Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1)

by Stevie J. Cole

  Stephanie crossed her arms. “You see. That. I’m not gonna lie, Jag. I couldn’t take that.”

  I wasn’t there to rehash why we didn’t work out. That didn’t matter to me. “Layne,” I huffed. “He’s mine, right?”

  Stephanie nodded.

  “Well, don’t you think you should’ve told me that?” I shouted.

  She tapped her fingers on the table, stiffening her arms out as she thought about what she should say to me. “You know, I should have. And just about the time I realized how unfair I was being to you and Layne, you really fucked up. Do you think I want to put my kid through that? You, Jag – you – you’re a joke. You are not the Jagger I was with. Hell,” she pointed at me, “I don’t know who the hell this is sitting in front of me. All the drugs. You almost OD’d. All the girls…every week you were a different headline on a magazine. Drug addict, sex addict – Layne’s better off without you. You can’t even take care of yourself. Why in the hell would I let you have anything to do with my son?”

  Anger crept up in my throat. “Your son? I don’t think you’d have him if it weren’t for me.”

  She snorted and tossed her head back. “Yeah, Jag. Thanks for not pulling out. Like you’re the only guy that could accomplish that.”

  I slammed my fist down on the table. The glass of water that had been sweating in the summer heat shook, droplets of condensation racing down its side and falling through the cracks of the table. “Stephanie. If he’s mine, I want him to know me.”

  She shook her head furiously, her voice trembling from trying to hold back her tears. “No! I’m not gonna let you ruin his life. You’re a train wreck. Why in the hell would I let Layne fall in love with you just so his heart can be ripped out when you OD in a few years?” She paused and whispered, “Because there’s no way you’ll ever stay clean.”

  I ignored that snide comment and shoved my hands down in my pockets, gripping the bag of coke I had with me. “What about the money I could give him?”

  “I don’t want your money, Jag.” She pulled a stack of papers out of her purse. “I just want you to sign your rights over.”

  I was shocked at the audacity of this damn woman. “Rights? What fucking rights? I just found out I have a kid that’s old enough to be in school, and now you’re asking me to sign over rights? What the fuck?”

  “Jag, if you have any respect for him, you’ll just let this go. Let somebody who’s capable of being a father raise him.”

  I narrowed my gaze and peered down at her hand, spotting an unimpressive solitaire on her ring finger. “Oh. I see. Is that part of the agreement?” I thumped the diamond with my finger. “He’ll marry you if he can have the kid? I mean, does anyone know he’s mine, you know, Jag Steele’s, the fucking rock star? Huh?”

  “My family knows, and trust me…the reputation you’ve earned over the past few years, they aren’t admitting that to anyone! I wish I had just left the damn father’s name line blank when I had him, then I wouldn’t even have to be asking you! Being a whore would have been better than admitting I’d been stupid enough to ever be in love with you.”

  I flung myself back in my chair, laughing at what a fucking bitch she really was. “I can’t believe you! You’ll put my name on the birth certificate and fail to mention the entire thing to me until it’s convenient for you!”

  Sighing, she said, “You’re a rock star, not a father, Jagger. A life of baseball games isn’t gonna fit into your schedule of cocaine, women, and tours. Please, just forget that you ever found this out. It doesn’t change anything for you. You’re still Jag Steele, just like you were yesterday, just like you were six years ago when I told you goodbye.”

  I ripped the papers from her hands and skimmed over the words. Clenching my jaw, I thought about what she’d said, and she was right. I was a fuck-up. I may have been famous and rich, but I was a complete fuck-up who had no right to raise a kid. Tapping the pen on the table, I glared up at her. “You ever gonna tell him?”

  “If he ever asks when he’s old enough to appreciate it, I guess I’ll tell him then.”

  “You gonna tell him you asked me to sign him over the same day I found out? The same day I buried my dad? Huh, Steph?”

  Stephanie hung her chin to her chest, and I watched tears stream from her eyes. “Jag, I’m really sorry. I know the timing sucks. But I’ve had those papers for almost a year and just couldn’t bring myself to call you.”

  “So you thought ‘what better fuckin’ time than the day of his dad’s funeral?’ ” I flipped the pages, then placed the pen over the signature line. “Look. I’ll sign these. But you got to do me two favors. One, you got to promise me you won’t make me out to be an asshole, and you’ll tell him you asked me to do this five – hell, six years after the fact, that I had no damn idea he even existed; and two, you let me put money in an account for him.”

  Relief washed over her face and she nodded. “I can do that.”

  I placed the pen to the paper and scribbled a “J” on it, then shook my head as my skin heated. “Nah. I’m not signing this right now. You waited this long to even let me know about him. You can fucking wait on the damn papers. My dad just died, Steph. You just told me I have a kid, and, to be honest, I’m fucking high right now, so I think maybe I should just digest a little bit of this before I sign anything. Get my lawyers to look over it.” I tossed the pen back at her. “I’ll have my assistant call you and get the information so I can get him an account set up, because regardless of whether I sign these or not, he’s gonna have a fucking chance in life. I don’t have any reason to talk to you. And whenever I decide what to do about this,” I shook the papers in my hand, “I’ll get my assistant to call you then too.”

  I rose from my chair, swiping my shades back down over my eyes. “You know, I may be a fuck-up, but you’re a selfish bitch.” That last part came out as a shout. I could feel anger spreading throughout my body, heating each last inch of my skin. I gripped the slender metal curve of the chair back and shoved it toward the table with such force that it teetered on its legs and almost toppled over. I shot one last angry glance at her and shook my head as I stomped off, making my way through the people now staring at us. I turned to go down some stairs into a bar I used to play in when I lived there, and I heard someone shout my name.

  “Jag Steele!”

  Glancing up, I saw several girls sprinting up to me. They stopped, smiles spread across their lips. “Can we get a picture with you?”

  I was angry and hurt at that moment, and all I could think about was numbing myself up. My eyes darted back over to Stephanie, who was standing by the table and staring at me. I hoped she realized how bad she’d fucked up, how that request cut into me and forced me to recognize that the life I had was just for show, just a joke, and that I would most likely end up dead before I’d turned thirty. I had almost signed those papers without a fight. Am I really that big of a piece of shit? My gaze fell down to the papers clenched in my fist, and then over to the group of grinning girls. “No. I’m sorry. I just – I need to –” I stared blankly at the disappointment falling across their faces, then jogged down the stairs into the dark bar.

  Chapter 6

  I spent time with my mom that night, going through picture albums and memories, just intent on rubbing salt, alcohol, and acid in that open, festering wound.

  Mom looked up at me through tears. “You know, kids really do need both parents. I’m sorry I failed you there, Jagger.” She brushed her graying hair out from her face and stared at me with a look of regret.

  That comment stabbed me.

  Stone walked through to the living room with a soda and flung himself on the couch, putting his boots up on the coffee table and crossing his ankles. He popped the top and slurped some of the soda.

  My mom shut the photo album and huffed, “Stone! Get your feet off the table. How old are you?”

  His feet slid from the table and fell to the floor with a thud. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “I g
uess you give your housekeeper a run for her money, huh, son?”

  I was uneasy, too sober, and needed to get away from that place. Everywhere I looked held shit-ass memories. I rose from the couch and leaned down to kiss my mother on the cheek. “Love you, Mom. And you didn’t fail me. I turned out just fine.”

  She glanced me over. She knew I was a fuck-up but tried to ignore it and pretend like fame hadn’t changed me, like I was still that shy, introverted, completely sober kid that had come running up the stairs, screaming that we’d been asked to come out to LA.

  “You know, I gotta get back. I gotta get to working on something.” Rubbing my hand over my arm, I kicked my foot over the floor. I didn’t have anywhere I really needed to be, I just wanted to get away from anything that reminded me of my past.

  “Where do you have to go, Jagger? Where do you need to be besides here?” She glared at me. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or just hurt.

  “I – I just gotta…I got this interview thing I gotta get ready for.” I shot my eyes over to Stone, and he looked at me. I knew he’d cover for me, even though he didn’t want to.

  “Sorry, Mom. I love you. I’ll come back soon. Promise.”

  ****

  I had to get out of there. I had to get out of that city, that state, that region of the U.S. I got a connector flight to Atlanta, then to LA. I arrived at six in the morning, and James picked me up. I tossed my bags in the back and climbed in the car, feeling like absolute shit.

  “Sorry about your pops, Jag. You holding up all right?” He glared at me over his shades. I knew he really didn’t care how I was doing, as long as I was doing good enough to not kill myself. All our band was to him was a fucking sweet-ass check.

  The leather groaned as I slouched down in the chair. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  James nodded. “That’s what I like to hear.” Without missing a beat, he continued, “How’d the interview with MTV go?”

  He’d gotten the formalities out of the way. I knew he wouldn’t mention my dad again; he’d acknowledged it once, and now it was back to business as usual.

  “Man. It was all right, just stupid fucking questions. Mostly about me and River…and drugs.”

  He laughed and pulled onto the jammed interstate. “I think you’re almost as famous for that shit as you are your music.” Reaching over, he flipped the glove compartment down. “Look in there. I brought something to help you feel better.”

  I peered in and saw a bag filled with blue pills. Grabbing it, I looked at the round tablets with Playboy bunnies stamped on them. Before I had a chance to say anything, James started rambling.

  “You’ve done real good the past few months, but let’s be honest, you can’t be Jag Steele and stay sober. I think you’ve gotten it under control enough where you can have some fun, loosen up. E’s not like coke, anyway.” He arched his brow at me, and each side of his mouth curled up into a Joker-like grin. “If you were serious about being sober, well, you’d just have to leave Hollywood. Trust me. I’m not gonna let you get strung out to the point you’ll OD.” He chuckled. “Well, at least not again. You got a small tour coming up. You got an album to release, and then a huge international tour that’ll last damn near ten months. You can’t live through that without some kind of help. No one could.”

  Jerking the wheel, he swerved around a beat-up Civic that was going thirty miles an hour and riding with its blinker on.

  James laid on the horn. “Learn how to drive, you fucking dumbass!” he shouted, his mouth over-exaggerating his words as he glared at the driver.

  My eyes lowered to the pills in my hand.

  He let out an agitated grunt and tapped my shoulder. “Besides, when the fact that your dad’s gone really slaps you in the face, you’re gonna need a pick-me-up. That’s why man made drugs, to numb pain. Well, if you ask me, life’s a pretty damn big pain in the ass sometimes.” James paused, and a wicked snicker came booming from him as he reached for the radio. “See. If this isn’t a sign,” he said, turning the music up until it was blaring through his subwoofer. “The Dope Show” by Marilyn Manson was playing.

  I tossed my head back and felt over the tiny capsules in the bag. Reaching over to the console, I grabbed the bottle of water and twisted the top off and stared over the congested interstate to the Hollywood hills rising through the smog in the distance. I pulled a pill from the bag, tossed it inside my mouth, and washed it back with the water. I rolled the bag between my fingers and settled back into the seat, closing my eyes and waiting on the relief I knew was coming. Numbness. Soon enough none of this would matter because I’d be numb. I’d be under a euphoric spell that didn’t allow sadness inside. Drugs were my salvation.

  Chapter 7

  The next week was a blur of drugs, alcohol, and pussy. I buried my sorrow, my self-deprecation, and my ability to feel anything – orgasms included – in about ten-thousand dollars’ worth of drugs, and between countless, nameless thighs. Jodie, my assistant, called me to set up an interview about the tour. The tour we were doing to prove Pandemic Sorrow was still together and to prove that I had cleaned my shit up.

  Right before we got off the phone, she said, “So. That account that you wanted, I got it set up. You want to handle that, or should George do it? I mean, he does have a better idea of your finances than you do.” She let out a jittery laugh.

  Continuing to push the coke into straight lines on my dresser, I glanced up in the mirror. Fuck me. That’s right. I’ve got a damn kid that I’m not worthy of having anything to do with besides giving him some fucking money. “Yeah, yeah. Let George handle that. But, hey, if the person on the account’s a kid, his mom can’t get the money, can she?”

  Jodie fell silent, then cleared her throat. “Um, I don’t know. I’ll get George to call you, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” I tossed the pick down, tucked my hair behind my ear, and bent over the perfectly straight streaks of my relief. I pressed mute on my phone so she wouldn’t hear the unmistakably long sniff of me sucking back a line.

  “Jag?” she asked. “Why are you giving money to a kid anyway? I…”

  I stared my reflection in the eyes and took a few quick sniffs to make sure all the powder had gone where I needed it to. Unmuting the phone, I said, “Don’t worry about it. An old friend of mine, she’s got a kid. The dad’s a real fuck-up.” I looked at myself extra-hard at that comment. “I thought it was the least I could do to help out someone that’s kinda like family.”

  There was a long pause of silence because the fact that I wasn’t being a selfish prick probably floored her. “Wow, Jag. That’s…really nice of you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t tell anybody. You know, for one, I don’t need to destroy my hard-ass persona I’ve got going on; and two, I don’t need people crawling out of the damn woodworks asking for handouts. Plus, it’s a tax write-off. Got it, princess?”

  “Yeah, I got it, Jag.” Her tone quickly became annoyed again when the expected pompous, cocky attitude of mine returned.

  “Tell George to call me.” I hung up the phone, tossed it on my bed, and continued to stare at myself in the mirror. I watched my pupils swell when the drug finally entered my blood stream. And before the short-lived euphoria overtook me, I shouted at myself, “Fuck you, Jagger! Just fuck you. This is what you always wanted! Suck it up.” I could still feel, and it pissed me off. I bent over and snorted back another line, and then walked out of my house.

  Sober! This was sober for me. The fact that I could still think straight enough to put one fucking foot in front of the other, well, that was as sober as I ever wanted to be again. I might as well just go ahead and fall right back into my old ways.

  Chapter 8

  I banged on the glass door of River’s condo. “Open the fucking door up!” I yelled.

  My nose started running; a steady trickle of warm liquid rolled over my lip, and I quickly rubbed my hand underneath it From the amount of coke I’d just done, it didn’t surprise me in the least when I gla
nced down to find bright red liquid running down between my fingers and over my knuckles.

  “Shit!” I pressed my finger over my nose and tilted my head back. I sat down on the retaining wall and clamped down on my nose. As I sat outside her condo, I couldn’t help but think about how different we both had become, how fame had fucked us.

  Walking into the venue, I glanced over at Stone. His eyes were wide and he kept running his hand over his head, then down his face, to finally fidget with his black NIN t-shirt. “Man. I can’t fucking believe this, can you? We, Pandemic Sorrow, got invited to a damn Victoria’s Secret party.”

  Rush laughed. “I know, dude. This is insane. Really? This is our life? From now on? Fame, models…fucking rock?” Rush grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. “I swear, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this shit. I don’t want to. The way this feels is ridiculous!” He released his hold on me and laughed again. “I knew I kept your ass around for a reason.”

  Pax grabbed his head with both hands, a large grin stretching across his face. “Man, what are the chances? I mean, really? We made it! Fuck all those people back home who said we wouldn’t amount to shit, all those guys that’d throw beer bottles at us because their girlfriends were all over our crotch. To hell with them because here we are, about to be surrounded by fucking underwear models!”

  Rush high-fived Pax. The loud percussions of club music vibrated through my chest as we walked into an open room filled with people, with celebrities…and then there was us – completely out of place, standing there like toddlers with their damn fingers up their noses, digging for boogers.

  Well over sixty percent of the women in that room were pretty much naked. That was the first time fame twisted her wicked fingers into me. At that moment, in my head, I felt like something about me was better. Like I was a better person because I was there. I was famous. People who didn’t even know me loved me – I was Jag Steele. I was somebody. For once, I was something – someone that people wanted to be. I had a life others only dreamed of. Dreamed, and here I was living it, breathing it!