Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  I’ve never been great at hiding my amusement.

  “What’s so funny?” she snaps.

  “Just calculating how long it will take you to kill me with that.”

  She glances down at the weapon, and her shoulders relax with the twist of her lips. “Quite a long time, I reckon.”

  “Bet you’d get bored.”

  “Bet you’d stop me first.”

  “You’ll just have to tie me down then.” I reach from behind and close my hand over hers. Air releases from her lungs as she lets go of the utensil to lace her fingers with mine instead.

  “Friends, eh? Is that what we are?” she says, leaning into my chest. I cross our arms around us to force us closer.

  “I don’t know what we are. It’s just—”

  “No.” Her hair brushes against my lips as she shakes her head. “You don’t need to explain. It’s the nature of what I do, what I’ve done. I guess… It’s just never hurt before.”

  Her voice is soft. “Where did you come from? You’ve made things very complicated for me,” she mutters, and see, that’s funny.

  “I’ve made things complicated for you?”

  I feel her smile when she burrows in my arms. “I suppose I can appreciate the challenge you face as well.”

  “Oh, is that what you suppose?” I turn her around to align our bodies in a completely different pitch. The biology of my reaction is basic science, and she groans.

  “Don’t you have to go meet your friends?” Her warning doesn’t match the way her hands slide down to lock our hips together.

  “You’re my friend, aren’t you?” I move enough to elicit a gasp.

  “You need to go before your other friends get concerned.” There’s no conviction in her counsel.

  More in her arousal, so doubtful, my damsel with a hammer to all resolve. This assault on conviction, her mission to make me lose my mind…

  “Jess?”

  I drop my gaze to hers. “Yeah?”

  She runs her fingers down my cheek, along my jaw. “Where do you go?”

  “What?”

  Her eyes narrow in search of something behind mine. “Sometimes you’re… not here.”

  A shrug is a great way to pretend to be confused. A kiss for goodbye.

  “I should head over to the practice room. See you later?”

  Mila Taylor reads me like a flashcard. And I know her nod is also a lie.

  ∞∞∞

  Luke Craven and Casey Barrett own Grammys. Oh, and an Oscar for the song in that motorcycle movie. So when the NSB superstars tell you your shit is good, it’s probably okay that your brain explodes. I’m still grinning when Luke and I lean against the brick exterior of our practice building.

  “So Mila Taylor, huh?” His lips curl into a smirk as he squints at traffic on the cross street.

  My shoe scrapes at an imperfection in the sidewalk. “Shit. I know, dude, okay?”

  “You know what?”

  “How fucked up it is. It’s just—”

  “Did I say that?”

  My gaze flickers over to find humor in lieu of critique.

  “Would I shack up with Mila Taylor? Hell no, but I’ll tell you one thing, love her or hate her, the chick has zero tolerance for bullshit.”

  I release a breath. “Ha. No kidding.”

  “What I mean is, her presence says a lot about you. I couldn’t imagine any guy being good enough to attract that dragon.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Awesome. Thanks, man.”

  He grins and crosses his arms. “Seriously, dude. I’m not surprised it’s you. You’re the real deal, and if Mila Taylor thinks so, then it’s only a matter of time before the world knows.”

  I grunt and drop to a step. “Yeah well, it’s not that simple.”

  Luke lowers himself beside me. “It rarely is.”

  I rest my elbows on my knees, staring out over the street. “How did you do it, man?” My voice shakes as blood starts pounding through my body.

  “Do what?”

  I glance over, hoping he’s distracted enough for me to retract the question. His fixed stare allows no chance of that.

  “Recover.”

  His sigh is hard to read. “You think I’ve recovered?”

  “It sure looks like you’ve got your shit together.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s not about recovery. It’s about finding something worth fighting your ass off to keep.”

  “Holland?”

  “Holland, music, Casey, Callie. You keep adding to that list until the thought of losing it is unbearable.”

  “That simple, huh.” It wasn’t meant for him, but he laughs.

  “Simple? Fuck no. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I needed counseling, rehab, meds, and a ton of support to get here, and it never goes away. You don’t recover. I’m still fighting. Every day. Every damn minute, I fight.”

  I let out a nod. Shoulder Luke is hard to ignore. Real Luke makes it impossible.

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Fight.”

  “Everyone can fight.”

  I shake my head against the sudden burn of tears.

  Just enough to fight, fight. Hold tight.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Overrated. Garage band wasted.

  Dead eyes, swirling flies, so many lies.

  Lies. Lies. Lies.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  I crush my eyelids with my palms. No… Please no. Not now. Not in front of Luke!

  Breathe. Just—

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “Stop crying!”

  Thump, thump, thump.

  “Why do you think you’re here? No one wants you!”

  Breathe!

  “Shut up, you little fucker!”

  “Jesse, hey.”

  My shoulder moves, pressure on my back.

  “Hey, man!”

  I blink. Why is it so dark? Where’s Parker? Parker!

  No!

  No, no, no!

  I jump up.

  They’re screaming upstairs. I cover my ears because no matter how many times you hear them, the words don’t lose their power. The left side of my face throbs. I count the heartbeats in my cheek. One-two-three-four. There’s a cadence, so poetic this pulse. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. I press my fingers against the heat and find the slick sensation of blood. I hold out my hand out but there’s no proof in the darkness.

  Breathe. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  I won’t. Not today.

  The padlock rattles outside, and panic rushes into the song. One-two-three-four. The lock siphons all air from the basement. Breathe. One-two-three-four.

  Jesse!

  Jesse!

  Who’s that? They never call me by my name.

  They’re here, the demons, and I jerk away when one grabs my arm. Another. How many hide in this basement?

  One-two-three-four.

  Jesse!

  Call 9-1-1.

  Just give him a sec. He’s having a flashback.

  Parker? Parker!

  “I’m right here, brother.”

  I clench my eyes shut.

  “Does this happen a lot?”

  “Not anymore. Not like this anyway.”

  I shake my head.

  “Where are you? I can’t see you!”

  “Right here.” His voice is soft. Too soft to be coming from upstairs. I force my eyes open, and…

  “Parker.” His name shatters on my tongue, and he pulls me into him. Tears of hatred, relief, terror explode from my eyes onto his shoulder. His arms tighten around me.

  “We’re here, brother. We’re here.”

  I nod but can’t let go. He might not be there if I do.

  People leave.

  “Jess?” This voice is strong and full of fear. It’s close, and Parker starts to pull away to let it in.

  The air thins, one-two, one, three—I shake my head and reach for him, but he’s gone—
They leave. The darkness steals them all.

  “Jesse.” Gentle hands rest on my cheeks, force my gaze into glacial crystals.

  “Mila.”

  She nods, and I recognize the look of relief that so often accompanies my journey back to consciousness.

  Her arms constrict around me, replacing Parker’s warmth.

  “You go back there, don’t you?” she whispers so only I can hear.

  There’d be too much to say, so I close my eyes and refill my lungs.

  “We should get him back to the house.”

  ∞∞∞

  Overrated, garage-band wasted, talent-jaded

  They said

  My eyes snap open. Air shoots into my lungs.

  Destined for rejection, binding imperfections, nothing but objections

  They said, they said

  I roll out of bed and fumble for my notebook. A pen, my guitar, and I’m in the dim lamplight of the living room.

  Attractive fraud, where’s your army now to defend the legend that only exists in

  Could have beens

  Would have beens

  Should have been vapors afraid to face the wind

  “Jesse?”

  Bm. A. Passing G to Em? No, two beats. Two. I play the progression again.

  Attractive fraud, where’s your army now?

  There are other words in the room now but I can’t hear them over the ones screaming in my head.

  Could have been,

  Would have been,

  Should, should, should have been

  Too hazy for a spotlight

  They said

  “He’s okay.”

  “But look at him! It’s like he’s not even here.”

  “Yeah, he got the music.”

  “The what?”

  “This is what happens when the music comes. He’s writing.”

  “This is normal?”

  “Nothing about my brother is normal.”

  Couldn’t be

  Shouldn’t be

  Wouldn’t be if not for helping hands that cower under streetlights

  “So what, we just leave him like this?”

  “Basically. You can’t stop it.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. Hours? Days?”

  “Days?”

  “He left us for three to write ‘Jonas.’”

  You’re special

  She said

  A fucking god beneath the fraud

  She said

  Could be

  Should be

  Won’t be

  Unless she collects

  the lies she tells

  “He needs help, Parker.”

  “It’s who he is.”

  “Is it? Or is it who you need him to be?”

  “Fuck you, Mila. You exploit him as much as everyone else. How much was the paycheck for ripping him apart?”

  I’m no god, just a piece of hell

  Here to tell you how it is

  ∞∞∞

  Voices drift from the kitchen. This house is great at turning private conversations into murky public broadcasts. I listen for clues, but only get enough to know I’m not supposed to hear.

  I don’t have to. I know this conversation by heart.

  Mila is sorry but this isn’t what she signed up for. I’m too fucked up to fake a career, and she’s not equipped to deal with it. She wishes us the best. Maybe call her if I get my shit together. Until then, we should concentrate on getting me help. Do they know how to stage an intervention? She knows all kinds of random shit. Bet she knows how to do interventions too.

  My chest tightens as I trace the indent of the woman I’m starting to need. It’s a vacuum, painful as it sucks my heart back into the shadows. That’s the problem with secrets. Once they’re exposed, they become connections. Connections that rip out a chunk of your soul when they snap. It’s why my heart tucked itself safely into the depths of me, beyond reach, further protected by substance clouds and casual encounters. Connections bleed. Connections hurt.

  Vague memories of last night filter through my head. The music has finally let me go, as evidenced by how I’m awake in my bed. There were witnesses with me, watching, judging, but I can’t remember more than that. I have to assume Mila was one of them.

  Footsteps tap toward me from the kitchen. By their delicate gait, I know what’s coming. My heart, that beating defector that crept into view against my will is about to pay for its betrayal. Ripped out. Shredded. Grated into a pulp that will watch as its connection packs her suitcase and delivers the sentence it deserves.

  This is the problem with secrets.

  Her eyes are heavy when she opens the door. Apologetic. I can’t look anymore and squeeze mine shut.

  “Don’t.”

  “Jesse—”

  “I’m serious, Mila. Don’t soften the blow. Just go.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t hate you for it. I don’t even blame you.” My voice breaks, and self-hatred fills my throat with bile. “People leave.” Everyone. Everyone.

  No one wants you.

  Why do you think you’re here?

  No one wants you.

  No. One.

  Except the sounds move in the wrong direction. Closer?

  Everyone leaves.

  My bed creaks from unexpected weight.

  Everyone! Everyone, everyone.

  The indent beside me fills with a heartbeat. A warm hand. A soft breath against my ear.

  “Not everyone,” she whispers.

  17: GINA

  We pretend the incident outside the practice room didn’t happen. At least, the guys and I do. They’re used to my crazy. Mila, though? She’s just being patient. I see the questions swirling in her head, the pleas she’s fighting to suppress. She does, and as the days pass with a distinct vibe of “normal,” the urgency of her silent protests subsides.

  “I have to go back to New York tomorrow.”

  The blankets on my bed can’t block the sudden chill. She traces the tattoo on my chest as I tighten my arm around her. It didn’t take long to need her warmth to sleep at night.

  “Does that mean…” God, I can’t even say it.

  Her eyes widen. “No, of course not! I have a few things I need to sort, then I’ll be back.”

  Air rushes into my chest as her hand spreads over my cheek to turn my gaze on her.

  “You promised me a couple of months, remember?”

  “I know, but—”

  “I want my time.”

  Her lips are warm, flames that scorch a new message into my brain.

  Reasons to Fight:

  1. Parker

  2. Mila

  ∞∞∞

  My plan to spend the day brooding alone falls apart when I wander from my room to find the Feather Duster King raging through our house.

  I join another witness in the kitchen and lean beside him with my own cup of coffee.

  “So?”

  Parker takes a sip and studies the path of Hurricane Reece through our living area.

  “Gina’s coming.”

  I almost choke on my drink. “The Gina?”

  He shrugs. “He’s cooking too. Says we better have our asses at the table at seven-thirty sharp.”

  “Cooking? What the hell does he cook?”

  “My guess? Esposito’s takeout.”

  I suck back a snicker when our entertainment starts shoving his way through the kitchen with a vacuum. His wrath for messes shows no mercy. Parker and I watch him attack the crushed cereal by Derrick’s chair for a good forty seconds before I pull out my phone.

  Should we tell him about the hard floor setting?

  A grin slides over Parker’s lips as he reads my message.

  Nah. It’s his own fault for never using the damn thing before.

  It’s not Reece, but my concern for the floor, that finally leads me to halt his efforts and pull the attachment arm.

  “Just a suggestion,” I shout, handing
it back to him.

  His gaze narrows in suspicion. I guess not everyone is blessed with the domestic training provided by the fine folks of the NEC.

  Good deed done, I prepare to spend the rest of the day in seclusion. It was a nice thought until dark puppy-dog eyes follow my retreat, plea for help.

  Ah, shit.

  I sigh, retrace my steps, and turn off the vacuum.

  “What do you need?” I ask.

  His gaze moves to the stove as he swallows. “Gina’s coming.”

  “I heard.”

  “I told her I’d cook.”

  “I heard.”

  “I can’t cook.”

  “I know.” He bites his lip, and I grunt. “Fucking hell. What am I making?”

  ∞∞∞

  I’m not surprised the menu includes no items actually in our kitchen. She loves Thai food. Who doesn’t, but that’s not happening on such short notice; of course a house that can’t stock bread doesn’t have lemongrass and coconut milk. We settle on Italian instead thanks to my current fixation on Esposito’s shrimp fra diavolo.

  I send Parker and Reece to Weavers Way for supplies and assign Derrick to the remaining bachelor offenses in the house. He groans at the state of the bathroom, but it’s mostly his shit anyway.

  “Zero sympathy, dude!” I call out from the kitchen at the muttered curses and haphazard banging drifting down the hallway.

  “Where’s the suction thingy?” he shouts.

  Crap. “The plunger?”

  “Yeah!”

  “You shouldn’t need that to scrub a toilet.”

  “Then how do you get the paper towels out?”

  Aw, fuck.

  I dry my hands on a dishtowel and march toward the bathroom. Sure enough, there’s Derrick, knee-deep in heaven knows what.

  “How the hell…” I shake my head. “Forget it. Don’t want to know.”

  I grab the plunger from under the sink and transfer my frustration to whatever monstrosity our drummer tried to flush.

  “Toilet paper,” I growl when the drain finally wheezes and gurgles itself empty. “The only thing that goes down that hole.”

  “But the paper towels…”

  I point to the wastebasket after washing my hands. “Only toilet paper in the toilet.”

  Seriously. And I’m the dysfunctional one?

  Head pounding and patience wearing thing, I press my palms against my eyes. I need a break, just a little something to take the edge off, and make a detour to my room. Ice spreads through my limbs when I pull open my drawer. Shit. I forgot that other things do get flushed as well.