Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1)

by Stevie J. Cole

  My stomach knotted up and my heart hammered violently, tightening in my chest. I bowed my head, and my teeth clamped down on my bottom lip. The emotions were too raw and it sickened me. My brain wanted me to cry; it tried damn hard to make me feel something horrible, but I refused to let it. I stood up, my hand patting over my pocket to make sure the coke was in there.

  The old guy behind the bar flipped the side of his magazine down and peered at me. “What you need, Sally? You need to take a piss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got to go out back.” He leaned over and came back up with a key attached to the end of a large piece of PVC piping. He handed it to me. “Had a homeless guy take up board there one time. Locked it up ever since.”

  I took the key from him and walked out the side door he’d pointed to.

  I locked myself in the hot, stale bathroom. Pushed a good bit of cocaine up my nose and waited for the shit swimming in my head to vanish. But even after getting my fix, the pain twisting inside me was still there. I knew I shouldn’t keep shoving my feelings down inside me, but I was already broken. How much worse could ignoring it all really make things?

  When I walked back into the bar, I noticed a girl sitting in the seat next to my drink. She ran her hand through her hair, and I caught the hint of a pink strip of hair. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m just going to ignore her.

  I tossed the key on the counter and jerked the seat out. I sat down and immediately picked my glass up, tilting it back, the ice knocking against my teeth before I slammed it back down.

  “Want another?” the old bartender asked.

  I thought about it. But I just wanted to be alone, I didn’t want to listen to this chick. I didn’t want to be tempted to fuck with her. “Nah. I’ll just close out.”

  Hearing my voice, Roxy whipped her head to the side. I shot an obviously forced smile at her, took my receipt, and scrawled my name on the signature line.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  I stood up and flipped my sunglasses back down over my eyes. “For what?”

  “For standing up for me. You didn’t have to do that. I get shit like that all the time.” She took her jacket off, which left her in a tight purple tank top. “I can handle myself though.” Roxy rolled her eyes and huffed. “But it was nice of you.” She was forcing herself to be cordial to me, and it seemed like it was about to damn near kill her.

  She gathered her hair to the side, staring at me, trying to figure out what else to say, and I noticed the words “What does not kill me makes me stronger. 05/03/2012” tattooed on her shoulder blade. I figured the tattoo most likely represented a sobriety date. One of the guys I’d gone through my first stint at rehab with had tried to talk me into getting one. He said it showed commitment. Every tattoo I had represented something, but I wasn’t ready to ink my flesh with something I knew I’d most likely fail at.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you. I really had no reason. I don’t know you.” Her comment floored me, but I didn’t let it show on my face. Then she huffed, “And I don’t really need to anyway.”

  Shrugging, I said, “Well, at least you’re aware you’re as mean as a fucking viper. Pretty, but fucking vicious.”

  Roxy reached out and grabbed my sunglasses, pulling them off my face before I had a chance to snatch them away from her. She studied me, staring in my eyes, then she let out a sigh. “Just can’t stay clean, can you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Didn’t you read the headlines? I went to rehab. I’ve been ‘cured.’”

  She patted the chair next to her, and, for some reason, I sat down.

  “Pupils don’t dilate like that unless you’re fucked up.” She pointed at my tab. “And I don’t care who you are; you drink that much liquor, and you’re not going to have that swagger you’ve got walking outta here.” A half-smile flipped one side of her mouth up, and then she rolled her bottom lip underneath her teeth. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard. Even when you’ve been clean for years, you can’t help but think about it every day, right?”

  The bartender handed her a drink, and she stuck the straw to her lips. I noticed her eyes watering up, and she quickly closed them. “We’re all broken,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.

  For the first time in years, I felt sorry for someone besides myself, and I had no idea what to do. “Is that what this is for?” I asked, running my finger over her inked skin.

  Roxy shook her head. “No. That’s for my brother, Sean. He OD’d. It’s kinda my tribute to him.” She stirred the straw around in her drink and, without looking up at me, said, “That’s what he said all the time. He had the same tattoo with the date he’d gone sober underneath it.” She sucked in a quick breath. “He was clean for three years, and all it took was that one time of him slipping back into it – and he was gone.” She took the straw out of her drink and dropped it on the counter, then turned her drink up, downing the entire thing.

  Running my hand through my hair, I said, “I’m sorry. Really.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. Me too.”

  My phone vibrated again. This time the text message said, “Please sign the papers so Layne can have a real father.”

  I swallowed and stared at the screen before shoving my phone back down in my pocket.

  “So, why are you broken?” Roxy asked.

  Looking at her, I found the same pain in her eyes I saw every time I looked in the mirror at myself. There was anger, betrayal, and disappointment hidden behind the deep brown of her eyes. That question she’d just asked me was a sincere one. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have someone treat me like a person, ask me a sincere question, and at that moment I realized I didn’t really want to be alone right then.

  “Broken?” I laughed. “Nah, princess. I’m a shattered fucking mess.”

  She stared at me for a minute, then reached up to my face and grazed her soft fingertips along my jaw, narrowing her gaze like she was trying to pull something from deep down inside of me. One side of her lips curled up, and a deep dimple formed at its corner. “Yep. You’re real.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I laughed. “Yeah. That I am.”

  “You know, it’s just that I’d always thought you were, you know… Jag Steele. Never really stopped to think that there’s actually someone behind the name, behind that hard-ass exterior of yours. Sometimes the entire celebrity thing makes me forget people like you are real. You’re not some fictional character. That’s all. Just wanted to touch you to make sure.”

  I took a moment to really look at her. Most of her makeup had worn off, most likely from running circles behind the bar earlier in the night. Her mascara had rubbed off from her long eyelashes and left tiny black dots underneath her eyebrows, and eyeliner was smudged all under her eyes. She looked nothing like River, or any of the other anorexic models I’d been in fleeting relationships with; she wasn’t overly done up in the hope of getting a piece of dick like all the chicks who’d bought VIP passes. She wasn’t fake, and it was fucking hot.

  “Nah. I’m real,” I said.

  “So, is Jagger Steele really your name, or is it just a stage name?”

  “What makes you think I would tell you that?” I joked, and her eyes widened. I felt a smile tug my mouth up. “Yeah, it’s my name. My dad had an obsession with The Rolling Stones.”

  Roxy drew circles in the condensation pooling around the bottom of her glass. “I see. Destined from birth, huh? You do know that Jag is slang for a stint with drug use, right?”

  “No, never heard that one. That’s interesting, huh? Guess my parents should have thought about that.” Seriously, another damn cliché to add to my list.

  “Yeah. I was hoping you were gonna say your name was something like Bob or Darryl.”

  I arched a brow at her. “No. Nice names and all, but I need something with a little more…”

  “Sex appeal?” A kittenish grin curved across her lips.

  “Yeah. Something like
that,” I chuckled, and twisted my chair to face her. “So. Besides despising my music, what are you about? And why the hell are you here?” I glanced around the dingy bar. “This place is like something that you’d find outside the Bates Motel. Not exactly the place you go to meet people.”

  “I don’t like people.” She pulled her purse into her lap and stared down at her hands. I could tell she was debating on whether to tell me something or not. She drew in a deep breath. “My brother came here all the time. He liked that it was always empty. He said he could think in here.”

  “I get that.” Without realizing that I was asking it, I said, “So, I think it’s pretty obvious why I’m a mess. Losing your brother, that’s what broke you?”

  Shock rippled across her face. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I’d just gone so personal on her, or because I was an asshole, a womanizer. I was Jag Steele, which meant I was supposed to just be a narcissistic dick.

  Roxy wrung her hands together and I noticed her legs bouncing. “Yeah. He pretty much raised me. My mom died in a car wreck when I was five. Layla was just a baby. My dad was driving, and he always blamed himself. All he did was drink, and then he lost his job when I was six. So Sean had to help make sure me and Layla were taken care of when Dad was passed out.”

  “Damn.” This chick had it rough. I thought what I went through was bad, but I guess in the grand scheme of it all, my dad being a deadbeat wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. “Having a dad that’s a drunk sucks.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah. If only he’d stayed just a drunk,” she mumbled.

  I wiped my hand over my mouth. This hadn’t gone exactly the way I’d expected, and I was absolutely uncomfortable. I couldn’t handle my own shitty memories; how the hell was I supposed to handle this girl, who I was pretty sure was about to have a breakdown right here in front of me in a bar?

  “When I was fourteen, my dad got put in jail for selling meth. He was in and out of jail the entire time I was growing up. He supposedly last got out a few years ago, but I haven’t heard from him.” She fell silent, and her gaze remained glued to her lap. “He used to get me and my brother to help him make it.”

  “What?” I felt my mouth hang open a little.

  “Yeah.” Roxy nodded her head and a snarl flew over her face. “A fucking eight-year-old helping make meth. I swear, if I ever saw him again – I blame him for everything. Sean. I blame him for Sean.” She shook her head and wiped tears from beneath her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Roxy glanced up at me, her eyes growing wide. “I have no idea why I just put all that on you.” She laughed nervously. “I don’t tell people stuff like that. I just –”

  I grabbed her hand, gently running my finger over her small knuckles, and as I glanced down, I noticed scars covering the inside of her arm. From what it looked like they were burns, either from a pipe or a cigar. That’s fucked up. I forced my eyes away from her marred skin and said, “Because I’m not gonna judge you.” Kicking my foot against the leg of her chair, I said, “My dad was a drunk too. Left when I was ten. Watched him beat the shit out of my mom a few times.” I’d never told anyone that last bit of information, and I mean no one. Stone and I hadn’t even ever discussed it, but I felt like I was in a confessional. I felt like I should let her know that I’d started off fucked up too.

  Roxy’s expression softened; it almost looked like relief had washed over her. “Is it wrong that I’m relieved someone like you had a shitty start to life too?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Nah, not at all.” I set my eyes on hers and, still holding onto her hand, I whispered, “Not at all, princess.”

  Two hours later, the old man walked up to us. “You two going to spend the whole damn night here?” He flipped the lights off behind the bar. “Because I’m ready for you to get the hell out so I can go home!”

  “Let me take you home,” I said, pulling her chair out for her and grabbing her jacket.

  “I’m not going to fuck you. You know that, right?”

  I laughed. “And just what makes you think I’d want to sleep with you? Pretty sure of yourself, huh?”

  “Whatever!”

  The man behind the bar moaned. “Why the hell would she want to fuck a man that looks like a woman? Cut your damn hair, you hippie.”

  I looked at Roxy. “No wonder this shithole stays so empty. That old man’s a fucking dickhead.” Glancing back at him, I shouted, “Man, you’re an ass!”

  He chuckled to himself as his face lit up with a smile. “Good. Now go on!”

  She took my sunglasses off the top of her head and shoved them back over my eyes. “There. Wouldn’t want anyone to recognize you. Especially for my own self-dignity. I don’t need that kind of reputation. God!”

  The bell jingled as I pushed the door open and held it for her. Watching her as she walked past me, I realized why I was so damn attracted to her. She was real; she had flaws, imperfections. She was something I didn’t have – hadn’t had. I lived in what would be a dream world for most people, and when you live in a fantasy, all you really want is reality. This girl was reality, and that was something I didn’t have. She was fucking raw. Even though I couldn’t help but think about how badly I wanted to rip each piece of clothing from her and fuck the absolute shit out of her, I wasn’t even going to try. I liked this girl, which is something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  “Uh, where’s your car?” she asked, scanning the parking lot.

  “Across the street. I didn’t exactly plan on coming here. But somehow I keep running into you and your sister.”

  “Layla? When did you see her again?”

  “Oh, she was at Rush’s party earlier.” I shot a glance at her. “And I had nothing to do with that, by the way.”

  “Oh, God. She’s such a band whore, I swear.”

  We jogged across the street and climbed into my car. The ride to her apartment was awkward and silent. I knew she was probably wondering why in the hell she was letting me take her home.

  Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” came on and I turned the radio up, singing along loudly. I could feel Roxy’s eyes boring into me, and I quickly glanced over at her, curling my lips before redirecting my gaze to the road.

  “You really do have a sexy voice,” she said. “It’s so raspy – but that doesn’t mean that I don’t still think your music’s shit!”

  Another smile flashed across my lips. “Thanks, princess. Where do I turn?”

  “West Seventh.”

  A few minutes later, I parked outside her apartment complex. Roxy reached for the handle and I pressed the lock, the latch clicking shut before she could open the door.

  Her head snapped around, and she shot a nasty glare in my direction. “What are you doing?”

  “Just not ready to let you go. That’s all.” Stretching my arm over the console, I brushed a stray piece of pink hair from her eyes. I slowly inched my face toward hers, and she instinctually closed her eyes. Resting my lips over hers so they barely brushed her skin, I asked, “You gonna invite me in?”

  Her eyes popped open, and I’m pretty sure had it not been so damn dark, I would have seen her cheeks turn bright red. “Uh, yeah. I guess you can come in. For a minute.”

  Unlocking the doors, I hopped out and followed her to the landing outside of her apartment. Roxy’s eyes kept nervously wandering over to me as she unlocked the door. She was uneasy having me there, and I gloated in the fact that she was finally tense around me.

  As we walked in, I looked around. Her entire apartment was the size of my bathroom. It’s crazy that in a matter of years I’d forgotten that the world I’d grown accustomed to was far from the norm. I reached behind me and pushed the door shut, then leaned against it locking my eyes on her.

  “So…” she breathed out.

  I took several steps toward her. “So…” My hands found their way to the base of her head, my fingers scratching against her scalp as I stared into her eyes. “Still not a fan?”

  A q
uiet laugh trickled through her closed lips. “I’m on the fence at this point.”

  “Really? Not a fangirl, hmm?” I let a long breath blow from my nose and I leaned in closer to her face, sweeping my thumb over her cheekbone as I narrowed my gaze. “I bet I could persuade you to change your mind.”

  Roxy’s pupils contracted, and before I could press my mouth over hers, she slammed hers on top of mine. I felt her body tense up momentarily and then relax. Tilting my head to the side, I swept my tongue over her mouth and then slipped it between her lips. The taste of candy-flavored lip gloss coated my tongue as I traced it behind her teeth. With each movement of my mouth, the kiss grew needier, more possessive; and with each passing second, her body grew limper.

  Roxy let out a slight whimper and grabbed my shoulders, pulling me closer to her. My hands wandered down from her neck to her shoulders, to the small of her back, and then around to the waist of her jeans. Her hand caught mine just as it snuck underneath her shirt. She kept kissing me, opening and closing her mouth in desperate movements.

  With her mouth open, she said, “You know,” she closed her mouth, then slid her tongue back inside mine, her hand rubbing down my chest, “I’m not,” she pressed her tongue against the roof of my mouth and her hands felt down to the waist of my jeans. A soft groan pushed up her throat, “what you’re,” her lips closed against mine again, and this time I pressed my tongue through them as my hands tried to creep under her shirt again. She pushed me away and finally finished her sentence, “what you’re used to. I’m not what you’re used to.”

  I let my fingers caress up her neck and into her hair, gathering some of it in my hand and gently pulling as I ran my thumb behind her ear. “No. You’re not.”