile life of Jesse Everett.
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