Reverb

by S. M. West

  “J, fuck this.” Silas grips my arm, pulling me back from Charlie and my bliss. “You don’t need any more of that shit. We’ve already had too much.”

  “Fuck off.” I wrench my arm from his grasp, stumbling into my dealer.

  My friend swears behind me and says, slurring, to Charlie. “Don’t give him shit.”

  “I’m not his keeper.” Charlie’s arm slides around my waist, leading me away from the middle of the foyer and Silas.

  We walk down a dark hall where there are fewer people and less noise. This is much better.

  “You gonna hook me up?” I think my tongue is swollen, and none of what I’m saying makes sense.

  “Of course. Let’s just go over here.”

  He gives me some pills, and like a good boy, I swallow them. Charlie shoves his hand in my pocket, taking…I don’t know what. He can take whatever he wants.

  “You stay here and chill,” he whispers in my ear, propping me against a wall.

  Slowly, I slide down. Legs wide and sprawled along the floor. My eyes flutter closed.

  Everything slows. Everything blurs. Strobes of fluorescent lights flash across my vision. Beautiful.

  This blissful moment won’t last. And fuck, it isn’t enough. Nothing ever is. No matter what I do to find her or get her back—my Eva—nothing works. Nothing.

  After

  “You have to die a few times before you can really live.” ~ Charles Bukowski

  16

  My eternal darkness

  Thirteen years after the crash

  Now

  EVA

  With the Rolling Stone magazine in hand, I rap hard against the door of my sister’s apartment in this upscale Los Angeles complex.

  I’m unrelenting with the banging, unleashing my rage on the wood like a hammer hell-bent on destroying something.

  I devoured the article as I flew across the country, so much so, I could recite the piece word for word, if needed.

  The feature focused on the wildly successful decade-long run of Trojan, one of the world’s hottest rock bands. The rock gods bid adieu to the world stage and millions of adoring fans with a final tour about a year ago, and two of their songs from that album still ride the charts.

  And as if it wasn’t enough of a shock to discover my greatest love is alive, the line that nearly killed me was the mention of the band’s manager. Bianca Ramirez.

  My sister.

  I almost vomited.

  “All right, I’m coming. I’m coming.” Bianca’s voice is muffled through the door. “What’s going on?”

  She swings the front door open, hand on her hip, and stands before me in shorts and a worn Trojan T-shirt. How fitting.

  My lip twitches, curling into a sneer. Familiar feelings of loss and loneliness rise within me and a new one, betrayal, swims among them like a lurking shark.

  My family claims to love me and want to protect me, and yet, more and more, their love feels a lot like unbearable control.

  Her knitted brows rise, and the messy knot on top of her head sways to one side. “Eva, thank goodness. Papi and Miguel have been worried sick.”

  She takes me by the wrist, pulling me inside, and then she pokes her head out the door, looking one way and then the other. Who or what is she looking for?

  Does she think I have company? She can’t be looking for Miguel. She would know he isn’t with me given she’s spoke to him.

  Miguel.

  Until now I hadn’t considered if he knows Jared is alive. Was he working with Bianca to keep this huge secret from me? And if so, my father must be part of this too.

  Another betrayal.

  So many things I want to say swamp my mind and I want to hurl them all at her, but nothing comes out. She shuts the door behind her and turns to face me.

  Sharp, outraged words swell and wedge in my throat. I open and close my mouth. Still nothing comes out. Frustrated, I thrust the magazine in her face and scowl.

  Across the top of the thick, glossy cover is a headline in lustrous white font—Trojan: leaving the world ablaze. Among the four men is the silhouette of the tortured man I’d know anywhere. So much a part of me and yet a stranger.

  Jared Grange.

  All the blood drains from her face. Her eyes widen, and I’m not a cynical person but I find it’s just a little too convenient that a fat tear happens to fall at the perfect moment.

  I’m supposed to believe she’s upset. And if so, what for? For lying to me? Not likely.

  For being confronted with her lie? Definitely.

  “How could you?” The question rips from my constricted throat. “You told me he died.”

  Frantically, I flip through the pages to a picture of her with the band in Budapest on their final world tour. “All this time, he’s alive and you’ve been working with him.”

  Staring, frozen still, she remains silent. If it weren’t for her heaving chest and the tears flowing down her cheeks, I’d think she wasn’t human.

  “Answer me, dammit!” My voice is shrill, heat rising along my neck and she jumps.

  Not once during her visits—barely annual, but still—or even by email or phone did she ever utter his name.

  Why wouldn’t she tell me he was alive and well? Safe and successful. Living a life without me.

  I step into her personal space, agitated, and she startles once more. I’m not loud. I don’t yell. I’m the calm one. The peacemaker as my abuelo used to say. Yet, in this moment, I’m not myself.

  Betrayal and rage burn me.

  Sorrow gorges on my already-damaged heart.

  Robbed.

  I was robbed of a life I could have had. And not by some stranger, but by those I loved and trusted. And I don’t understand. I want to scream and tear down anything in my path.

  “I was…” She stutters backing away from me. “Papi…”

  She clamps her mouth shut, scurrying farther into her apartment, and I’m on her heels. She can run but she won’t get away. “At the very least, you owe me an explanation.”

  “Eva, I’ve wanted to tell you…so many times.” She stumbles to the couch.

  What isn’t she saying?

  “Does Papi know? Miguel?” Why am I even asking? The ugly truth is scrawled across her anguished face. “You’ve all been in on this, haven’t you? Whose sick idea was it to tell me he died in that accident?”

  “He begged me not to…” Her eyes are wild and flick to the floor, refusing eye contact.

  “After the accident, we didn’t know if…you almost died. Papi was broken. He’d never gotten over Mamá dying and then the thought of losing you…and you know what he thought of Jared.” Her tone suggests my father’s dislike of Jared is justification enough to lie.

  “He wanted to kill Jared. I…I tried to make him see reason. I didn’t mean it, but I asked him, what if Jared was gone? I was only trying to think of a way to lessen his anger. I thought if Jared was out of the picture for a bit, it would help.”

  She avoids my gaze once more. “He thought of the lie.”

  While all of this rings true, and all she says about our father is valid, I don’t know if I should believe her.

  “And I’m supposed to be okay with this because your intentions were good? What about all the years after? You were never going to tell me?”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I was wrong to go along with it, but I was so scared. We thought we were going to lose you and…Papi…you remember what it was like between us.”

  Now she gives me a pleading glance, imploring me to understand. To forgive? It isn’t clear what she wants from me, and I’m not feeling generous.

  “Why?” The words spill from my mouth. Shards of glass, pointed and pained, echo mournfully in my chest. “Why would you do this?”

  None of this makes sense. Things were fraught between my sister and father for years after our mother died. But how does that connect to the lie?

  “I only wanted to help Papi. Since Mamá’s death, you were the
only thing keeping us together. If you…without you, I didn’t know where that would leave Papi and me. I was so scared and I…I didn’t want to lose him too.”

  “That’s why you agreed to lie and keep us apart?” My neck tightens, tension spreading all over my already-aching body, the long flight having made its mark.

  “Yes.”

  “You thought if you bonded over a lie that would bring you closer?”

  “No. Well, yes, but it was more about helping him. I didn’t want to fight with him…even if the idea was horrible. But we’d been at odds for so long and he’d practically written me off, and then there was a chance for me to help him. For him to see…”

  “That you were a good girl too.” Everything sharpens and becomes clearer.

  My father had pitted us against one another, and I always wondered if it had been deliberate or just the way things were.

  Once our mother died, that divide between his children grew by leaps and bounds. Even as I fought him to see Jared and I willfully disobeyed his rules, I was still the good one, and Bianca was trouble.

  I didn’t like it. I even tried to show him how my sister and I were alike, and that the three of us had to work at fixing our family.

  He never agreed—Bianca was the one to blame, to pay. It wasn’t fair, especially when she was no more trouble or less deserving than I of his love.

  But now that I think about it, after the accident, things changed. They grew close. I always thought my father came to his senses after nearly losing me.

  I wanted to believe he realized life was too short, too fragile to not mend the relationship with his eldest daughter. I had it all wrong.

  Neither of them were enlightened nor driven to try. Or maybe that’s not true. Bianca tried, I suppose. But she sacrificed me and Jared for a relationship with our father.

  Jared.

  My already battered heart spasms.

  “What was Jared told? Does he know where I am?”

  She wraps a hand protectively around herself, and the sinking despair swells and draws closer, ready to drown me. No, it’s worse than that—she’s wearing the dirty deed like the plague.

  “We told him you died.”

  “How do you live with yourself?” Her truth is a dagger to my already-broken heart. “You saw me when I came out of that coma. You saw how I reacted when I heard he was dead. You saw what his death did to me.”

  Wrecked and heartbroken. I was destroyed. So much so, the news delayed my recovery. I slipped into a severe depression and had no will to live.

  My doctors worried. Time was of the essence. I had a brain injury as well as several physical ailments, yet I had no desire to fight. I didn’t care about healing.

  Papi, Abuelo, Miguel, and Bianca. They were all there and they pushed me.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  Pacing, I block her apology, unable to hear or accept it right now. “Where is Jared right now?”

  “He’s here. In LA.”

  “You’re going to get me in to see him.” I imagine given his stardom, I can’t just waltz up to his house and speak with him.

  She swallows hard, straightening. “Let me explain things to him first.”

  Now she is firmly entrenched in her professional, band manager persona, and she disgusts me. Her request is outrageous.

  “No. You’re not going to tell him anything. I get to explain things to him. You’ll lie.”

  She flinches but doesn’t refute my accusation.

  “And you’re not coming with me.” I fold my arms over my chest, ignoring the incessant pounding at the base of my neck.

  “When do you want to see him?”

  “Now…no, wait.” Rubbing at my forehead, I pace.

  I’m tired and a headache is coming on. I could use a few hours’ sleep, even if it won’t be sound, before I see him.

  Sadness wells inside of me. There isn’t anything she can say to make her deception all right.

  Jared’s death not only changed my recovery, it also changed how I lived my life. His death shaped my self-imposed prison.

  “I want to see him tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. Make it happen.”

  17

  My world

  JARED

  My head is going to explode. We’ve been around this block a million times in the past three hours, and we’re no closer to determining how best to announce my solo career.

  I should just put it on the Gram and be done with it. The fans will come. I don’t get the big fucking deal.

  Trojan, the rock band I’d been part of for a decade, is over. We wrapped the tour and album almost a year ago. Since then Silas is producing with Gray, and Eli’s gone to New York to be an actor. That’s left me to contend with the constant media speculation about my next move.

  In the beginning, there were some crazy rumors trending on social media about the demise of the band. From Eli and Gray coming out and running off together, to my drug usage being the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Hilarious. Screw them.

  Like always, the paps are hungry for another tear-jerking story like Rich, our first drummer. He left Trojan to clean up his life. At the time, we weren’t sure if we’d go on without him.

  Trojan was the four of us—Silas, Rich, Eli, and me. Rich had to get out, and while we were in shock, we got it. The lifestyle and music were all part of his addiction, not just the drugs and alcohol, and if he was going to make it, he had to walk away.

  This time is different.

  There’s nothing to see here, paps, nothing at all.

  Silas wanted out. Plain and simple. I raged on him for a while, and at first, I wasn’t too kind to his girl, Pansy, but shit…

  All good things come to an end.

  Fuck, if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, that’s it. Nothing amazing lasts forever. Trojan has been put to bed.

  I rub at the center of my chest, trying to get rid of the lingering ache. It still hurts to think about it, but I gotta move on.

  At thirty-one, I’m starting over again. Reinventing myself and it should be exciting. But nothing ever is.

  The light died with her and since then, I only see black, even with the music awards, accolades, and adoring fans. No amount of money or fame has even made a lick of difference.

  I’m dead inside. Now if only my body would get the fucking message.

  “Fuck, guys, I’m beat.” I rake my fingers through my hair, closing my eyes for a moment. “Let’s pick this up tomorrow.”

  “Jared, we need to nail this down now.” Bianca taps the tip of her stylus on the tablet like a judge would a gavel. “You’ve got New York City, and you can’t go in blind. We need a plan.”

  She’s on edge. Aren’t we all? This day has been long.

  I fish in my pocket for my guitar pick and smile at the sight of the familiar flower pressed in the plastic.

  It’s blue and yellow helps lessen my frustration, and I start feeding the worn pick through my fingers, under and over.

  “B, we’ve been at this for hours. This doesn’t have to be a big fucking splash. The fans will create the hype. Trust me.” I scan the hotel suite.

  Record executives, Bianca—my manager—and the new guys who will perform with me, litter the room.

  Not to mention the other people, some hangers-on and other specialists in social media, publicity and who knows what else. They are all in various stages of frustration.

  Two hotties, in figure-hugging jeans and belly tops so tight I can see their nipples, stand back from the fray. Their wide, fervent gazes track my every move.

  One of them is my new personal assistant. I forget if it’s the blonde or the redhead, but given their ardent stares, it’s safe to say both would walk through fire for me.

  Undying adoration isn’t new to me, so much so, I take it for granted. None of it is real and I’m bored. It’s been too long since someone challenged me.

  Well, other than B, but she does
n’t count. I tolerate her for so many reasons. We’ve known each other for so long and I keep her around because of her sister. Now she’s like my annoying sister.

  “Jared’s right,” Derek Hanson, a record label executive and all-around douchebag, says.

  My eyes widen, not expecting his agreement, but I’ll take it. My manager sighs, pursing her lips, glaring at me before she gathers up her things into a bag.

  Her hands tremble. Come to think of it, she’s been jittery since she got here. What’s up with her? She can’t be nervous about embarking on my solo career. Is she worried I’m not prepared?

  I’ve got this. I’m ready to face the fans and paps. And itching to start writing songs again. It’s been too long.

  The rest follow her lead, getting up and putting their things together. The room is now filled with sounds of shuffling papers, zippers, and snaps of bags. Thank fuck they are leaving. I just want to go home.

  I make a beeline for the gleaming white marble bar, glass and chrome everywhere, and through the mirror spanning one wall, I glimpse the blonde scuttling in my direction.

  Dammit, I should tell her to scram. I want to be alone, and meeting in a hotel suite just invites all kinds of debauchery. Or more like, my reputation and a hotel room suggests depravity.

  At the last minute, Bianca made a big deal about wanting somewhere fresh and different to talk. And some crap about neutral territory. Whatever. Half the time, I don’t understand that chick. And it’s painful to have her around. High-strung control freak. But she’s a good manager. Cutthroat.

  “Mr. Grange,”—the blonde’s voice is a sultry breath, as if channeling Marilyn Monroe—“please let me get you whatever you need.”

  Her small hands quiver at her sides and her two front teeth nibble at her bottom lip. Yet, despite her nerves, her waterfall-like eyes never waver from mine.

  And I feel nothing. Usually, the sexy but too awed to know it, even if this one knows it, stirs something in me. If only a twitch of my dick or a slow burn at the base of my balls.