Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  I stare at the pile of paper in the folder again.

  Then at the stranger across the table. He holds out his hand as he passes. For the first time in twenty-three years, I take it.

  ∞∞∞

  We sift through the file after Jonas leaves. Although we don’t understand a lot of the numbers and calculations, one thing is clear: Jonas stole a lot more from us than we thought. He also has an aggressive plan to make us very comfortable in the near future.

  “We have to tell Mila,” Parker says.

  “Why? This is the past.”

  “This is our entire future! She’s our manager. She has to see these.”

  “Oh?”

  He glares at me. “Save the I-told-you-sos. I already admitted she knows her shit.”

  I let out a breath. “Fine. Go ahead and call her.”

  “Uh, pretty sure you should be the one to call her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “She’s worried sick about you.”

  “I emailed her and told her I’m fine.”

  “Exactly.”

  I shut the folder and push to my feet. “We should talk to Reece and Derrick. This is their money too.”

  “Agreed, but that doesn’t get you off the hook with Mila.” He sighs. “She cares about you, man.”

  “Yeah? Not enough to be here.”

  “You didn’t give her a choice.”

  I know. Doesn’t help me now. “Please, brother? Just call her for me?”

  Parker’s forehead creases in protest, but I sat through coffee with Jonas. Listened to his pitch. Shook his fucking hand. Parker loses by a landslide, and he knows it.

  “Fine. I’ll call her. This time. But you can’t avoid her forever.”

  Actually, I’m the Prince of Avoidance. “Thanks, dude. I’m gonna go work on the new song.”

  19: RUNNING

  Jonas thought it would be best if I met Chris for coffee on my own. Given my aversion to all things Jonas, I can’t argue.

  I search the coffee shop for a red baseball cap and see three scattered throughout. It’s not exactly a unique qualifier in Phillies country, and I approach the closest.

  The guy doesn’t seem enthusiastic about my advance. I smile and keep walking. Number two has a laptop, awkward approach for what’s supposed to be a casual introduction, but this is a Jonas-setup so anything goes.

  “Chris?” I ask, reaching for the chair across from him.

  “Uh…”

  Yeah, not Chris.

  “Jesse?”

  I turn and stare at Red Hat Number Three. The only one I’d ruled out because…

  She grins. “Let me guess. You weren’t expecting someone so short?”

  I swallow and force a smile. “I didn’t know what to expect. Jonas isn’t exactly great with details. He said Chris would be here at ten wearing a red hat.”

  The woman laughs and ushers me toward the counter. “What are you drinking? My treat.”

  She stops my protest with a look, and I obediently place my order. We wait at the counter, making small talk about important topics like other hot beverages we’ve tried at this establishment and why the current selection is the best. I think I get her strategy. By the time we get to the table I’ll be begging to discuss my deepest darkest if it means no more caffeine-related insights.

  “So I finally get to meet the famous Jesse Everett.”

  “Famous?” I hold back the snort.

  “Jonas talks about you non-stop.”

  “Really.” I don’t know how to feel about that. Hell, I don’t even know what that means.

  Warm brown eyes scan my face before resting on mine. “He was a shit father, huh?”

  Somehow, I manage to swallow my coffee instead of spit it all over the table.

  Her lips turn up as she watches me recover. “I’m assuming that reaction isn’t because you disagree.”

  “No.” I take another sip to save further explanation.

  “He also thinks you’re the world’s greatest gift to music.”

  I almost lose my drink again and smirk. “Right.”

  “I don’t know. He’s got a case. Your stuff is pretty sick.”

  “You’ve heard it?”

  “Limelight? You kidding? The guys and I have seen you play a few times. We would’ve sold our souls to open for you.”

  I laugh and shake my head. Now I know she’s bullshitting me. “Jonas said you had your own band. King something?”

  “E-Z Kings.”

  “Ha, yeah, that’s right.”

  “It’s also probably why you assumed I’d have a penis instead of boobs.”

  Damn I love this chick. “The thought might have crossed my mind.”

  “To be honest, I don’t even remember where the name came from. I think it was Louie’s brilliant idea. Anyway, it’s a shit name and probably why we’ll be playing the Tunnel for our entire career.”

  I laugh again. “Hey, we love the Tunnel. We just played it not too long ago.”

  “I know. We were there.”

  “Really?”

  “Jonas invited us. Invited the whole damn group, he was so proud.”

  I pick at an imperfection on my mug. “What kind of music do you do?” I’m not trying to be subtle. She hasn’t earned that conversation yet.

  She leans back and studies me. “Bluegrass.”

  “Bluegrass?”

  “Why the shock? Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because this is Philly.”

  She shrugs with a smile. “Maybe another part of our problem?”

  “Ever thought of trying your luck in Nashville?”

  “Of course—ten years ago. I’m thirty-six. Music is a passion, not a career.”

  Is it weird that a twinge of jealousy shoots through me? “So what’s your career?”

  “Keeping musicians alive.”

  “Ah, so you’re a masochist.”

  “I’m a fighter. Someone saved my life, just returning the favor.”

  “Is this where we talk about rehab and therapy and all that?”

  She smiles. “This is where we talk about how much I get it and why I know you won’t accept any bullshit.”

  “Well, I’m not an addict.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not. I don’t need to use to function.”

  “So just recreational?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So you’ve never gotten wrecked to the point of unconsciousness? Your use has never impacted your career or relationships? You’ve never found yourself in a dangerous situation as a result or did something you regretted?”

  I take a long sample of my coffee.

  “Addiction comes in many forms, Jesse.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not that simple.”

  “It’s never simple. It’s messy and ugly.”

  I nod. Even look thoughtful to get her off my back. “When are the meetings?”

  “Thursday nights at seven. Your father knows all the details. We’d love to have you.”

  “He’s not my father.”

  ∞∞∞

  For the second straight day I find myself on my bed, clicking through the Mila Taylor Archives. I’m not the only one she’s fucked over. That doesn’t surprise me, but what keeps me moving through the backlist is the remarkable level of insight behind her acerbic tone.

  Truth is, she’s not wrong most of the time, and I’m surprised at the number of positive posts strewn among her infamous artist-bashing. She may have destroyed a few careers, but she’s made plenty as well.

  Could I be the first to have both?

  It gets harder and harder to ignore those alluring eyes each time I click back to the landing page. My body burns with the memories, but it’s my heart that gets charred from the blaze.

  I glance down at my phone. No new messages since the original e-mails. Mila isn’t the type to beg and has already given me more chances than I deserve.

  Chris’ words have been flooding back since our meet
ing.

  Your use has never impacted your relationships? Made you do something you regret?

  She did it on purpose; those questions were meant to haunt me.

  I dial Mila’s number before I can stop myself.

  “Jesse?”

  Just her voice rushes a calming breeze through my chest.

  “I’ve come up with a few arrangements for the wedding prelude.” I have. That’s not a lie.

  “Oh? Is that why you rang?”

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Plus, we have band business to discuss.”

  “Sure. What’s up? Is Parker with you? I have time for a conference.”

  “Uh, no. I told him I’d take care of it.”

  My fingers tap the edge of the bed. The tempo intensifies with each second of silence.

  “Hmm, that’s strange because he already called with an update. He told me about Jonas’ offer as well.”

  He did? Right because I begged him to.

  “Ah, okay. A miscommunication. Yes, we have some money now if we need it.”

  “That’s great, Jess. I’m glad Jonas is finally taking ownership of his mistakes.”

  A twinge spikes through my heart. “Are you coming to our show on Saturday?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  I swallow. “We’re going to try my new song.”

  “You have a new one?” So much excitement and admiration I haven’t earned.

  “Yeah. The one I was working on… that night.”

  Her silence is more loaded. “Ah right. Well, I will try my best to make it then. I’d like to sit down with all of you and start formalizing plans for the Alton wedding and the Smother show. Both will be high-profile events, so we need to do them right.”

  Tell her. Tell her that your insides are ripping apart!

  “Sure, makes sense.” I clench my eyes shut. “Hey, uh, if you want to come a day early and stay with us, you can. Might make things easier.” The long breath on the other end…

  “I don’t think anything could make things easier for us.”

  Shredding. Tearing. Echoing through new voids.

  My eyes slip closed again as her latest truth smashes through.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Me too. I’m sorry for breaking my promise.”

  “You never promised.”

  “Yes, I did. But you were making me break a promise to myself. My feelings for you weren’t helping either of us.”

  “So you left.”

  “No. This time you left. I care about you so much, but you care about escaping your demons more. Until you fight them instead of running away, you’ll never have permanence. You’ll always find yourself alone because you’re always on the run.”

  What does she know about it? Everything.

  What do I know? My bed is so cold now. Colder than a dark basement.

  I draw in a lungful of air. “What will it take, Mila?”

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  “You want everything?’

  I squeeze my lids together. “Maybe.”

  “Stop running.”

  20: AGITATOR

  Not sure which is stranger: the fact that we’re playing a school or the row of recovering addicts looking on from center right. I spot Jonas and Chris among them when I peek out for a view of the crowd.

  “Jonas here?” Parker asks, leaning past me. “He said he’d come.”

  “He’s here. Along with all his friends.”

  Parker grunts at my tone. “He’s being supportive. He’s proud of us.”

  “Not now, Park.” I let the black curtain drop, and grab a bottle of water from the case.

  “Cool place,” Reece says. “Looks nothing like any school I’ve ever been to.”

  “No bells,” Derrick explains with a corroborating point to the ceiling.

  Right. No bells.

  Truth be told, it looks more like a warehouse than anything with its high ceilings, cement walls, and industrial fixtures. Big too. I’m guessing we’ve pulled over two thousand tonight.

  Still not sure how we got this gig.

  “They know our music, right?” I ask Parker.

  “Yep. Tickets were open so a lot of these seats are our fans.”

  I nod. Our fans—just not Mila. Two thousand minus one is way less than 1,999.

  My palms are slick and heavy as I shove them in the back pockets of my jeans.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  It’s my heart this time, strangling out evidence of the fear I’ve gotten so good at hiding. From the outside, I may look profound. But my skeleton knows the terror.

  Thump.

  And like the pro I am, I put it away when we take the stage. Under bright lights and murky haze I can hide from anything. A show, right? Stage smiles, stage energy, and stage seduction. Look, but don’t touch. Lust, but don’t feel. Burn hot for the man no one can handle, including himself.

  And I do. Burn. Seduce. Give the audience all and nothing because no one wants everything. They’re here for the fantasy, to escape their ghosts and demons and shadows. I am slave and master.

  Two women crowd the stage, their exposed, writhing bodies oozing Desire. I toss a wink to satisfy them. Another girl sways in a deep trance. She’s here for release and gets a smile when our eyes connect. The dude to her left receives a nod for his supportive fist pumps.

  Sex god, counselor, prophet. I can be anything for the hours I belong to them.

  Then the lights go out. The crowd goes home, needs met, fantasy fulfilled. I step off the stage, headed back to the basement.

  Back to the real Jesse Everett.

  Back to nothing.

  ∞∞∞

  “That was sick.”

  “Great crowd.”

  “Let’s get wrecked. Where’s the beer?”

  “Check this out!”

  Traitor, faker, promise-breaker.

  “Is that tuna salad?”

  “Sweet! Look at this!”

  “Are you fucking dense?”

  “Know what I miss?”

  Fluorescent lights blast from above.

  Echoes bounce from the tiled floor.

  Should be

  Won’t be

  Unless she collects

  the lies she tells

  I press my eyes shut.

  An explosion of laughter.

  Ha ha—cackle.

  Ha ha.

  Keep checkin’ for clues, cuz I refuse your bait

  “Jess, you have to see this!”

  “It’s not tuna. What is wrong with you?”

  “Reee-eeece!”

  “It’s—”

  “Dude, did you see—”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  Not bright enough to see my scars

  Just enough to

  That knife you hold is so damn pretty

  “Hellooo. Jess?”

  I shake my head.

  Words. Inside. Outside.

  Blinding lights.

  Racing pulse.

  I can’t breathe.

  My reaction time is lacking

  No backtracking now…

  “Be right back,” I force out, stumbling toward the exit.

  I rush from the green room, down the hall, to the right. Another left, several more steps, and I feel safe to rest my forehead against the cool metal of lockers.

  Breathe.

  In. Out.

  My hands pat my jeans for a sign of impending relief. Just one small lump will do, but they come up empty. I’m out. Fuck Mila. Fuck Chris. They’ll never understand why I run, and now I have to face this attack alone.

  Breathe.

  A fucking god beneath the fraud

  She said

  She said

  So damn pretty

  It’s all right.

  It’s all right in the candle—

  “Omigod, Jesse Everett?”

  “Ahh! Will you sign this for us?”

  Fuck! Not now. No no no. />
  I open my eyes and twist toward the voices. Both intruders are young, cute, and decorated with every sign they intend to fuck a rock star tonight. Their grins say it’s time to cash in, and my dick wants to escape my head at the moment.

  Fuck!

  “How did you get back here?”

  “We know our way around.”

  Shit. “Are you students here?”

  “Please.” She takes a bold step into my personal space. “We graduated last year.”

  “We’re over eighteen,” the other assures me, joining her friend.

  Gusts of girl scent wash over me and fill my head with sex. My body reacts on instinct—I don’t want this nearly as much as I need it.

  Escape. Comes in multiple forms.

  No backtracking now that you’ve got me on the prowl

  I’m looking at you

  Traitor

  Shut up!

  Breathe.

  “Great. So what do you want signed?”

  She holds out… panties? Is there a cliché they haven’t researched?

  They giggle while I scribble my signature like thousands of times before. On panties, bras, bare skin…. I won’t remember them like they hope.

  “You were so good tonight.” Her hand rests on my shoulder. Slides down my arm.

  “So good.” Her friend is pressed against me.

  “Thanks.”

  “We were hoping… you know, if you wanted to unwind a bit?”

  “See the area?”

  “There are lots of great clubs.”

  In Lancaster? No.

  “Appreciate it, but….”

  A palm shoves into my chest and pins me against the wall. Blood pounds with violent need when she pulls a bag from her purse. “We’ll make it worth your while.”

  My gaze locks on the contents. Salvation. Escape. Hope that never lasts.

  I’m no god, just a piece of hell

  A fraud

  Too hazy for a spotlight

  Hot lips latch onto my neck. Fingers surge down my abs, wrestle with my belt buckle, a stubborn button. The one latched to my arm suddenly cups my hand over an eager breast. With a gasp, she leans into the contact, guiding my fingers. Pressure builds against the zipper of my jeans.

  Fading pain. Escape.

  “Let’s go somewhere.”

  “Please, baby?”

  Painted nails trace the bag over my skin.

  Take it.

  Escape.

  Run to the clouds.

  Forget.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  I clench my eyes shut.