Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  Fuck!

  ∞∞∞

  I’m in a terrible mood when the guys return with our groceries. They sense it and give me a wide berth while I yank ingredients from bags and utensils from drawers. The kitchen is a ghost town when the knives come out.

  Someone must have something.

  “Yo, D!”

  Derrick’s face peeks around the corner. “’Sup, man? I finished the bathroom, I swear.”

  “Great. You have any weed?”

  “Nah, man. All out.”

  Shit.

  He salutes and disappears. I go for the tequila instead. Not ideal, but two shots and the burn puts me back on track.

  Peeling shrimp ain’t child’s play.

  “Need help?”

  Nice of Reece to offer since it’s his date.

  “You know how to devein shrimp?”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  Figures. “Then, how about you open those cans of tomatoes.”

  “How many?”

  “Three. You got the basil?”

  “I think so?”

  He holds up a plant wrapped in a bag. “Good. Start chopping that too.”

  “Okay…”

  I sigh and point to the knife block. “Use the one on the top left. Were you able to find fresh bucatini?”

  “Um…”

  I don’t have time for this shit. “Parker!”

  “What’s up?”

  Even Parker doesn’t take more than a half-step into my lair. “Did you get bucatini?”

  “We couldn’t find any fresh so we grabbed linguine instead.”

  I nod. “You should start chilling whatever wine you got,” I direct to Reece.

  Did I just ask him to recite the Japanese alphabet? “Dammit, man, seriously? Have you never dated a girl before? Like, ever?”

  “How am I supposed to know all this shit?”

  “Common sense, dude.” I let out a breath. Those poor shrimp need me to keep it together. “I’m good here. Go to the state store and pick up a few bottles. And not the cheap shit.”

  “Red or white?” he calls back. The guy has never looked so afraid. “Red. Sorry. Probably red.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Parker mutters.

  ∞∞∞

  Nothing improves from there. Within seconds of their departure I lose my favorite shirt to Reece’s terrible can-opening skills. I curse and toss it in the hallway. This kitchen is a thousand degrees anyway.

  I grab another can and call Derrick to clean up the tomato explosion. His eyes ignite with amusement when he sees me half-naked in front of the stove.

  “Not a word,” I warn.

  His mouth closes abruptly. My glare has that effect.

  “Just set the table for five, okay?”

  “Only five?”

  We both glance toward the unexpected voice, and my sour cloud slips away.

  “Mila?”

  She smiles. “I finished my meetings and thought whatever was going on here had to be more interesting than a night in my flat. I see I was right. Should I be jealous?”

  She slinks forward and slides her arms around my waist. Only one thing can distract me from the prospect of overcooked shrimp, and those lips have no mercy.

  “Daaaayuuum.”

  We pull back and exchange a smile at Derrick’s feedback.

  “Teach me how to cook?” By the way his eyes flicker between Mila and me, he might be serious.

  I smirk and turn back to my shrimp. It feels damn good when Mila settles in against my back, fingers tracing the ridges of my abs. I’m more than ready to skip dinner.

  “And he cooks,” she says against my shoulder. Words become lips which become a scorching distraction on my skin.

  “He’s an amazing cook,” Derrick interrupts. “When he actually does it. Remember that prime rib you made that one time?”

  I pull in a breath. “I remember.”

  “Oh! And the Tahiti chicken! That was epic.”

  “Tandoori chicken.”

  “Yeah! That one. I could eat those pita thingies with anything.”

  “Naan bread.”

  “No, they were definitely bread. Not normal bread, mind you, but…” Derrick gets sidetracked trying to remember everything I’ve ever made, and I suck in a breath at the sudden pressure on my zipper.

  “I’ve missed you.” That voice goes straight to my groin. Every. Damn. Time.

  “I missed you too.”

  Shrimp. Pasta. Boil water.

  The button releases, and her hand slips into my jeans, forcing the zipper down. I brace against the counter. Shit.

  “Hey, D. You know how to boil water?” I call over, somehow keeping my voice steady.

  He pauses. “Um… do we have a water-boiler?”

  I groan, and Mila giggles. She gives me a hard squeeze before letting go. “Oh well, maybe for pud,” she whispers.

  With her seduction officially thwarted, Mila retrieves a clean shirt for me instead. I’m still buttoning it when three more bodies cram into our kitchen.

  “Look what we picked up while we were out.” Reece beams as he presents a curvy blonde woman five times out of his league.

  “You must be Gina,” I say since Reece clearly hasn’t mastered introductions yet either.

  She smiles and nods. “And you’re… Jesse?”

  “I am.”

  “The hair,” she says, tugging her own. “Which means, you’re Derrick.”

  “She’s a genius,” Derrick whispers to the rest of us. It would be offensive if he were joking.

  She only laughs. “Okay, got it. And you’re…?”

  “Mila,” my girl says with a smile.

  Gina returns it. “You’re with Jesse?”

  I love how she tucks her arm around my waist. Possessive. Gina’s not even a threat. This message is for me.

  “Yes,” I say. She looks up, and I’d say it a hundred more times to see that shine in her eyes.

  “Well, the food smells delicious. Did you make it?” Gina asks me. Uh-oh. “I helped Reece a little.”

  He tosses me a grateful smile, and Mila gives me a squeeze. Note to self: teach the boy how to cook for real if he wants to keep that woman.

  ∞∞∞

  Verdict is in: Gina’s real.

  By the time dinner ends, she’s confirmed almost all the lies Reece fed us for the last six months. She is in fact a grad student who was studying abroad. She is a classically trained violinist. She does speak two other languages fluently.

  Reece glows the entire time we quiz her for a flaw.

  “Way to go,” I whisper as we take a load of dishes to the sink.

  He’s a man in the clouds. “She has a place in center city. We’re heading there in a minute.”

  “Center city?”

  He cringes. “Yeah, her family owns a brownstone in Rittenhouse Square.”

  I snort a laugh. “Of course they do. Gonna meet the parents?”

  “Nah, nothing like that. They’re in Europe or something. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  I slap his arm. Is he blushing? “You know what to do, right? You have protection?”

  “Fuck off,” he grunts, but a smile peeks out as he glances back toward the dining area.

  “Go, man. I’ll clean up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course.” I step back. “Just don’t kiss me, geez.”

  He shoves me instead. “Seriously, though. Thanks, man. I owe you.”

  “No you don’t. Just don’t screw things up with that one.”

  “Hell no!”

  ∞∞∞

  The happy couple is off to their center city honeymoon. Derrick and Parker head out to play, which leaves Mila and me alone with the dishes.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say as she struggles with a pot in the sink. I drop my stack on the counter and reach for it.

  She swats me away. “I can wash a pan.”

  “Really.” I lean against the f
ridge and cross my arms.

  “What? The spoiled rich girl can’t clean a dish?”

  I shrug, mostly to earn an adorable scrunch of her nose.

  “I’ll have you know, I volunteered in a soup kitchen for an entire term in senior school.”

  “An entire term, huh?”

  That gets me a soapy sponge in the chest. I laugh and toss it back at her.

  She shrieks when it lands in her hair. “How dare you!”

  I wrap my arms around her from behind, suppressing whatever plans for revenge are ripening in that brain. “I don’t think you’re a spoiled rich girl.”

  “I can see why you’d think that.”

  I kiss her head, inhaling her intoxicating blend of flowers and fruit.

  “Did you mean what you said to Gina?” Her voice is porous with hope.

  Ah. The public confession. “Do you want me to?”

  Her weight settles against me. “I do…”

  My heart hammers at the hesitation. “But?” I tighten my arms around her.

  “Not a but, just”—she twists back to face me—“we don’t have a future. We won’t until you do.”

  I tense at the familiar warning. “I haven’t even used since you got back.”

  “No, and you haven’t dealt with any of the underlying issues either.”

  This argument feels familiar, and I swallow the instinctive protests. Been there, lost that, not interested.

  “So how was New York?”

  She blasts me with another look, before channeling her frustration into sauce stains instead.

  “Fine.”

  “Your book thing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your apartment?”

  “Fine.”

  “Wow. What a fine day you had.”

  Her glare softens into a sigh.

  “Not even an acceptable or an okay or an adequate or a satisfactory in there?”

  There’s that pretty tug of her lips. “Shut it.”

  I rest my chin on her shoulder from behind. “I would, but your story-telling is captivating. When you say fine, are—”

  A sponge to the face shoves me back a step.

  “Oops,” she laughs, not looking remotely sorry. I wipe my face with my shirt, and she softens further. “I spoke to your friend.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Your arsehole pal. His people reached out for a chinwag so he could tell his side of the story.”

  “Wait, you’re talking about Wes?” Now she has my attention. “Does that mean you listened to their album? What did he say?”

  “So many questions. You’ll just have to read my post tomorrow.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I also spoke to my contact at Smother. Leon is definitely interested in the idea of a live band night and happens to be familiar with your music. He’s going to discuss it with his wife who runs the special events at the club and get back to us. No promises, but I’m fairly certain we should start talking strategy.”

  18: A PIECE OF HELL

  Manager Mila has a lot of ideas for the Alton Wedding. Tons, and her presence has certainly changed the dynamic of rowhome kitchen table band meetings.

  “Instead of covering contemporary music for the prelude, why not cover classical songs? You have time to arrange a couple, right?”

  Whoa. Interesting. Could be fun.

  “Classical?” Derrick asks.

  “Sure. Maybe Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’ or Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring?’”

  “Pockmark what?”

  “Johann Pachelbel?” Mila says.

  Derrick shrugs.

  “Pachelbel’s Canon. Really?”

  “Assuming that’s some kind of army song?”

  “Oh my god. Have you never been to a wedding?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Johann Pachelbel is a classic German composer!”

  I snicker watching Derrick’s brain explode.

  “Ah… But Jesse doesn’t speak German.”

  I bite my lip at Mila’s exasperation. Time for our manager to manage.

  “They’re classical songs, Derrick. Typically played without words.”

  “Wait, so like, we’d do an instrumental version?”

  “Canon in D is always instrumental! It’s…” She pulls in a deep breath. “Hold on.” After a quick phone search, she holds it out to us.

  Derrick’s face brightens. “Okay, sweet! I’m diggin’ it. But none of us plays the harp.”

  ∞∞∞

  I laugh as Mila grasps her head and drops to my bed.

  “He’s an amazing drummer and has a good heart,” I say.

  “I know. But seriously. Please tell me you know Pachelbel.”

  With a faint smile, I grab my guitar and start picking out the iconic riff of his famous Canon.

  She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank god. Eh, that’s pretty good. Where’d you learn that?”

  “June and Toby,” I lower myself beside her and continue working my way through more lines of history.

  “June and Toby?”

  “Foster parents. I lived with them for eight months. Best eight months of my childhood. They were musicians and let me fool around in their home studio.”

  “Really, wow.”

  “Yeah, it’s where I learned that music doesn’t have to equal pain and drugs. They’re the reason I’m here and not strung out under a bridge somewhere.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “They’re still around. We do dinner every so often. They’ve even come to a couple of our shows.”

  “They sound ace.”

  “They are. I did really well with them.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  My fingers stall on the strings. I lose the rest. “Jonas came back.”

  Her reaction is in the silence. Jonas has that effect.

  “Anyway…” I push myself up and return the guitar to its stand. A knock rescues me from more awkward seconds courtesy of Jonas Everett.

  “Jess, can you come out here?”

  The urgency in Parker’s voice makes my stomach knot. “Be back in a minute?” I say to Mila, on my way to the door. I pull it open, and Parker yanks me into the hall.

  “She’s here,” he hisses.

  “Who?”

  “Natasha! I thought you said you were done with her.”

  “I am.”

  “Well…” He waves his arms to emphasize how wrong I am.

  “Where is she?”

  “On the porch.”

  He glances at my closed door. “Want me to distract Mila?”

  “Thanks, man. I’ll get rid of her.”

  I take off for the entrance before Parker can unload any of his told-you-sos.

  Derrick offers a slap on the arm as I pass through the kitchen.

  Natasha waits with arms crossed, mascara smudges etched into the creases around her eyes. I can’t tell if the makeup is exaggerating or dulling her death stare.

  “Hey,” I say, stepping onto the stoop and closing the door. A biting March wind cuts through my thin t-shirt, and I cross my arms.

  “Why haven’t you responded to my texts?”

  “Why are you still texting me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I thought we resolved everything. I got your messages, but I don’t have anything else to say.”

  “So I tell you I still love you. That I want to see you, and you just ignore me?”

  My fists clench. “You don’t love me. We already talked about this.”

  “Don’t tell me how I feel!”

  I cringe and glance around. I know how well voices carry through the glass to my room. “Can you keep your voice down?”

  “Why? Don’t want the world to know what an asshole you are?”

  “Natasha…”

  “Or do you have another girl here? That’s it, isn’t it? Found yourself a new dealer?” She leans toward my closed window. �
��Hey, new slut! He’s only using you!”

  “I’m going back inside,” I mutter and reach for the door.

  She smacks my hand away. “You’ve always thought you were too good for me.”

  “Tash, please—”

  “Don’t call me that! You’re a junkie, Jesse Everett. Just like all the other shitty lowlifes who pound on my door.”

  “I’m not a junkie.”

  “No? Because I seem to remember a desperate loser begging—yes, begging—at my door for a hit. You were so wrecked you let Trav drug and assault you just for a taste.”

  “Fuck you, Natasha. I haven’t even used in weeks.”

  “Ha! Well, congratulations. You want a trophy? You’ll be back. You always come back, and when you do, guess what? I’m gonna say ‘fuck you, too.’”

  “I won’t be back.”

  I won’t.

  Just enough to fight, fight.

  “You’re weak, Jesse. You can’t change what you are.” Her face twists into an evil I haven’t seen before on her. “Good luck, boy scout.”

  She throws a small plastic bag at me and storms off.

  Four white pills. My hand shakes as I pick it up. Blood pulses through my chest in a painful rhythm.

  Just enough…

  Just enough.

  ∞∞∞

  I shove the bag in my pocket before going back inside. If ever I needed a moment alone to figure shit out it’s…

  Fuck.

  The entire house is waiting for me in the foyer—Mila front and center. I close the door slowly behind me and brace for war.

  “I’m guessing you heard all that.”

  “Is it true?” Parker asks, stepping forward.

  “Which part?”

  “The mugging a month ago? Was that an assault by a dealer?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying to push through them.

  Parker grabs my arm and yanks me back. “I asked you point blank and you lied to me! And what did she mean by letting Trav drug you? What else happened that day, Jess?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business!”

  “I’m not a kid anymore. Stop acting like my parent.”

  I flinch as he slams me into the wall. The jolt is enough to ignite an older burn in my ribs, and I double over to catch my breath.