by Mandi Beck
“Missed you too asshole,” I retort, lighting up another one.
“I thought you would have kicked that habit being in here.”
“It’s the only vice they don’t try to break you of. I think they figure if you’re gonna be a fuck-up, this is the best they can hope for.” I shrug. “Baby steps,” I tell him grinning through the haze of smoke.
“It’s good to see you smile, Stone. It’s been a while.” Lawson doesn’t pull punches; he never has.
“Has it?”
“Yeah, it has.”
Looking past him at the beautiful scenery I think about that. The drugs make me happy on the inside, but apparently I’m the only one who gets that part of the high. Selfish prick.
“Anything new on Willow?” I grill him about this shit every day, and every day I get the same answer. “Not yet, Stone.” Drives me crazy.
“Actually my guy called me when I was on my way over.” My eyes snap to him. “He has a couple new leads. He didn’t go into any detail just said that he had a bite and was looking into a few things, and he should know if they’re dead ends within a month.”
“That’s all he said? He didn’t give you a location or maybe a phone number?” I ask eagerly.
Lawson kicks back in his chair, drumming on his knee. “Nope. No specifics, bro. It’s progress at least though, right?”
I nod, my leg bouncing out a rhythm the rest of me can’t match. Chewing on the pad of my thumb, the blue smoke of the cigarette I have clamped between my fingers swirls around me. I can’t stop thinking about Willow. Feel so fucking helpless in here. If I hadn’t spent the last few months obliterated out of my fucking mind I would have been able to go after her as soon as she left. Funny thing about addicts that I’ve learned from being in here—they don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves.
“I want to get out of here, Law,” I bite out.
“You want to get out or you want to get high? Because those are two different things, bro. You want to get out, you do what they tell you to. Get clean and do your shit. You want to get high . . . that I can’t help you with.” Again, not a punch puller.
“Of course I want to get high. But I want to get out more. I need to find Wills.” The exasperation is evident in my words. And I do want to get high but the need is a little less every day for the most part. The need to get out is my new constant. He’s right though. It should be a need to get clean not just out.
“I know you do, man, and I’m doing everything I can to help you. I want to find her too. But even if we do find her, she’s not gonna take you back if you’re still fucking around with all that poison, bro.” Lawson leans forward, elbows on the table. “Willow is smart and she’s put up with your shit for a long time now. Longer than you realize. You put her through hell, Stone. I won’t help you do that again.” He raps a fist on the glass topped table. “I helped you fuck up for too long. Turning a blind eye and just letting you do your thing because I was afraid of the fallout. I’m all done with that shit, my brother. It’s not just the drugs either. It’s the cheating too. Don’t think she didn’t know about that shit. She blamed that on the drugs, and I know it had to be because a sober Stone would never dick around on his girl.” He snorts out a sardonic laugh. “Man, you’ve loved that girl for so damn long, I never thought you would run around on her. I shoulda stepped in then. For her.”
My head hangs in shame as I listen to my friend, my brother, list my fuck-ups and let each one of them rip into me a little more. I don’t deserve his friendship. I for sure don’t deserve Willow. Even clean I don’t deserve her. But I need her. Want her. And I’ve already proven what a selfish fuck I am, so I’m going to have her. I can’t not have her. I don’t know how to be me without her. I’m not even sure that it’s possible.
“You think she’ll ever forgive me, Law?” I ask despondently. Wallowing in the self-loathing I’ve become so accustomed to.
“Not sure, man. She’s tough. Always has been, but she also loves you. Even when she hated what you were doing, sometimes even hated you, she loved you. I think that’s what hurt the most. I also think that’s why we can’t find her now.” Brows drawn, I wait for him to continue, confused. She dipped out because she loves me? What the fuck sense does that make? “She knew damn well if she didn’t make it hard to find her that you would and that she wouldn’t stand a chance. You and Wills have always had this crazy connection. Deep on so many levels. I didn’t think that anything could ever touch it.” His voice trails off because something did in fact touch it.
“Go big or go home, right?” I mumble.
“Fuck, I guess, Stone. You always were a fucking show boat.”
“Nah, just a rock star.” My smile feels brittle, but it’s a smile.
“I only have a few more minutes here so tell me something. Anything.”
I shrug, reaching for my cigarettes but stopping when he pretends to start coughing. Shooting him the evil eye, I grab a sucker from the bag I tossed on the table instead. I started the habit back in high school to keep from smoking so much and to keep my mouth busy during class. Next thing I knew, I was buying them in bulk and keeping them stashed every-damn-where.
Law smiles triumphantly and I shoot him the bird. Man, I’ve missed him. We’re all close, but Law and Judge are like brothers to me. Their mom took me in when I was a fifteen-year-old little punk ass. Right after I beat the hell out of my foster dad for hitting me for the last fucking time. Bastard was shocked as hell that I fought back. Kicked me out and I never saw him or his poor wife again. I did anonymously report the domestic abuse I had been in the middle of every God damn night though.
“What do you want to know? Not like there’s a whole lot going on here. I get up, I go to meetings. A lot of fucking meetings. Meditation, work out, group therapy, work out, one on one therapy, life skills, work out.” I shrug, “All kinds of fun shit.”
“That’s good. Keeps you fucking busy. And you’re fucking ripped, dude! I was going to ask how often you were hitting the gym. You look like an inked up Hulk.” Law laughs. “Are you working on your music, getting any songs down?” He’s genuinely interested. If the question had come from anyone else, I would think that they were asking because of the money we’re losing with me being in here. We had to cancel part of the tour for this little stint of mine. But not Law. He’s asking because he knows that music has always been my escape. Before the drugs were, anyway.
“Every day. They make us keep a journal, write letters, that kind of shit. Supposed to be therapeutic. So I used the journal to write songs and the letters . . .” I trail off, embarrassed to even be admitting this, even if it is Law.
“The letters are to Willow,” he finishes.
Rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, I say around the sucker, “And the letters are to Wills.”
“I really dig this lumbersexual look you’re rocking,” he jokes, changing the subject.
“Fuck off, bro. This beard is so itchy. We’re not allowed razors though, so it’s either rock the beard or let them shave me, and I’m not letting anyone that close to my throat with a blade. You know me. I’m sure I’ve pissed everyone here off enough to make them want to slit my shit.” Law laughs, and I join in.
“That’s the fucking truth!”
We spend a few minutes talking about the band, the new album we’re supposed to be recording right this very minute, and how the fans are reacting to our hiatus. Law thinks the speculation about where I am is just fueling the love they have for us. Thank fuck. My music is mine but I share it with them. Without them we’d be nothing. Even I haven’t lost sight of that.
A little chime dings over the PA system letting us know that visitation is over.
“Hey, I’ll check with them at the front desk and see if I can bring you in some of that beard oil to help with the itching, or if you want, I can see if they’d let me shave you next week during the visit. Up to you, bro,” Law says, standing to leave.
“I’m not sure I trust you
with a blade to my throat either, sir,” I kid. “Either, way. I’m not sure what they’ll allow. Speaking of which, did you bring my strings and my phone and shit?”
“Of course, bro. I had to leave it all at the front so they can do what they do. Check it for stash or a file or whatever,” he kids. Pulling me in for a tight hug, we break apart and he smacks me on the back. “Keep writing, keep your shit straight and you’ll be out of here before you know it, my man.”
I nod in agreement. Easier said than done, but it helps that he’s in my corner. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all you can do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
I wait 'til he’s back through the sliding glass doors before lighting up another smoke. I’m smoking more now than I ever have, but I’m only so strong. Can only give up so much. I’ve given up drink, drugs, Birdie, my music temporarily, all driving me out of my fucking mind. The loss of each affecting me in some God damn way. I think I’ve earned a fucking cigarette.
Willow
WITH LYRIC IN A SLING across my body I stand at the front of the small classroom. Going back to school for a degree in Music Therapy and landing the job at the school where I had interned, has been so incredible. They let me bring Lyric, encourage it even, and my little songbird loves her music. It’s the reason I chose this environment over a hospital or nursing home.
Today’s class is for kids. Some with autism, some are paralyzed or don’t speak for various reasons, and some are just a little socially challenged. Music therapy helps them all in different ways. My Wednesday night is adults who have been through something traumatic in their lives, same with Saturdays, but for kids of all ages. People don’t realize the healing qualities of music. Some days I just play for them as they lounge in the bean bag chairs and recliners, splayed out on the floor, or seated at the tables, and just listen. Allowing the music to wash over them, be a balm to their spirit. Other days I teach them how to express themselves through music. Whether it be singing, writing, or playing an instrument, even if simply banging the hell out of a drum. It all sounds very New Age and ridiculous to some, but until you’ve seen the power of music at work you just can’t understand it. I know what music has done for me. What it continues to do for me, and I only want others to experience the same.
Setting up for my next session, softly singing to Lyric as I do, I’m startled by a knock on the door and even more so by who it is.
“Joaquin. What are you doing here?” I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a month. To say I’m surprised to see him here is putting it mildly. “I have class in,” I glance up at the wall clock, “ten minutes.”
“I know, I know. I apologize for just dropping in like this uninvited. I called and spoke to Bear this morning and he said you were here. So me being a rude Frenchman, I bribed the principal with a large donation for the music therapy program to allow me to sit in on your class today.” He smiles that boyish smile that made my stomach do flips the last time I saw him. It’s equal parts charming boy and confident rogue. It’s disarming as all hell.
“Why?” Without the time needed to analyze this bold move, I cut straight to the chase, no bullshitting.
“Well, you said that you wouldn’t have me to your home for dinner because you didn’t know me well enough, so I thought you should get to know me.” Again with that damn smile. “Is that the bébé?” His voice is pitched low so he doesn’t wake her as he moves closer to get a better look. Instinctively I place a hand to her back protectively, even though I’m sure without really knowing him that he wouldn’t hurt either of us.
“It is.” I smile down at her, nearly invisible in her little cocoon, cradled against me. Joaquin pulls the edge of the sling down ever so gently so that he can see her better.
“Ahhh, she’s beautiful, chèrie. Just like her mother,” he says sincerely, stepping back and out of my space.
I’m a little dazed at his nearness. The spicy scent of his cologne, the rolled up sleeves of his button down, his gentle way with Lyric, all making me forget why going out to dinner with him is a bad idea. But it is. Who the hell has time for that? And the last thing I want is to be linked to someone so wildly famous. I don’t want all the questions that would surely follow. The speculation and accusation. The whispers and assumptions. I want nothing to do with it, and that alone is enough to remind me why I can’t, won’t, date a man like Joaquin.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I turn back to what I was doing to prepare for my class. “And thank you for the donation. It was very kind of you. The music therapy program can always use the help. Honestly, staying won’t help you get me to agree to go on a date with you though, so please don’t feel obligated to stay.” Trying to be as kind as possible without flat out telling him to get the hell out of here is nearly more than I can handle. I’m not used to biting my tongue, but he did donate so it’s the least I can do.
He laughs. “There you go thinking I want to date you again, Miss Avery. You sure are full of yourself. Are you certain that you’re not a little French?” Joaquin teases causing me to laugh despite trying my hardest not to. “I only want a home-cooked meal and perhaps to talk you out of your . . .” He pauses and I raise my eyebrows in amusement, daring him to finish that sentence. “Song. I really, really want your song. I thought that helping out where I can might put me in your good graces.” When he finishes and winks at me, I roll my eyes. I go to the music stand and fuss with the sheet music there although I won’t need it. It’s just to keep my hands busy and give me a minute to figure out what the hell to do with this guy.
“You’re impossible. And how in the world did you talk Principal Cermak into letting you sit in? Jen is very protective of her students. Must have been one hell of a donation.”
“Believe me, it was,” he scoffs good-naturedly. “I feel like I’ve been hustled. You’re turning into a very expensive acquaintance, Willow Avery.”
Before I can respond to that, parents start filing in with their children and all of my attention is on them.
Twenty minutes into our session and I can still feel Joaquin’s eyes on me. He’s been watching me since I closed the door to begin the class and pointed for him to sit in a chair out of the way.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the rainbow-colored carpet, seven little people surrounding me, oohing and ahhing over Lyric who is now awake and in my lap cooing and smiling for her audience. Doing my best to ignore his heavy gaze, I reach behind me for the tiny little headphones I have for Lyric to protect her ears from the noise that I and these kids can make. They get a huge kick out of the way they dwarf her tiny head. Especially the children who also wear them because of their sensitivity to noise.
“Okay, who wants to sing another song?” They all agree enthusiastically, making me smile. I always begin the class with the national anthem and let them give it hell. The way they belt out “O Canada” is epic and it helps to break the ice with them. “What should we sing first?” I wait for them to think about it for a moment and am just about to make a suggestion when the accented voice of Joaquin breaks in.
“Do you know anything in French?” The bastard.
Two of the kids turn and gawk at him, apparently not realizing he’s been there the whole time. And then my star pupil and self-appointed assistant, Grady, informs him, as if he himself is speaking to a child, “She doesn’t speak French. She told us so. But Miss Willow knows that ‘Michelle my Belle’ song and that has French talkin’ in it.” He turns his huge eyes on me and nods in encouragement. “Dontcha know it, Miss Willow? You know, the one by the Bugs.”
Smiling at his little hope-filled face, I nod. “The Beatles, and I sure do,” I correct gently. I just want to squeeze him. His belief in me is adorable. I’ll even forgive him calling Lennon and the boys the “Bugs.” “Will you guys help me with it?” I’m met with a chorus of yeses and a round of head nods from the children who aren’t so vocal. Together we sing an awful rendition of
the Beatles song, Joaquin joining in for the parts in French. Most likely because we were butchering the hell out of them.
After working our way through a few more of our favorites it’s time to wrap it up. “Okay, one more before we go. How about an easy one?” I ask, reaching for my guitar and setting it on the floor at my feet so that I can strum it without upsetting Lyric’s position too much.
Grady counts us down in true rock star fashion, “One, two, one, two, three, four . . .” He nods for me to start and it takes all I have not to burst out laughing at his seriousness. With much fanfare I start singing “A Bushel and a Peck” using the guitar to both strum and drum on. The children all join in either singing along or playing their own mini guitars, triangles, and even a couple maracas in the mix. When we finish, there is much applause and bowing, some blushing and hidden faces, but all in all everyone is pleased with themselves and that’s what matters most.
Somehow in the melee, Lyric managed to fall asleep, making it awkward to get to my feet. Joaquin obviously seeing my dilemma appears at my side.
“Let me take her for you,” he says, reaching for my sleeping little songbird. I hesitate for a moment. The only man who has ever held her is Bear, and I’m not sure how I feel about my current situation. Seems silly, but it’s the first thing that runs through my mind. He must see it but misinterprets its meaning. “Chèrie, I promise not to drop her.” I need to see the students out, so I nod, handing my daughter over to him. Watching a little dazed as his big hand cradles her tiny head and he tucks her against his chest before offering me his other hand to help me up. Do women still swoon? Because I think I may have at the sight the two of them make.
“Thank you,” I mumble, awkwardly, unfolding myself.
“No problem. Go wrap things up. I have her.” Jerking his head, he indicates the milling students. With a wary and slightly lusty look at the bearded, drop dead sexy man and my little pink bundle, I nod and say my goodbyes to the children and their parents, giving words of praise and encouragement to those who look like they need it. Once the last person has left, I turn back and see that Joaquin has removed Lyric’s bulky Pepto Bismol-colored head phones and is swaying back and forth watching me.