Locked and Loaded (Bullet, #6)

by Jade C. Jamison

  “What did you just call me?”

  “Uh...”

  “My name’s not Jen, you asshole!”

  “I, um, I tried to warn ya...”

  “It’s good to see you back, Zane.”

  “Same to you, doc.” Honestly, the jury was still out as far as what Zane thought of his therapist, but the guy seemed to be just as competent as any of them out there...he maybe even had a little bit more on the ball, because some of the things he’d said to Zane in their first session had rung true—and hit a little too close to home. Things Zane had never thought before.

  So he was going to stick with it.

  Yeah, he’d said it before, that he would do it for Jen, that he would give it a good try, but therapy had never worked for him in the past. He was going to try again, though, and he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to figure out how he’d convince her to stick around in spite of the fact that the shit never worked for him.

  But maybe this time he wouldn’t have to. Maybe this time was really going to work.

  The therapist was flipping through his clipboard and Zane felt a little uncomfortable again. Maybe this guy didn’t remember him and had to flip through his notes to refresh his memory. That wasn’t a good sign at all.

  Or maybe not. “You hinted at a rough childhood, Zane, at, perhaps, some problems with your father. Why don’t you tell me a little about that time in your life?”

  “What’s the point? It’s in the past.”

  “It most certainly is, Zane, but if we don’t understand our past, we can’t come to terms with it.”

  “Oh, I understand it, doc. I understand it completely. And that doesn’t help me a bit.”

  “So what would it hurt to tell me? In a nutshell, tell me about your childhood.”

  Zane swallowed. He could blow the guy off, make light of it, or whatever, but—like the man asked—what would it hurt?

  Nothing. And he had nothing to lose. So Zane let his mind drift back, back to a place he rarely went, a place he’d mostly forgotten, a place he’d tucked away in the dark recesses of his brain. He nodded and let out a long breath. “I, um...I was the only boy in the family. I have two sisters, one older and one younger. When I was little, my dad was mostly around, and I was his favorite punching bag. Didn’t take much to set him off, either. I think he was disappointed in me. I was a little fuck up, to use his words. He was around less and less as I got older, but when he bothered showing up (and my mom would let him back in the house), I had to hear about what a loser I was—my hair was too long; I was scrawny; I hung with the wrong crowd. I was fourteen, I think, the last time I remember my dad fucking with me. He was yelling at me about never helping around the house, saying my mother deserved better. Well, that was all it took for me to let him have it. I told him at least I was there consistently, and I’d probably taken out the trash more that year than he had during their entire marriage. He clocked me in the jaw—said if I was gonna talk like a man, I was gonna get a beating like a man. I stormed off to my room where I had a wooden baseball bat. I hadn’t used it much, but I’d toyed with the idea of playing softball in middle school and my mom had bought it for one of my birthdays. Turns out it came in handy. Dad followed me to my room, telling me he wasn’t done talking yet and, by God, I was gonna listen. I turned around after finding that bat under my bed. Dad was in the doorway of my room.” Zane’s fists clenched in front of his chest, an imaginary bat in them. “I held onto that goddamned bat with both hands and I said, ‘No, dad, you’re gonna listen. You ever lay a finger on me again, I’ll bash your fucking brains in.’ I really don’t remember what happened after that...but he left me alone. Never did touch me again. He stuck around for a while too...would drink a six-pack or two a night. And I started sneaking beers for me and my friends when I thought I could get away with it. Honestly, the old man probably knew I was taking ‘em, but he took me seriously. No way in hell was I gonna put up with his shit anymore.”

  “What about the other members in your family? Did he transfer his aggression to one of them?”

  “No...and I was ready for that if he did, but he didn’t. I think we were just a good place for him to crash between jobs, and I was the one disappointment in his life that he could take out all his bullshit frustrations on.”

  “Do you think your father was an addict?”

  “Yeah...I’m pretty sure. He drank a lot.”

  “And how did his assessment of you make you feel? You said you were a disappointment to him.”

  “God...as a kid, it ate me up inside, especially when he’d tell my sisters how pretty they were, how smart they were, how clever they were. It was pretty clear to all of us that he would have been very happy if I’d just curled up and died.” Zane was surprised—first at how easy it had turned out to talk about it and second...at how good it felt to let the shit go.

  “How about now?”

  “I really don’t think about it much anymore.”

  Dr. Harvey leaned back in his chair and paused for a few seconds—just long enough that the moment began to feel heavy. “Do you think, perhaps, that could be the cause of some of your more rash behaviors today?”

  Zane blinked. He’d been digging deep, deep into the past, and so this wasn’t the kind of conversation where he had to hurry up and give an answer, any answer, just to keep the ball rolling. He needed to think, to ponder, to muse over his life and his situation, and he knew his therapist would give him the time he needed. It was good that he didn’t need an immediate response, because the question was one he’d never been asked before or thought about. But, it turned out, he didn’t need to think much, because it seemed so obvious. “Yeah, it definitely could be.”

  “We emulate our fathers, Zane, because they teach us how to be men in the world.”

  “And what about when they’re not around?”

  “Then we make our own rules.”

  “And what about when they’re assholes when they are around?”

  “Then we’re presented with two choices—either embrace our own inner asshole”—Zane was really digging this guy now; how couldn’t he love a therapist who used his own words, even when others might find them offensive?—“or decide to become someone else.”

  Zane let those words sink in. They felt powerful to him, even though he couldn’t figure out why. “What if I chose both?”

  Dr. Harvey raised his eyebrows a millimeter. “Are you happy with that choice?”

  Zane felt a chuckle escape his lungs and mouth before he could fully understand his thoughts. “I must not be, because I’m trying to drown out everything in my head every waking moment.” And, oh, yeah, doc. I fucking hate myself.

  “So maybe we’re getting somewhere. The beauty of the human spirit is that we can change—but we have to want to change, first, and we also have to face the fact that our bad choices must be rewarding us in some way. Otherwise, we wouldn’t keep going back to them. Am I right?”

  Yeah...he was definitely right. The reward was being blissfully ignorant of himself, of forgetting everything, of letting it all go. Zane nodded...and then told his therapist what he’d been thinking—that being blitzed out of his mind 24/7 was a better alternative than living with who he was.

  “Let’s start there. Find out who you are and maybe who you want to be...and then we can talk about real change.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  JENNIFER LOVED SATURDAY mornings. She always slept as late as Zoe would let her and then, when the child was wide awake and babbling at her mama to get up, she’d pull her out of her crib and let her bounce around in bed with her for a bit. When she was littler, Jennifer was able to get Zoe to sometimes go back to sleep if she could pop the child’s pacifier in her mouth and snuggle her in a warm embrace. Nowadays, though, Jennifer would just let her play for a bit until Zoe was tired of it and edging herself off the bed, ready to explore the apartment or eat a little breakfast. And then Jennifer would often get up and make an entire pot of coffee she would nurse
throughout the morning until they’d get dressed and leave home to do something for the remainder of the day.

  This Saturday morning was no different. Zoe was in Jennifer’s queen-size bed and was now tugging on strands of her mother’s hair—to what end, Jennifer didn’t know, but Zoe was cracking her up with her constant chatter about spaghetti.

  Did her hair look like spaghetti? Well, as long as Zoe wasn’t chewing on it, she wasn’t going to worry.

  Soon bored, Zoe began sliding off the bed, and Jennifer sat on the edge, yawning before standing up. Her phone rang and she glanced at it as she stood.

  It was Zane.

  She let out a soft breath. It had been a couple of weeks and he hadn’t bothered her. She thought maybe for once he was taking her seriously.

  And she thought maybe she was ready to talk. She picked it up after the third ring and began walking toward the bedroom door. Zoe was already way ahead of her. “Hey, Zane. How are you?”

  “Nice to hear your voice. I’m doing pretty good. What about you?”

  “Can’t complain.” Well, she probably could. She still disliked her job. She’d thought telling off Cunt-stance would change all that and, while it was better, she still didn’t care much for it. She hadn’t realized how repetitive the work was now that she no longer had to walk on eggshells. However, she doubted Zane wanted to hear all her crybaby woes. “How’s recovery going?” Oh, God. She hoped that hadn’t come out sounding too insensitive, aiming straight for the target without any more small talk.

  Before she could apologize, Zane answered. “Really well, actually. I’m, uh...learning a lot about myself. A lot.” She was going to ask another question but, once more, he beat her to it. “And I’m still clean.”

  She grinned at Zoe who was already in the kitchen playing with little solid plastic doll figures she had on the floor and headed for the coffee pot. “How long?”

  “Close to thirty days.”

  That didn’t sound very good to her, but she didn’t want to be discouraging. Her thought was that anyone could do anything for thirty days if he needed to. Immediately, she thought of Morgan Spurlock eating nothing but McDonald’s for thirty days in his documentary Super Size Me, and then all the people on the TV show Survivor, battling the elements and various assholes while starving—it was a tad more than thirty days, but not by much. Yeah...she’d be impressed when he made it to half a year...and then more. But instead of saying that, she said, “That’s great, Zane.”

  “They say it takes twenty-one days to make or break a habit, so I’m already there.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She’d held it in long enough. “Have you been clean for thirty days before?” And when he answered the inevitable, that he’d done it before, she would try not to sound snotty in her reply.

  But his answer shocked her.

  “Not even close. Seriously, Jen, there were times I’d walk straight out of rehab looking to score.”

  “God. Why even go through rehab then?”

  “Good question.” He was quiet for a few seconds before he added, “I think it’s because, even though I had a hell of a time quitting, I wanted to believe I could. Just because I failed didn’t mean I hadn’t wanted to do it. I just...wasn’t set up to succeed at staying quit, I guess.”

  She was almost afraid to ask. She tried to distract her emotions by filling the coffee pot with water. “Are you this time? Set up to succeed?”

  “That’s where the psychologist comes in, Jen. He’s the missing piece I’d never used before.”

  She decided to try to keep her voice neutral. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. And...” He got quiet. It sounded like maybe he was struggling a little, so she didn’t want to push it. “I’m talking about things—thinking about things I just never did before.”

  “That is good, right?”

  “Yeah.” She turned the coffee pot on, having loaded it with fresh grounds, and turned around, leaning against the counter. When she spied Zoe on the floor, she realized she should probably get her a little juice to drink before breakfast, so she turned back around and fetched a sippy cup out of the cabinet. Zane acted like he wasn’t going to say more, and so she tried to think of what else they might want to talk about when he said, “I want to see you.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “Why not? I’m making progress. And you didn’t say how long you wanted me working at it before we could, uh, resume.”

  That was true. She’d merely told him he needed to clean up his act. It wouldn’t be fair to string him along forever. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I think maybe...maybe we should take it slow this time. Don’t get me wrong, babe. I want you in the worst way. Always have. But I want to get to know your daughter too. If we’re going to try having a serious long-term relationship, she needs to get used to me, and I want to get to know her.”

  Aw. That was so sweet, and no way was Jennifer going to say it, but he was thawing her heart. Maybe they did have a chance after all...and she thought maybe she should let him know the secret about her child. But she still needed a little time to prepare. “What day next week will work for you?”

  * * *

  “Dude! Dude, I got ‘em.”

  “Hmm. Very nice.”

  “I knew you’d like.”

  “You definitely know my type, man. So, let’s see...”

  “Who you thinkin’?”

  “Hmm. How about...the chick second to the right? You know, the one wearing the black leather miniskirt and thigh-high boots? Yeah, I gotta try that on for size.”

  “Got it. Okay, ladies—”

  “Wait.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “The one in the middle? The cute one with dimples? Let her know I want to see her after the show.”

  “Backstage passes for the rest?”

  “Yeah. Why not? Uh—how much time we got before I gotta be on stage?”

  “Oh, you got plenty of time, Zane.”

  “You, my man, are the best roadie on the planet. I think we need to give you a raise. I’m starting to have a real hard time pickin’ out of the babes you bring me...”

  “Yeah. First world problems.”

  “First world problems...”

  “Let’s talk about sex, Zane.”

  Zane couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “What exactly do you want to discuss, doc?”

  “You’d mentioned a few sessions ago that sex and drugs were part of your rock-and-roll routine. Am I summing that up fairly?”

  It didn’t sound like Zane’s words exactly, but the sentiment was right on. When he was on the road with either band, sex and drugs were a huge part of the entire experience. It had been that way from the beginning. The trouble was he didn’t know how well he’d fare now on the road without sex or drugs. Or without sex and drugs.

  In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he should quit.

  But that...that was crazy. Playing bass in metal bands was the only real work he’d ever known. Well, aside from bagging groceries at one of the smaller grocery stores back home his senior year in high school. Add to it he was tatted all the fuck over his body, he didn’t know what kind of work he could get that he would actually like.

  No, he had to find a way to survive—had to find a way to fucking stay clean once the going got tough. And he was tough. He knew he could do it. That didn’t change the fact that he was a little fearful—and, he suspected, that was what Dr. Harvey wanted to explore. So far, the guy had hit so many nails on the head with Zane, it wasn’t even funny, and he’d given great advice. More than that, though, he’d helped Zane dig deep to discover who he really was. There was a likeable guy down in there somewhere, someone Zane wanted to get to know better, to nourish and help grow. A respectable guy, a good guy.

  The guy Jennifer had fallen in love with and kept hoping Zane would be.

  The man he needed to be for her.

  “Yeah. I’d say that’s pretty accurate.”


  “I also know you told me about a typical day in terms of those three things, explaining the importance of them in your life while you were on tour. Out of the three, in order of priority, where would you say sex ranked?”

  What an odd question. Zane had no clue how to answer it. “Well, doc, something you gotta understand is that the sex and drugs wouldn’t have happened if not for the rock and roll, so I guess the music was number one.”

  Dr. Harvey leaned forward, and Zane almost started laughing, because for some reason, he half expected the shrink to start talking in a European accent, imitating Sigmund Freud. “You say that...but I don’t think that’s accurate. Out of your priorities, which of the three would be more important?”

  “I guess I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your music—would it be fair to say that your agenda for the tour was already set?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So...you already knew where you’d be going, where you’d be playing.” Zane nodded. “And did you ever miss a show, drugs or not?”

  “Well, no. If you’re talking about scoring pussy—which I think you are—you only have easy access because you’re in a band. If you don’t perform, half the motivation for chicks is gone. Chicks don’t wanna fuck washed-up has-beens.”

  Dr. Harvey chuckled. “I suppose that’s correct.” He shifted in his chair and was twisting the pen in between his thumb and forefinger. After a couple of seconds, his eyes reconnected with Zane. “So tell me...how many partners would you say you had on any given tour?”

  “Got a calculator?” Zane was being flippant, but it didn’t change the fact that there really was no way for him to give an answer to that question. “Doc, something you gotta understand...we went to all kinds of venues in hundreds of cities, lots of states—hell, lots of countries. I have no way of knowing how many girls I fucked.”

  “No keeping track?”

  “I know one of our roadies had some app on his phone where he kept some kind of record for me...but no way in hell am I gonna ask him for info, telling him my psychiatrist needs to know how many women I’ve slept with on the road.”