Limelight

by Alyson Santos

  My eyes find the amber ring staining the bottom of the tiny glass.

  Remnants.

  Remnants of relief so vicious to refuse.

  “That’s a very mature perspective.”

  I snap my stare to hers, fist clenching. “Don’t.”

  She shrinks a bit. “Don’t what?”

  “Treat me like a child.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I haven’t been a child since I was five years old.”

  “Jesse.”

  I shake my head. Pour another shot because I’m done pretending for today. I slam it back, pour another, until a warm hand reaches out and stops its progress.

  Remnants of belief so vicious to pursue.

  “Jesse, what are the scars?”

  A boulder slams into my chest and rips down to my leg.

  “Not bright enough to see my scars.” Her gentle voice betrays the violence of those lyrics.

  Needles pierce the veins beneath my skin, flow with savage grace from one limb to the next. The numbness in their wake spreads to my lungs.

  Air. There’s never enough of it in this house. I yank my arm from her grip and toss the contents of the glass down my throat.

  “I don’t remember,” I lie.

  Shut up, you little shit! No one wants to look at you.

  Not bright enough to see the scars.

  Burning scars.

  Burning.

  Sizzle of hot flesh, stench of melting skin.

  Shut up, you little shit!

  “I’m going for a run.”

  Five shots in, not the best idea. My brain already has to force extra neurons to the project of keeping me steady as I brush past her to my room.

  Oh you’re going to cry now?

  Cry! Go ahead. See what tears get you!

  I kick off my jeans and yank on a pair of shorts. It’s still pretty damn cold, but my blood is simmering and keeps me warm. After throwing a hoodie over my t-shirt, I leave Mila’s protests as a distant ringing in my ears. I’m on a mission. To forget. To pretend. To not think about the time my own father held me down and watched me burn.

  ∞∞∞

  The ground swerves and bounces in mounds I don’t remember from my former navigation of this park track behind the house. A few stumbles in, and my lungs already hurt. It’s a different race when you’re running from instead of to. When it’s about the starting line, not the finish. The gravel swells in a sudden hurdle, and I land with a sickening thud.

  I force my palms against the stones and cringe at the pound of footsteps approaching from behind.

  “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

  A college girl drops to a squat beside me, and I nod back like I’m a normal guy who fell going for a run. I have a dog at home and a boss who rides my ass, and damn these shoelaces that got tangled up. I sleep and do normal things like see the man on my birth certificate without having a panic attack.

  “Here.” She pulls on my arm, and I let her guide me toward a bench. My fingers circle the backrest as my chest inflates with air. Burning. This is the burning I crave, a pain I can control, start and stop, feed and soothe at will.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t tell her I love watching the red puckers balloon from my skin. I’m already sighing at the thought of the future sting of hot water.

  Sting.

  Water.

  My head floats with pleasure.

  “Wait, are you…?”

  Drunk? I don’t say that either. Only smile, for real—because how funny is this?—and straighten myself as best as I can.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say as I jog-stagger off.

  Blood coats my shins and sleeves by the time I reach our stoop. Would Parker believe another mugging?

  Pain has a sobering effect, so I’m hoping the inebriation angle can stay between me and the pretty girl who will probably think twice about jogging alone on that track.

  Mila and Parker blast glares at me from the kitchen table when I pass, followed by heated muttering to each other. A chair scrapes the floor and warns me of a confrontation. Parker gets the honor this time.

  “I sent the tracks to Jonas.” Daring me, he crosses his arms as he leans against my doorframe.

  My chest tightens, limiting my response to a casual shrug. I grab the towel drying over the closet door and gingerly apply it to my bloody knees.

  Parker straightens, smugness melting into concern. “What happened?”

  “I fell.”

  Traitor. Promise-breaker.

  “Need help? Looks bad.”

  I shake my head and force myself up. “It’s not bad. Excuse me.” I brush past him toward the bathroom.

  “We have to keep moving forward, Jess. I get your issues with Jonas, but we—”

  “No. You don’t,” I say and slam the door.

  22: WEDDING BAND

  Truce. That’s the best description of the weeks that follow. Mila, Parker, even Jonas, are numb footnotes in my exhausted existence. After twenty-three years, I’d eked out a rhythm of survival. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but I could function. Life and I had come to an agreement of sorts. Now? All those hands trying to fix me are shoving me in too many directions.

  The music has become a tumor in my head, blasting its lyrics and melodies with debilitating fury. I scribble violently, always at night, in the privacy of darkness so I can polish and paint a different story with the sunrise. The nightmares return. The day terrors. The voices, the demons, they all slice through undefended walls, lodging beneath my skull until it’s everything I can do to lift my head off the pillow in the morning.

  Any remaining strength is spent on hiding.

  Mila leaves. Not for long, she promises, but her time in the States has already been extended beyond what her schedule can accommodate. She returns to the UK to manage the part of her life that doesn’t involve babysitting an unstable rocker. I pretend well enough to convince her she’s safe to leave me alone.

  Li is my first call when she does.

  ∞∞∞

  It will be different this time.

  My ocean ceiling blurs through the mist soothing my head. I’ll be careful, responsible, which is why I don’t have to feel guilty about breaking my promise to… everyone. But promises are complicated, simple in their construction, muddied in the execution. Those same champions need me to function. That’s the part they forget.

  “Hey, we’re going to start loading the trailer. You coming?” Parker asks, ducking his head into my room.

  “Yep, just give me a sec.”

  He nods, narrows his eyes a bit.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine, why?”

  His shoulders lift and drop. “I dunno. Just… Okay, see you out there.”

  He claps the doorframe and disappears. I blink away as much of the fuzz as I can and force myself up. Like I said, responsible, which means getting my relief before crossing the border into Canada.

  ∞∞∞

  The Alton’s clearly spared no expense on their daughter’s wedding. After an uneventful journey north, including a trailer inspection at customs, we pull up to our Toronto gig four hours early. We may need every minute if we spend more time gawking at the Greek-inspired edifice. Columns, fountains, and “statues of fucking gods and shit” (Derrick), guard the premises as a silent marble army.

  “Dude, we need one of these for the porch,” he says, palming a poor goddess’ head. “By the door?”

  “I’m gonna check in with the wedding coordinator and find out what’s up,” Parker says. Zero interest in landscaping design, that guy.

  Reece is already climbing back into the driver’s seat. “Let us know where we should meet you to unload.” I guess I can’t blame him when the alternative is watching Derrick… Wait, where the hell is Derrick?

  I squint through the marble forest and find him attempting to ride a minotaur. Hope he knows I’m not spending the second influx of Jonas cash on broken bull
parts.

  “Yo, D! Want to explore with me?”

  Derrick lifts a hand and slides to the ground. He never made it further than the minotaur’s butt anyway.

  “Bet they have a chocolate fountain at the reception. Like the expensive shit from Sweden.”

  “You mean Swiss chocolate?”

  “S’what I said. Dude, look at that!”

  Derrick explores every feature of the grand foyer while I check the message on my phone. Luke and Holland want to know when we arrive so they can meet us. I’m about to pocket the device when it rings.

  The name both chills and warms me.

  “Hey, sweets.”

  “Hey, babe. How’s Yorkshire?”

  “Great. Are you at the venue?”

  “Yes. Parker is tracking down the coordinator so we can setup.”

  “Fantastic. I wish I could be there for you fellas, but I’d hardly be welcomed.”

  “I get it. We’re fine.”

  “I found out one of my contacts will be there. I’ve asked her to shoot some video we can leak.”

  “Our manager wants to bootleg her own band?”

  I’ve missed her laugh. “It’s a new era, babes. Jess.” Her tone turns serious, and I drag in a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry for leaving. I hated going away, but I need to sort a few things and set us up for a longer-term situation. I’ll be back soon, I promise, and then we’ll focus on you and the band.”

  Great…

  “I have a lot of ideas I want to discuss with you when I get back. Plus, I have some updates on the Smother event.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Okay. I still feel guilty. You’ve kept your promise and I feel like I’m breaking mine.”

  I clench my eyes shut. Another long inhale.

  “Jess?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Thanks.”

  She quiets, and I wait for a distraction. Lies are easier in silence.

  “Anyway, Parker says you’ve been writing again?”

  I swallow the panic that rises every time the music hits. Sensory memory’s a bitch. “A little.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Probably.”

  My brain is too cloudy to recall it.

  “Jess, I just want you to know how much it means to me that you’re trying. I know how hard it has to be for you.”

  “Thanks. Hey, listen, I have to go find Derrick before he gets us arrested.”

  She laughs. “Course. I miss you.”

  “Me too.”

  I really do. I’m also relieved she’s not here to see me.

  ∞∞∞

  The coordinator wants a stripped-down setup for the ceremony and the full deal for the reception. Accousticy, she said. With our antique gold and mahogany instruments, I’m guessing? Yeah, she doesn’t know our music. Or the evil plan for the bride’s brother to play his forbidden rock anthem processional. We accept the brunt of her wrath by insisting on a full kit, amps, two vocal mics, and our decidedly not pretty gear. Wes and the Tracing Holland crew will need it for whatever magic he has planned.

  We compromise by allowing flower shit to be wrapped around anything that can handle it. Including Derrick’s head, apparently. By the questionable gaps lining the kick drum, I’m guessing his lily-crown came from that.

  “Nice, dude. You wearing that for the ceremony?” Reece snorts while strapping on his bass.

  “Just trying to fit in.”

  “With the forest nymphs?” I mutter.

  “We could braid some into your sexy locks,” he calls over.

  “God, it’d be breathtaking,” Reece adds, eyelashes batting in all kinds of unpleasantness.

  “Fuck off.” I pull my own strap over my head and tuck my messy hair behind my ear. I kinda smile too because maybe that’d be hilarious. “You good for sound check?” I shout back to Jay.

  He sends a thumbs-up, and we run the first song of the prelude. Our second stops mid-way through when some serious industry star power shadows the entrance to the room.

  “Hey, man.” My grin spreads through my voice into the mic.

  “’Sup?” Luke separates from his girlfriend to trek up the aisle. I step down from the platform to meet him in an embrace that’s way more forest nymph than jaded rocker, but who gives a shit when it’s Luke Craven? He steps back, and I watch his brain decide how to handle this complex situation. Our last reunion wasn’t exactly a clean break.

  “You got plans for lunch once you’re set?”

  I shake my head. “I think they’re putting something together for us here, but I’d rather go out.”

  He nods. “Let’s grab a bite. Just you and me.” He says this loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. No one even follows up with a smartass comment. That’s Luke. His word is law, even for Derrick.

  “Sounds good, man.”

  He claps my shoulder before looping a protective arm around Holland. It’s hard to believe that man was once almost as messed up as I am.

  “We’ll let you finish up. We’ve got some details to sort out as well,” Holland says.

  “Heya, Holland. Good to see you too.”

  She smiles and waves as they fade back through the door.

  ∞∞∞

  Luke chooses a low-key deli near the venue. My guess? He wants me to be comfortable. Partly, it’s a nice guy thing. Also, I brace for tough love.

  We make small talk while we wait for the food and get settled at a table. The place is almost empty at this hour in mid-afternoon, which works well for us. The last thing I need are a bunch of eavesdropping fans listening to our heart-to-heart.

  “So our last meeting was interesting,” he begins, popping a chip in his mouth.

  I stab at my sandwich with the toothpick. “Yeah. Sorry about that. It was… yeah.”

  He keeps his position. So casual. Like it’s totally okay for a guy to have a panic attack in front of you for no reason.

  “That happen a lot?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “The flashbacks.”

  I clear my throat, force a shrug. “Comes and goes, I guess.”

  “Yeah? What does your doctor say?”

  Casual Luke again. Conniving, casual Luke. I almost laugh at his smoothness. “Not a lot.”

  “You’re seeing someone for that, right?”

  Another shrug.

  He quiets, his brow creasing in concentration on his sandwich. “Thirty-eight,” he says finally, looking up at me with those crazy-deep eyes.

  “Thirty-eight?”

  “The number of times I tried and relapsed on my own before I got professional help.”

  Thirty-eight.

  “What are you at, Jess?”

  Ouch.

  “Not sure.”

  “You know. No bullshit.”

  “You counting booze?”

  “I’m counting any substance that blocks the pain you don’t want to deal with.”

  My gaze cuts an intricate pattern on my rye bread.

  “I love you, man. I care about you. Hell, I’ve been there, and I’m telling you, you can’t fix it by yourself. You can’t.”

  “I have an appointment with an addiction counselor on Wednesday.”

  He leans back, eyes testing my evidence. “Yeah? That’s great. You gonna show for it?”

  I don’t know.

  No.

  Maybe.

  I don’t know.

  “Of course.”

  I can’t tell if he believes me. Now, that’s a poker face.

  “Good. Let me know how it goes.”

  “I will,” I lie.

  Another long look. “How are things with Mila?”

  Awkward. Why can’t we talk about sports and shit?

  “Good, man. She’s back in the UK right now, sorting stuff out, then she’ll be here. She’s still helping us get back up, did you know that?”

  “Wow.” The word dr
aws out in a surprised sigh.

  “Yeah. She believes in us. In me.” Why does it come out as an accusation?

  “Of course, she does. So do I. So do a lot of people.”

  If you get your shit together.

  The qualifier lingers in the air around us.

  If.

  If.

  If.

  Talent-wasted.

  Failure.

  Wasted.

  Overrated.

  Not.

  Now.

  I suck in a huge gulp of water and let it release slowly down my throat.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Spicy,” I say before realizing I haven’t taken a bite yet. Luke, man. Throws a guy off-kilter. So maybe I have a man-crush. What about it? Who doesn’t get flustered over Luke Craven?

  “What’s so funny?” he says with a smile.

  I shake my head and finally bite into my not-at-all spicy food. “You know Derrick almost broke his ass trying to ride a minotaur in the courtyard?”

  He delivers that rare, million-dollar laugh, and I feel like I can breathe again. “Not surprised. By the way, Eli and Sweeny are still pissed about that prank you pulled on tour.”

  A grin slides over my lips. “They deserved it.”

  “Not arguing that. Hey, we still on for ‘Greetings’ at the reception?”

  “Absolutely. We wanted to open with it if that’s cool with you?”

  “Sure. Wes will love that.”

  I snicker. “So you guys haven’t become besties yet, huh.”

  “No,” he huffs. Then relaxes. “But… eh, never mind, it’s complicated. The dude has his own shit right now, so ours is on hold. Plus, Holland?”

  “Yeah.” I return his grin. “She’s hard to ignore.”

  “Understatement.”

  “Things are good there?”

  “Really good. She’s it, man.”

  Glacial eyes framed by long, dark hair flash through my brain. My blood pressure spikes, my body flooding with adrenaline that wants to pour its wrath into a woman.

  Not a woman, one woman.

  One smartass, difficult, impossible woman who challenges the hell out of me and ignites a fire for life that died years ago. Is Mila…? No. Not possible. Cupid must be laughing his ass off right now. Arse. I smile to myself, then stifle a painful stab of longing.

  “When’s your next show?” Luke asks.