“Thank you, love,” she breathes. “That was… Your turn—”
“No.”
“Jesse—”
My lips rest against her hair, now scented with a layer of beautiful scarlet. “The guys are waiting.”
She twists back a glance, and I force a smile.
“Yeah. Later then?”
“Later.”
∞∞∞
Fucking ghosts, man.
“What’s he doing here?” I let the door to our practice space crash shut behind me.
Parker steps between us. If only blocking my view would make the intruder go away.
“I know, man, but if we told you he’d be here, you would have freaked.”
“Damn right I would have.” I start opening the clasps of my guitar case.
“He has a lot of good ideas.”
I glare up at Traitor Two, then over to One. “So do we.”
“Jess, you said it yourself. We’ll need a shitload of production on this album, and he’s one of the best.”
“Was.”
“Is,” Jonas corrects. “I’ve been back, working mostly with Seamless, for six months now. I’m booked with projects again.”
“Great. Congratulations.”
Parker sighs. “Jess, can we just—”
“Are we practicing or what?” I sling the strap over my shoulder and move to my mic.
The door creaks again, drawing our attention to… Mila.
Fantastic.
Her gaze settles on Jonas long enough to reassure me that she wasn’t involved.
“Mr. Everett,” she says, way politer than I was. Their stares have a conversation we all can follow.
“The boys have informed me that you’re representing them now,” Traitor One says.
“I am.”
“I’m hoping we have a chance to work together.”
Her brow lifts in a comforting level of doubt. “If the band has interest in that possibility, I’d be happy to discuss it.”
“We’re interested,” Parker says at the same time I say “we’re not.”
We exchange a long look that results in a stalemate.
I woke up impatient of this bullshit. “Okay. Prelude. For flow, we’ll run the ‘Water Music Suite: Air’, ‘Ave Maria,’ ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ then the bridesmaids’ processional.”
“That’s the German song?” Derrick asks.
“Will you stop calling it that?” I say. “It’s Canon in D. Every person on the planet knows it as that.”
Derrick shrugs. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize you were so protective of old-people songs.”
I shake my head. “Moving on. After the bridesmaids are in, we signal Wes and Tracing Holland to come out for the processional. Then we don’t play again until the recessional.”
“The leaving music,” Reece translates for Derrick, who gives him a middle finger.
I glance over at Mila. “Also Luke will be there and we’re planning to cover ‘Greetings from the Inside’ with him at the reception.”
Her forehead lifts again in surprise. “Luke? At an Alton wedding?”
“Holland Drake’s plus one,” I explain.
“Ah. That’s a good collaboration for you,” she says. “Let’s talk to Jay about grabbing audio of that. In fact, maybe we can get the entire opening set for some special releases. What’s on the setlist for the reception?”
I take her through our plan, and she nods. After a quick glance at our guest, she clears her throat. “I just have one suggestion. The bride is a fan, isn’t she?”
“Sophia? Yeah.”
“Okay, then she will really appreciate”—another look at the man—“‘Jonas.’”
I follow the exchange as well and lift my chin slightly in challenge, waiting for him to protest his anthem.
He doesn’t flinch.
“Move it earlier in the set to make sure she hears it,” Mila continues. “Maybe get her attention first with a lead-in?”
“I have some ideas for the track,” Jonas adds, eyes finding me. “I’d be honored if you allowed me to work on it.”
Reece and Derrick try their best to shrink into the floorboards. Parker’s face brightens with hope. Mila remains stoic, her attention shifting to my studiously casual stance behind the mic along with everyone else in the suddenly too-small space.
I run a slow chord to test my tuning. And another as I work on the slightly-flat B string. Closer. The high E is out too.
“We’ll get back to you.” My voice doesn’t sound like my insides are exploding beneath my shirt.
∞∞∞
I spend the rest of our rehearsal pretending Jonas doesn’t exist. When he speaks, I let Parker respond. When we wrap, I bolt from the room without so much as a glance at the man who seems to think he’s earned a seventh shot at my trust.
My streak continues when I call the counselor and learn he doesn’t have openings for a while. I assure them that’s fine and I don’t need the alternative references or emergency numbers they offer.
Check.
Check.
And check.
I’m golden by the time I toss back a few shots of the cheap shit stashed above the fridge. 26-K should be enough to get us decent alcohol. Note to self and my cheap-ass roommates.
Mila enters on the tail end of the burn. I don’t know why I feel guilty.
“I have an appointment with Seth for two days after we get back from Toronto.”
“You called him?”
I nod, force a smile. “He’s booked until then.”
“That’s great, Jess. Did he sound decent?”
I shrug. “Didn’t talk to him. Just the intake person.”
Her gaze lingers on the bottle and my incriminating shot glass, but I would have looked worse trying to stuff it out of view.
“So your father made an interesting offer.” Glacial eyes sear a hole through the liquor label.
Is that why you’re drinking? Would you be high if I wasn’t standing here?
“Interesting? That’s one word for it.”
“What do you think?”
I shrug. “Let him have the damn song.”
Clearly not the answer she was expecting.
Are you drunk already?
“Are you sure?”
“I have nothing to gain by fighting this. Parker’s got his heart set, and who knows, what if he actually comes up with shit we can use?”
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.”
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 so
me 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.
Limelight (NSB Book 4) Page 18